“My dears,” said the parson, “it wants an hour yet to dark; you may go and walk in the square.”
“‘T is so dull in that ugly square, and they won’t let us into the green. I am sure we’d rather stay here,” said one of the children, as spokesman for the rest; and they all nestled closer round the hearth.
“But, my dears,” said the parson, simply, “I want to talk alone with your mother. However, if you like best to go and keep quiet in your own room, you may do so.”
“Or we can go into Susan’s?”
“No,” said the parson; “you must not disturb Susan.”
“She never used to care about being disturbed. I wonder what’s come to her?”
The parson made no rejoinder to this half-petulant question. The children consulted together a moment, and resolved that the square, though so dull, was less dull than their own little attic. That being decided, it was the mother’s turn to address them. And though Mr. Fielden was as anxious and fond as most fathers, he grew a little impatient before comforters, kerchiefs, and muffettees were arranged, and minute exordiums as to the danger of crossing the street, and the risk of patting strange dogs, etc., were half-way concluded; with a shrug and a smile, he at length fairly pushed out the children, shut the door, and drew his chair close to his wife’s.
“My dear,” he began at once, “I am extremely uneasy about that poor girl.”
“What, Miss Clavering? Indeed, she eats almost nothing at all, and sits so moping alone; but she sees Mr. Mainwaring every day. What can we do? She is so proud, I’m afraid of her.”
“My dear, I was not thinking of Miss Clavering, though I did not interrupt you, for it is very true that she is much to be pitied.”