Patricia looked up quickly and noticed the little furrow on his brow.
“It is not like you to be despondent, Lal,” she said, with a touch of reproach. “You have worried too much, and eaten too little of late I think. I want you to promise me not to give another thought to the Jews whilst we are down here. Let us be happy as long as we can.”
Had she been less unselfish, the girl would have been jealous of the subject which engrossed so much of her husband’s attention; but she was so anxious to be his helpmate as well as his wife, that she concentrated her own interest on the same question. She knew that when the call to action came he was the man of all men to be inspired with hope, and to press on towards the end he had in view. It was the forced inaction—the waiting for events—which proved such a strain to his mental system, and it was for this reason that she sought to divert his thoughts elsewhere. She encouraged him to go out as much as possible, and scoured the surrounding country with him in his motor. There were also his numerous cottages to be inspected and his favourite tenants to be visited, for Montella was not only landlord, but friend.
It was while they were on their peregrinations through the village that they came across one Anne Whiteside, who had once been Lionel’s nurse. They happened to meet her just outside her own dwelling, and she insisted on their entering to partake of tea. The Montellas, nothing loath, stepped into her little parlour, and settled themselves comfortably on the stiff horse-hair sofa. It was a pleasant little room in spite of its plainness, and everything in it was scrupulously clean. There was an old-fashioned piano which had probably not been opened for years, and a still more old-fashioned cabinet. The table—round in shape—was covered by an elaborately worked cloth, upon whose surface rested a number of books, including a huge Family Bible.
The old dame took such evident pleasure in preparing the tea, that the visitors felt no compunction in giving her the trouble. She toasted the cakes in the kitchen, but popped into the parlour every few minutes, fork in hand, to assure them that she would not be long. When all was ready, she donned her best widow’s cap, and took her seat at the head of the table. Then Montella inquired after Tom.
“Oh, Tom’s well enough,” she replied, with affability. “He’s grown mightily since you saw him last, Master Linie, only his poor brain seems to stand still. He is sitting in his corner of the kitchen, looking at a picture-book the lady up at the lodge has given him. He’s mighty fond of pictures, is my Tom.”
The “Master Linie” caused a smile to flit across Patricia’s face, and immediately she called up the vision of her husband as a child in frocks and pinafores.
“Is Tom your little grandson?” she asked.
The old nurse nodded.
“Yes; leastways, he isn’t a little boy, for he will be fifteen next March, and he’s an orphan, poor lad! Perhaps you would like to see him, my lady, after tea?”