The women went out, some of them still trembling and hysterical, and all white and scared of aspect.
As soon as the door was closed, Lady Royland caught her son’s hand.
“Eight of us women,” she said, with a forced laugh: “eight, and of no use whatever; only ready to huddle together like so many sheep scared by some little dog; when, if we were men, we could be of so much help. There, come along; you look quite white. You are doing too much. For my sake, take care.”
Roy nodded and smiled, and followed his mother into the dining-room, where with loving care she had prepared everything for him, and made it attractive and tempting, so that it should be a relief to the harsh realities of the warlike preparations with which the boy was now mixed up.
“You must eat a good supper, Roy, and then go and have a long night’s rest.”
“Impossible, mother,” he said, faintly; “must go and visit the men’s posts from time to time.”
“No,” said Lady Royland, firmly, as she unbuckled her son’s sword-belt, and laid it and the heavy weapon upon a couch.
There was a tap at the door directly after, and one of the maids came back.
“If you please, my lady, I’ve been knocking ever so long at Master Pawson’s door, and he doesn’t answer. We think he has gone to bed.”
“Surely not. He must be in the upper chamber arranging about the things being removed.”