“Because she has never known either father or mother.”
“Poor girl!” murmured Eleanor; “they are both dead, then?”
The lawyer did not answer this question. He was so far professional, even in his conversation with Miss Vane, that he asked a great many more questions than he answered.
“Do you like going to Hazlewood, Miss Vincent?” he said, by-and-by, rather abruptly.
“Not very much.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am leaving very dear friends to go to——”
“Strangers, who may ill-treat you, eh?” muttered Mr. Monckton. “You need have no apprehension of that sort of thing, I assure you. Miss Vincent. Mrs. Darrell is rather rigid in her ideas of life; she has had her disappointments, poor soul, and you must be patient with her: but Laura Mason, the young lady who is to be your companion, is the gentlest and most affectionate girl in Christendom, I should think. She is a sort of ward of mine, and her future life is in my hands; a very heavy responsibility, Miss Vincent; she will have plenty of money by-and-by—houses, and horses, and carriages, and servants, and all the outer paraphernalia of happiness: but Heaven knows if she will be happy, poor girl! She has never known either mother or father. She has lived with all manner of respectable matrons, who have promised to do a mother’s duty to her, and have tried to do it, I dare say; but she has never had a mother, Miss Vincent. I am always sorry for her when I think of that.”
The lawyer sighed heavily, and his thoughts seemed to wander away from the young lady in his charge. He still stood at the window, looking out at the bustle on the platform, but not seeing it, I think, and took no further notice of Eleanor until the bell rang for the starting of the train.
“Come, Miss Vincent,” he said, rousing himself suddenly from his reverie; “I have forgotten all about your ticket. I’ll put you into a carriage, and then send a porter for it.”