“I’m tired,” said Lilias, faintly, her courage quite forsaking her, and the tears, long kept back, finding their way down her cheeks.
“Tired! I’ll warrant you’re tired; and me, like an old fool, talking away here, when the tea should have been ready long since.” And Nancy dashed into her preparations with great energy. The tea was made in the little black teapot, as usual; but it was the best tray, and Nancy’s exquisite china, that were laid on the mahogany stand brought from the parlour for the occasion; for Nancy seemed determined to do her great honour. By a strong effort, Lilias checked her tears after the first gush, and sat watching the movements and listening to the rather unconnected remarks of her hostess.
“It’s not often they’re taken down, except to wash,” she said, as with a snowy napkin she dusted the fairy-like cream-pot. “There’s but few folk of consideration coming to see the like of me. Young Mr Crawford doesn’t seem to think that I belong to him,—maybe because I go so often to Dunmoor kirk. He hasn’t darkened my door but once yet, and he’s not like to do it now. They say he’s to be married to one of Fivie’s daughters; and I mind Fivie a poor herd-laddie. Eh me! but the Lord brings down one and puts up another! To think of the Lady of Pentlands having to leave yon bonny place! Who would have thought it? This is truly a changeful scene. Folk must have their share of trouble at one time or other of their lives. There was never a truer word said than that.”
“Yes,” said Lilias, softly: “it is called a pilgrimage,—a race,—a warfare.”
Nancy caught the words.
“Ay, that’s a good child, applying the Scripture, as you ought to do. But you can do that at your leisure, you know. Sit by the table and take your tea. I dare say you need it.”
And indeed Lilias, faint and weary, did need it. She thought she could not swallow a crumb; but she was mistaken. The tea was delicious; for Mrs Stirling was a judge of tea, and would tolerate no inferior beverage.
“I’m willing to pay for the best; and the best I must have,” was the remark that generally followed her brief but emphatic grace before meat; and it was not omitted this time. “It will do you good, Lilias, my dear.”
And it did do her good. The honey and cakes were beyond praise, and Lilias ate and was refreshed. When the tea was over, Mrs Stirling rather abruptly introduced the former subject of conversation.
“And what were you going to do with your brother when you made your fine plans for the summer?” she asked.