What does the old woman mean? Mildmay said to himself bewildered. He repeated the question over and over again as he pursued his way to the rectory. What was it to him that Cicely St. John was like her mother? The curate, too, had insisted upon this fact as if it was of some importance. What interest do they suppose me to take in the late Mrs. St. John? he said, with great surprise and confusion to himself.
Meanwhile, the girls in the rectory had been fully occupied. When their father went out, they held a council of war together, at which indeed Mab did not do much more than question and assent, for her mind was not inventive or full of resource as Cicely’s was. It was she, however, who opened the consultation. “What were you saying to Mr. Mildmay in the garden?” said Mab. “You told him something. He did not look the same to-day as he did last night.”
“I told him nothing,” said Cicely. “I was so foolish as to let him see that we felt it very much. No, I must not say foolish. How could we help but feel it? It is injustice, if it was the Queen herself who did it. But perhaps papa is right—if he does not come, some one else would come. And he has a heart. I do not hate him so much as I did last night.”
“Hate him! I do not hate him at all. He knows how to draw, and said some things that were sense—really sense—and so few people do that,” said Mab, thinking of her sketch. “I must have those mites again when the light is about the same as last time, and finish it. Cicely, what are you thinking of now?”
“So many things,” said the girl, with a sigh, “Oh, what a change, what a change, since we came! How foolish we have been, thinking we were to stay here always! Now, in six weeks or so, we must go—I don’t know where; and we must pay our debts—I don’t know how; and we must live without anything to live on. Mab, help me! Papa won’t do anything; we must settle it all, you and I.”
“You need not say you and I, Cicely. I never was clever at plans. It must be all yourself. What a good thing you are like mamma! Don’t you think we might go to Aunt Jane?”
“Aunt Jane kept us at school for three years,” said Cicely. “She has not very much herself. How can I ask her for more? If it were not so dreadful to lose you, I should say, Go, Mab—she would be glad to have you—and work at your drawing, and learn all you can, while I stay with papa here.”
Cicely’s eyes filled with tears, and her steady voice faltered. Mab threw her arms round her sister’s neck. “I will never leave you. I will never go away from you. What is drawing or anything if we must be parted?—we never were parted all our lives.”
“That is very true,” said Cicely, drying her eyes. “But we can’t do as we like now. I suppose people never can do what they like in this world. We used to think it was only till we grew up. Mab, listen—now is the time when we must settle what to do. Papa is no good. I don’t mean to blame him; but he has been spoiled; he has always had things done for him. I saw that last night. To ask him only makes him unhappy; I have been thinking and thinking, and I see what to do.”
Mab raised her head from her sister’s shoulder, and looked at Cicely with great tender believing eyes. The two forlorn young creatures had nobody to help them; but the one trusted in the other, which was a safeguard for the weaker soul; and she who had nobody to trust in except God, felt that inspiration of the burden which was laid upon her, which sometimes is the strongest of all supports to the strong. Her voice still faltered a little, and her eyes glistened, but she put what was worse first, as a brave soul naturally does.