The Childrens Pilgrimage | Page 9

the weather. She did not live in
London, but worked as housekeeper on a farm down in Kent. This
woman was not the least like Mrs. D'Albert, who was pale, and rather
refined in her expression. Aunt Lydia had never been married, and her
life seemed to have hardened her, for not only was her face rough and
coarse in texture, but her voice, and also, it is to be regretted, her mind
appeared to partake of the same quality. She came noisily into the quiet
room where Cecile had been tending her stepmother; she spoke in a
loud tone, and appeared quite unconcerned at the very manifest danger
of the sister she had come to see; she also instantly took the
management of everything, and ordered Cecile out of the room.
"There is no use in having children like that about," she said in a tone
of great contempt; and although her stepmother looked after her
longingly, Cecile was obliged to leave the room and go to comfort and
pet Maurice.
The poor little girl's own heart was very heavy; she dreaded this harsh
new voice and face that had come into her life. It did not matter very
greatly for herself, Cecile thought, but Maurice--Maurice was very
tender, very young, very unused to unkindness. Was it possible that

Aunt Lydia would be unkind to little Maurice? How he would look at
her with wonder in his big brown eyes, bigger and browner than
English eyes are wont to be, and try hard to understand what it all
meant, what the new tone and the new words could possibly signify;
for Mrs. D'Albert, though she never professed to love the children, had
always been just to them, she had never given them harsh treatment or
rude words. It is true Cecile's heart, which was very big, had hungered
for more than her stepmother had ever offered; but Maurice had felt no
want, he had Cecile to love him, Toby to pet him; and Mrs. D'Albert
always gave him the warmest corner by the hearth, the nicest bits to eat,
the best of everything her poor and struggling home afforded. Maurice
was rather a spoiled little boy; even Cecile, much as she loved him, felt
that he was rather spoiled; all the harder now would be the changed
life.
But Cecile had something else just at present to make her anxious and
unhappy. She was a shrewd and clever child; she had not been tossed
about the world for nothing, and she could read character with tolerable
accuracy. Without putting her thoughts into regular words, she yet had
read in that hard new face a grasping love of power, an eager greed for
gold, and an unscrupulous nature which would not hesitate to possess
itself of what it could. Cecile trembled as she felt that little bag of gold
lying near her heart--suppose, oh! suppose it got into Aunt Lydia's
hands. Cecile felt that if this happened, if in this way she was unfaithful
to the vow she had made, she should die.
"There are somethings as 'ud break any heart," she said to herself, "and
not to find Lovedy when I promised faithful, faithful to Lovedy's
mother as I would find her; why, that 'ud break my heart. Father said
once, when people had broken hearts they died, so I 'ud die."
She began to consider already with great anxiety how she could hide
this precious money.
In the midst of her thoughts Maurice awoke, and Toby shook himself
and came round and looked into her face.
Toby was Maurice's own special property. He was Maurice's dog, and

he always stayed with him, slept on his bed at night, remained by his
side all day; but he had, for all his attachment for his little master, looks
for Cecile which he never bestowed upon Maurice. For Maurice the
expression in his brown eyes was simply protecting, simply loving; but
for Cecile that gaze seemed to partake of a higher nature. For Cecile the
big loving eyes grew pathetic, grew watchful, grew anxious. When
sitting very close to Maurice, apparently absorbed in Maurice, he often
rolled them softly round to the little girl. Those eyes spoke volumes.
They seemed to say, "You and I have the care of this little baby boy. It
is a great anxiety, a great responsibility for us, but we are equal to the
task. He is a dear little fellow, but only a baby; you and I, Cecile, are
his grown-up protectors." Toby gamboled with Maurice, but with
Cecile he never attempted to play. His every movement, every glance,
seemed to say --"We don't care for this nonsense, I only do it to amuse
the child."
On this particular morning Toby read at a glance the new