Cecily looked at him surprised. To her apprehension, the great Lord Wantley had been one of those men who, in another and a holier age, might well have been canonized. Of Lady Wantley she knew, or thought she knew, less—indeed, they had never met till the evening before; but, while admitting to herself her own complete lack of comprehension of the older woman's peculiar religious views, Cecily was prepared to idealize her in the double character of the famous philanthropist's widow and as Penelope's mother.
But Wantley, his easy-going nature now singularly moved and stirred, was determined not to spare her.
In short, dry sentences he told her of his happy childhood, of his father's conversion to the Catholic faith, followed shortly after by that now ruined father's death. Of Lord Wantley's reluctant adoption of him, coupled with a refusal to give him the education he had himself received, and which is, in a sense, the birthright of certain Englishmen.
He described, shortly indeed, but with a sharpness born of long-endured bitterness, the years which he had spent as an idle member of Lord and Lady Wantley's large household. Instinct warned him to pass lightly over Penelope's share in his early troubles and humiliations; but there were things in his recital which recalled, as almost every moving story generally does recall, episodes in the listener's own life; and when at last he looked at her, partly ashamed of his burst of confidence, he saw that he had been successful in presenting his side of the story, more, that Cecily was looking at him with new-born sympathy and interest.
Then a slight accident turned the current of their thoughts into a brighter and a lighter channel. Wantley suddenly dropped the heavy old Prayer-Book of which he had taken charge, and, as it fell on to the path, what seemed a page detached itself, and, fluttering out, was caught between the tiny twigs of a briar-bush. As he bent to rescue and restore, he could not help seeing that what was lying face upwards on the mass of little leaves was one of the 'Holy Pictures' so often placed by Catholics as markers in their books of devotion.
On the upper half of the small white card had been pasted an inch-square engraving of a little child guided by its guardian angel, while underneath was rudely written, in a childish handwriting, each word so formed as to resemble printing: 'Dear Angel, help me to-day to practise Obedience, Punctuality, and Kindness, for the love of the Holy Child and His blessed Mother.'
As Wantley placed the little card back again between the leaves of Cecily's shabby Prayer-Book, of which the title, 'The Path to Heaven,' pleased him by its unquestioning directness, he said, smiling, 'And may I ask if you still believe, Miss Wake, in the actual constant presence, near to you, of a guardian angel?'
'Of course I do!' She looked at him with wide-open eyes of surprise.
'But,' he said deferentially, 'isn't that a little awkward sometimes, even for you?'
Cecily made what was for her a great mental leap.