‘Yes, Elly,’ said John, ‘but you ought to promise the same, that you will tell everything to me.’
‘Oh, girls are different,’ said Elly. They walked out, carrying with them their burdens of books. It did not occur to John that he should offer to carry hers for her, or treat her otherwise than on the footing of perfect equality which they had hitherto occupied. Nor did she think of it. They stood upon no ceremony with each other. Elly’s instinct told her that to promise entire confidence was not on her side so simple, as on his: but she was ready to promise ‘faithfully,’ on her part, always a ready ear for his confidences, and her best attention to any problem he might present for her consideration. John accepted this without further question. He knew vaguely that girls were different. Elly would go back to the drawing-room at the rectory, while he went out to work at his profession. He felt that the girls had the worst of it, poor things.
And they walked out through the little garden and down the side street which led to the rectory with a little sentiment in their young bosoms, but none that touched upon the relations between themselves. They felt a little sad at leaving school. They felt that one chapter of their lives was over, and that it was a pity, yet delightful. They were sad to leave Mr. Cattley and their books, yet enchanted to be on the threshold of life. John walked to the rectory gate with his school-fellow, for company, and then they parted, but without any tender adieu, without even shaking hands; for after all, until John actually left Edgeley, they would certainly see each other every day.
CHAPTER VIII.
A CALL FOR EMILY.
Mrs. Sandford had not been well ever since that morning expedition of hers. There was nothing the matter with her, she said, oh, nothing. She was only a little tired; perhaps she had done too much at Christmas, what with the flannel-petticoats and all the rest. The clothing club had been a little trying that year. There had been more people to satisfy, a greater number of pence to reckon up, and garments to choose. And Mrs. Egerton had been absent on a visit, so that the great part of the work fell to Mrs. Sandford’s share. All these she set forth, smiling, as reasons why she should be tired. And then there was the reason that underlay all these, which gave force to them—that she was growing old. Of that there could be no question—every birthday made it more and more certain. She was no longer at a time of life when people can make light of fatigue. She was growing older every year. This smiling plea was received by grandfather with his tchick, tchick, and by John with a troubled but nevertheless unquestioning acquiescence: for there could be no doubt that it was true. He thought her even older than she thought herself, and felt that her days were over, before she had realised that fact in her own person. She grew older not only every year but every day as the weeks of January went on. At first she went out a little in the middle of the day when the sun shone. But soon this little exercise was given up. It did a delicate person no good, really no good, the doctor said, to go out in that wintry weather. It was wiser and better to stay indoors; and then it came to be considered wiser that she should rise late, and lie on the sofa when she came downstairs. She lay there always smiling, declaring that nothing ailed her, but as a matter of fact fading and failing day by day.
The last time she went out with John she had kept looking about with a little nervous glance by all the side roads. They went as far as the common and paused a little, looking across by the path which led to the railway-station.
‘Have you ever heard anything more of that man?’ she said.
‘What man, grandmamma?’
‘The man you once told me of, you know, who had been a convict. The man who was asking for somebody’s poor wife——’
‘Oh! yes, I remember. No. I am sure he has never come back again. Perhaps he did not mean all he said. He had been drinking——’