‘My brother will be gone in a fortnight,’ said Lucilla. ‘After that I should like to come straight to you.’
Her tone and look made those two last words not merely chez vous, but to you, individually—to you, kind one, who will comfort me after the cruel parting. Mrs. Prendergast put her arm round her and kissed her.
‘Don’t,’ said Lucilla, with the sweetest April face. ‘I can’t bear being made foolish.’
Nevertheless Mrs. Prendergast showed such warm interest in
all her concerns, that she felt only that she had acquired a dear friend by the time the others came in, father and daughter complaining, the one gaily, the other dolefully, that Cousin Peter had so hunted them that they could look at nothing in peace. Indeed he was in such a state of restless misery, that Mrs. Prendergast, in compassion to him, sent her daughter to dress, called her husband away, and left the place clear for him to say, in a tone of the deepest commiseration, ‘Well, my poor child?’
‘O, Mr. Pendy, you have found me a true home. Be the others what they may, there must be rest in hearing her voice!’
‘It is settled, then?’
‘Yes. I only hope you have not taken them in. I did my best to let her know the worst of me, but it would make no impression. Seventy pounds a year. I hope that is not wicked.’
‘O, Cilla, what would your father feel?’
‘Come, we won’t fight that over again. I thought I had convinced you of the dignity of labour, and I do feel as if at last I had lit on some one whom I could allow to do me good.’