“I—think so—I—suppose so,” said Mary, trembling, and wholly overcome by this strange ease and familiarity, and even by the sound of the voice so long silent in this place. But he took no notice—only followed his question by another.
“Why not bring the child then? That might satisfy him. Does he care for the child, or is it only a fancy, a wandering in his head? Anyhow, let them bring him. It might be of some use.”
“Do you think he—knows? Do you think he understands—and—means what he is saying?”
Mary faltered forth these words, scarcely knowing what she said, feeling that she could not explain how it was that Nello was not near—and finding it so strange, so strange to be talking thus to—John; could it be really John? After all that had sundered them, after the miseries that had passed over him, the price still set upon his head, was it he who stood so quietly, assuming his household place, taking his part in the nursing of the old man? She could not believe her senses, and how could she talk to him, calmly as the circumstances required, gently and steadily, as if he had never been away?
“Most likely not,” he said; “but something has excited his fancy, and the sight of my boy might calm it. Let some one bring Nello.”
He spoke with the air of one used to be obeyed, and whom also in this particular it would be easy to obey.
“We sent him to school. I am very sorry—I was against it,” said Mary, trembling more and more.
Mr. Pen was frightened too. It is one thing doing “for the best” with a little unprotected parentless child, and quite a different thing to answer the child’s father when he comes and asks for it. Mr. Pen paled and reddened ten times in a minute. He added, faltering—
“It was by my advice—John. I thought it was the best thing for him. You see I did not know—— ”