“Excuse me, Mr. Pendril,” interposed Norah; “I think I understand, from what you have just said, that our house and everything in it belongs to—?” She stopped, as if the mere utterance of the man’s name was abhorrent to her.
“To Michael Vanstone,” said Mr. Pendril. “The house goes to him with the rest of the property.”
“Then I, for one, am ready to leave it tomorrow!”
Magdalen started at the window, as her sister spoke, and looked at Mr. Clare, with the first open signs of anxiety and alarm which she had shown yet.
“Don’t be angry with me,” she whispered, stooping over the old man with a sudden humility of look, and a sudden nervousness of manner. “I can’t go without seeing Frank first!”
“You shall see him,” replied Mr. Clare. “I am here to speak to you about it, when the business is done.”
“It is quite unnecessary to hurry your departure, as you propose,” continued Mr. Pendril, addressing Norah. “I can safely assure you that a week hence will be time enough.”
“If this is Mr. Michael Vanstone’s house,” repeated Norah; “I am ready to leave it tomorrow.”
She impatiently quitted her chair and seated herself further away on the sofa. As she laid her hand on the back of it, her face changed. There, at the head of the sofa, were the cushions which had supported her mother when she lay down for the last time to repose. There, at the foot of the sofa, was the clumsy, old-fashioned arm-chair, which had been her father’s favorite seat on rainy days, when she and her sister used to amuse him at the piano opposite, by playing his favorite tunes. A heavy sigh, which she tried vainly to repress, burst from her lips. “Oh,” she thought, “I had forgotten these old friends! How shall we part from them when the time comes!”
“May I inquire, Miss Vanstone, whether you and your sister have formed any definite plans for the future?” asked Mr. Pendril. “Have you thought of any place of residence?”