“O, but she has not been inside any of the cottages. Bell took care to prevent that.”
“Bell was wise, but she might have done better still. She should have telegraphed to us. Lola must not go about any more. You will see to that, won’t you, dearest? Before the end of the week I will take you both to Scotland.”
“Do you really suppose there can be danger?” she asked, growing very pale.
“No, no, I don’t apprehend danger. Only it is better to be over-cautious than over-bold. We cannot be too careful of our treasure.”
“No, no, indeed,” answered the mother, with a piteous look.
“Mother,” called Lola from the window, “are you ever coming? Pomfret will be late for church.”
Pomfret was the butler, whose convenience had to be studied upon Sundays. The servants dined while the family were at luncheon, and almost all the establishment went to afternoon service, leaving a footman and an under-housemaid in sole possession of the grave old manor-house, where the silence had a solemnity as in some monastic chapel. Lola was anxious that luncheon should begin, and Pomfret be dismissed to eat his dinner.
This child of twelve had more than a woman’s forethought. She spent her life in thinking about other people; but of all those whom she loved, and for whom she cared, her father was first and chief. For him her love was akin to worship.
She watched his face anxiously now, as she took her seat at his right hand, and was silent until Pomfret had served the soup and retired, leaving all the rest of the luncheon on the table, and the wine on a dumb-waiter by his master’s side.
There was always a cold lunch on Sundays, and the evening meal was also cold, a compromise between dinner and supper, served at nine o’clock, by which time the servants had gratified their various tastes for church or chapel, and had enjoyed an evening walk. There was no parsonage in England where the day of rest was held in more reverence than it was at Enderby Manor.