“Come in and see mother,” said Ally, breathless. “Oh yes, yes, we had better know, whatever it is. Mr. Rochford, oh, I hope he is not ill. I hope nothing has happened.”
“I can not tell; he has written to me for money.”
“For money!” she cried, the expectation in her face suddenly dropping into a blank of astonishment and almost disappointment. “Was that all?” was the question written on Ally’s face.
“You don’t think that means much? but I fear it means a great deal: he is living in London, and he is very young. You must not think me intrusive or meddling: it is that I am afraid of. Sir Edward might suppose, Miss Penton—your mother might think—it is a difficult thing for a man to do. I thought that you, perhaps, if I could see you, might have a little confidence in me.”
Ally did not know how it was that a sense of sweetness and consolation should thus shed itself through her heart; it was momentary, for she had no time to think of herself, but it made everything so much more easy to her. She put out her hand involuntarily with a sudden sense that to have confidence in him was the most natural thing. “Oh yes,” she said, “tell me, I have confidence. I am sure you would do nothing but what was kind; tell me, oh, tell me!”
He took her hand; he had a right to do it, for she had offered it to him. “Will you try to follow me and understand?” he said. “It is business; it may be difficult for you, for Sir Edward will see the importance of it.” And then he told her, Ally bending all her unused faculties to the work of understanding, how Walter had gone to him before he left home at all to get money, and how he had heard from him again, twice over, asking for more. Ally listened with horror growing in her heart, but perhaps the young man, though he was very sympathetic, was scarcely so sorry as he looked: and perhaps to seek her out and tell her this story was not what a man of higher delicacy would have done. But then Rochford’s desire to be of use to Walter was largely intermingled with his desire to recommend himself to Walter’s sister. He would have done it anyhow out of pity for the boy and his parents, but to secure for himself a confidential interview with Ally, and to have this as a secret between them, and her as his embassador and elucidator to her parents, was what he could not deny himself. He was sorry for Walter, who was most likely spoiling his boyish life, and whom it would be right to call back and restrain: but yet he was almost glad of the occasion which brought him so near the girl whom he loved. She on her part listened to him with excitement, with relief, with the horror of ignorance, with an underlying consciousness that all must now come right.
“If Sir Edward will let me I will go,” Rochford said. “I shall be able to get hold of him perhaps easier than any one who has authority.”
“Oh, how kind you are,” said Ally.
“Kind! I would lie down and let him walk over me to please you,” the young man murmured, as if it were to himself.
It was partly to escape from the embarrassment of such murmurs, though they were sweet enough, and partly to escape from the curious process which was turning her trouble into a semblance of happiness against her will, and without any consent of hers, that Ally insisted at last on carrying this information to her mother. “How could she think you intrusive when you bring her news of Wat?” cried the girl, betraying all the anxiety of the family without knowing it; and she hurried him in to where Lady Penton sat in the window, looking out languidly and often laying down her work to gaze. She, too, flushed with anxious interest to hear of Walter’s letter.