‘Do you really think so, that I could be worthy of so high a vocation? I have sometimes thought of it, but always shrunk back from so great a responsibility.’
‘You seem fond of sacrifices,’ said Nell, half mockingly; ‘you were talking of making them just now. You would have plenty then. You would have to leave your parents and brother and sister, perhaps for ever; and be eaten up by a lion or your interesting cannibals instead.’
‘Yes, yes, it would be hard,’ he answered, ignoring, or not perceiving the joking spirit in which she treated the idea, ‘and harder now than it has ever seemed before; but the prospect will be always before me, to my life’s end, as something that may come to pass, if I find no higher duties to keep me at home. But I am tiring you perhaps. You have not yet recovered from your long journey, Nell—if I may call you so—your eyes look weary, and your hands tremble. Are you sure you are quite well?’
‘Yes, yes, perfectly so, only fatigued, as you surmise, and in need of fresh air. All Londoners are obliged, as a rule, to leave town after the hot season, you know, in order to recruit. I shall be all right when I have spent a few weeks in Usk.’
‘And then I hope you will cease to speak or think of yourself as a Londoner. I have never been there, but I have heard it is full of temptations to frivolity and careless living, and that it is difficult to keep close to God in London. Tell me something of your life there, Nell. Had you liberty to go to church whenever you chose, and did you hear any fine preachers, such as Dr Liddon and Dr Irons? Did you ever go amongst the poor—the poor who live in alleys and back slums, or did your employer disapprove of your visiting such?’
‘I know nothing—I mean, I can tell you nothing,’ cried Nell, suddenly rising to her feet. ‘I am weary. I must go to my own room. It will take me days to recover the fatigue I have gone through. Good-night. Don’t think me rude, but I cannot talk to you of such things now.’
And with a curt nod Nell went off in search of her mother, leaving him alone, and somewhat disconcerted at the abrupt ending of their conversation. Mrs Llewellyn was almost as puzzled as Hugh Owen at her daughter’s strange behaviour. She could not understand her. The next day dragged itself disappointingly away. Nell continued in the same passive, indifferent disposition, and when some neighbours, who had heard of her return home, called at Panty-cuckoo Farm expressly to welcome her, she locked herself into her bedroom, and refused even to answer Mrs Llewellyn’s entreaties that she would make an effort to come down and see them. Towards evening, however, she became feverishly excitable again, and seemed impatient to find some vent for it.
‘What can we do, mother?’ she exclaimed as they rose from the tea-table. ‘Isn’t this the night for Hugh Owen’s preaching? Let’s go and hear him. It’ll make me scream with laughter to see old Hugh stuck up as a minister.’
‘Ay, but, dearie, you mustn’t laugh when you get there, or there will be a scandal, and poor Hugh will be main hurt. Besides, you had better rest in the garden; the field’s more than a mile off, and I’m afraid you’ll feel tired before you get there.’
‘Not a bit of it,’ cried the girl. ‘I’m just in the humour for walking this evening, mother. I couldn’t remain in the garden; it’s too slow, so, if you don’t want to hear Hugh, I’ll go by myself.’