“Oh, I will go, I will go directly. Wait till I tell you what Mary says,” cried Lilias; and without pausing a moment, she rushed through the hall, her hair flying behind her, her face flushed with eagerness. The old woman stood for a moment looking after her with a smile; listening to the sound of the doors which swung behind the child in her rapid course through the passages which led to the inhabited part of the house. ’Lizabeth stood stately yet rustic in her grey cloak, with her hands folded, and looked after Lilias with a tender smile on her face. She had nothing left to be proud of, she so proud by nature, and to whom it was the essence of life to have something belonging to her in which she could glory. ’Lizabeth’s pride had been broken down with many a blow, but it sprang up again vigorous as ever on the small argument of this child. Her beauty, her childish refinement and ladyhood, gave the old woman a pleasure more exquisite perhaps than any she had ever felt in her life. There was little in her lot now to give her pleasure. Her daughter was dead, her days full of the hideous charge which she had concealed for so many years from all the world; and she was old, approaching the end of all things, with nothing better to hope for than that death might release her unfortunate son before herself. At this moment even a worse terror and misery was upon her; yet as she stood there, looking after the little princess who was of her blood, her representative, yet so much above anything that had ever belonged to ’Lizabeth, there was a glow through all her veins, more warm, more sweet than any she had ever felt in her life. Pride, and love, and delight swelled in her. Her child’s child—heir of her face, her voice, all the little traits of attitude and gesture, which mark individuality—and yet the young lady of the Castle, born to a life so different from hers. She stood so, gazing after Lilias till the sound of her feet and the door, closing behind her, had died away. Her heart was so full that she turned to Martuccia sitting motionless behind with her knitting. “Oh, that her life may be as sweet as her face!” she said involuntarily. Martuccia turned upon her with a smile, but shook her head and said, “Not speak Inglese.” The sound of the voice called ’Lizabeth to herself. The smile faded from her face. Little had she to smile for, less than ever at this moment. She sighed, coming to herself, and turned and walked away.
Lilias ran against Mary as she entered the house at Eastwood’s call. “Oh!” she cried, breathless, “Nello! will you send for Nello? Oh, Mary, he is in trouble, the old woman says—he is ill, or he is unhappy, or I cannot tell you what it is. Will you send for him, will you send for him, Mary? What shall I do? for papa will think it was my fault. Oh, Mary, Mary, send for my Nello! Wait a moment, only wait a moment, and hear what the old woman says—— ”
“Speak to her, Mr. Pen,” said Mary; “I cannot stay.” She was going to her father, who must, she felt sure, want her more urgently than Lilias could. Even then it went to Mary’s heart to neglect the child’s appeal. “Mr. Pen will hear all about it, Lilias,” she said, as she hastened upstairs. But Mr. Pen paid very little attention to what Lilias said.
“An old woman! What old woman? My dear child, you cannot expect us at such a moment as this—” said the Vicar. He was walking up and down the library with his ears open to every sound, expecting to be called to the Squire’s bedside, feeling in his pocket for his prayer-book. For it seemed to Mr. Pen that the hasty summons could mean only one thing. It must be death that had come—and it would be a happy release—what else could any one say? But death, even when it is a happy release, is a serious visitor to come into a house. He has to be received with due preparation, like the potentate he is. Not without services of solemn meaning, attendants kneeling round the solemn bedside, the commendatory prayer rising from authorised lips—not without these formulas should the destroying angel be received into a Christian house. He was ready for his part, and waiting to be called; and to be interrupted at such a moment by tales of an old woman, by the grumblings of a fretful child sent to school against his will—even the gentle Mr. Pen rebelled. He would not hear what Lilias said. “Your grandfather is very ill, my dear,” he told her solemnly, “very ill. In an hour or so you may have no grandfather, Lilias; he is going to appear in the presence of God—— ”
“Is he afraid of God, Mr. Pen?” asked Lilias with solemn eyes.
“Afraid!—you—you do not understand. It is a solemn thing—a very solemn thing,” said the Vicar, “to go into God’s presence! to stand before Him and answer—— ”
“Oh!” cried the little girl, interrupting him, “Nello is far worse, far worse. Would God do him any harm, Mr. Pen? But cruel people might do a little boy a great deal of harm. God is what takes care of us. The old gentleman will be safe, quite safe there; but my Nello! he is so little, and he never was away from me before. I always took care of him before. I said you were not to send him away, but you would not pay any attention. Oh, my Nello, my Nello, Mr. Pen!”
“Hush, Lilias, you do not know what you are speaking of. What can Nello’s troubles be? Perhaps the people will not pet him as he has been petted; that will do him no harm whatever—it will be better for him. My dear, you are too little to know. Hush, and let me listen. I must be ready when I am called for. Nothing that can happen to Nello can be of so much importance as this is now.”
And the Vicar went to the door to look out and listen. Lilias followed him with her anxious eyes. She was awed, but she was not afraid for the old gentleman. Would God hurt him? but anybody that was strong could hurt Nello. She made one more appeal when the Vicar had returned, hearing nothing and leaving the door ajar.
“Mr. Pen! oh, please, please, think of Nello a little! What am I to do? Papa said, ‘Lily, I trust him to you—you are to take care of him.’ What shall I say to papa if he comes home and asks me, ‘Where is my little Nello?’ Papa may come any day. That is his way, he never writes to tell us, but when he can, he comes. He might come to-day,” cried Lilias. “Mr. Pen, oh, send somebody for Nello. Will you not listen to me? What should I say to papa if he came home to-day?”