“Ally! Anne!--Ally! Anne!” he cried, “mother wants you! Ally-Anne! mother wants you!--she wants you bovth She’s got news for you bovth. Ally-Anne! Ally-Anne!” shouted the small boy.
“I’m coming, Horry,” cried the girl; and from the other side of the house came the same cry from her sister. Ally entirely forgot Mr. Rochford and his fate. She ran home, leaving him without another thought, encountering midway Anne, who was flying from the poultry-yard, in which she had taken refuge. What was it? At their age, and in such simplicity as theirs, a letter suddenly arrived with news might mean anything. What might it not mean? It might mean that the queen had sent for them to Windsor Castle. It might mean that some very great lady unheard of before had invited them on the score of some old unknown friendship. It might mean that somebody had left them a fortune. The only thing it could not mean was something unimportant. Of that only they were assured.
Mrs. Penton stood at the door in her excitement, with the letter in her hands. Her tall figure was more erect, her head borne higher than usual. When she saw the girls running from different directions she turned and went in-doors, and presently Walter appeared in answer to another summons, walking quickly up to the door. Young Rochford, standing under the poplar looking at them, felt ridiculously “out of it,” as he said. It would have pleased him to feel that he had something to do with the family, that their consultations were not entirely closed to him. He had been so much mixed up with it--all the details of their future means, every bit of land which they relinquished, every penny of that which they got as compensation, would pass through his hands. He had been feeling of late as if he really had a great deal to do with the Pentons. But here arose at once a matter with which he had nothing to do, upon which he could not intrude himself, to which he was left as much a stranger as though he did not know exactly what their income would be next year. He went slowly into the book-room, with feelings that were utterly unreasonable, though not without the excuse of being natural. The book-room, that was his place, and Mr. Penton and the formal business. But he must not even ask what was the other business which was so much more interesting, the letter which had been sent to Mrs. Penton, which the young ones had been called in such excitement to hear, and no doubt to give their opinions on. He had certainly no right to have an opinion on the subject, whatever it might be. He was only the solicitor managing an external piece of business--and treated with great civility and kindness--but nothing more. How could he be anything more?