Sydney had slipped out as his father entered, for the chance of riding his horse to the stable,—a ride of any length being in his opinion better than none. When he returned in a few minutes, he tried to whisper to Sophia, over the back of her chair, but could not for laughing. After repeated attempts, Sophia pushed him away.
“Come, my boy, out with it!” said his father. “What you can tell your sister you can tell us. What is the joke?”
Sydney looked as if he had rather not explain before the strangers; but he never dared to trifle with his father. He had just heard from little George Rowland, that Mrs Rowland had said at home, that the young ladies at Mr Grey’s, who had been made so much fuss about, were not young ladies, after all: she had seen the face of one, as they passed her in the chaise, and she was sure the person could not be less than fifty.
“She saw Morris, no doubt,” said Hester, amidst the general laugh.
“I hope she will come to-morrow, and see some people who are very little like fifty,” said Mrs Grey. “She will be surprised, I think,” she added, looking at Hester, with a very meaning manner of admiration. “I really hope, for her own sake, she will come, though you need not mind if she does not. You will have no great loss. Mr Grey, I suppose you think she will call?”
“No doubt, my dear. Mrs Rowland never omits calling on our friends; and why should she now?” And Mr Grey applied himself to conversation with his cousins, while the rest of the family enjoyed further merriment about Mrs Rowland having mistaken Morris for one of the Miss Ibbotsons.
Mr Grey showed a sympathy with the sisters, which made them more at home than they had felt since they entered the house. He knew some of their Birmingham friends, and could speak of the institutions and interests of the town. For a whole hour he engaged them in brisk conversation, without having once alluded to their private affairs or his own, or said one word about Deerbrook society. At the end of that time, just as Mary and Fanny had received orders to go to bed, and were putting their dolls into the cradle in preparation, the scrambling of a horse’s feet was heard on the gravel before the front door, and the house-bell rang.
“Who can be coming at this time of night?” said Mrs Grey.
“It is Hope, I have no doubt,” replied her husband. “As I passed his door, I asked him to go out to old Mr Smithson, who seems to me to be rather worse than better, and to let me know whether anything can be done for the old gentleman. Hope has come to report of him, no doubt.”
“Oh, mamma, don’t send us to bed if it is Mr Hope!” cried the little girls. “Let us sit up a little longer if it is Mr Hope.”