spend two hours of every morning in quiet employment, as a counterbalance to the excitement of the visit.
Looking about to give the summons, Honor found that Owen had disappeared. Unnoticed, and wearied by the agricultural dialogue, he had hailed nine o’clock as the moment of release, and crept off with unobtrusive obedience, which Honor doubly prized when she beheld his sister full of eagerness, among cousins and gentlemen, at the racing game. Strongly impelled to end it at once, Honor waited, however, till the little white horseman had reached the goal, and just as challenges to a fresh race were beginning, she came forward with her needful summons.
‘Oh, Miss Charlecote, how cruel!’ was the universal cry.
‘We can’t spare all the life of our game!’ said Charles Charteris.
‘I solemnly declare we weren’t betting,’ cried Horatia. ‘Come, the first evening—’
‘No,’ said Honor, smiling. ‘I can’t have her lying awake to be good for nothing to-morrow, as she will do if you entertain her too much.’
‘Another night, then, you promise,’ said Charles.
‘I promise nothing but to do my best to keep her fit to enjoy herself. Come, Lucy.’
The habit of obedience was fixed, but not the habit of conquering annoyance, and Lucilla went off doggedly. Honora would have accompanied her to soothe away her troubles, but her cousin Ratia ran after her, and Captain Charteris stood in the way, disposed to talk. ‘Discipline,’ he said, approvingly.
‘Harsh discipline, I fear, it seemed to her, poor child,’ said Honor; ‘but she is so excitable that I must try to keep her as quiet as possible.’
‘Right,’ said the captain; ‘I like to see a child a child still. You must have had some tussles with that little spirit.’
‘A few,’ she said, smiling. ‘She is a very good girl now, but it has been rather a contrast with her brother.’
‘Ha!’ quoth the captain; and mindful of the milk-sop charge, Honora eagerly continued, ‘You will soon see what a spirit he has! He rides very well, and is quite fearless. I have always wished him to be with other boys, and there are some very nice ones near us—they think him a capital cricketer, and you should see him run and vault.’
‘He is an active-looking chap,’ his uncle granted.
‘Every one tells me he is quite able to make his way at school; I am only anxious to know which public school you and your brother would prefer.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Only twelve last month, though you would take him for fifteen.’
‘Twelve; then there would be just time to send him to Portsmouth, get him prepared for a naval cadetship, then, when I go out with Sir David Horfield, I could take him under my own eye, and make a man of him at once.’
‘Oh! Captain Charteris,’ cried Honora, aghast, ‘his whole bent is towards his father’s profession.’
The captain had very nearly whistled, unable to conceive any lad of spirit preferring study.
‘Whatever Miss Charlecote’s wishes may be, Kit,’ interposed the diplomatic elder brother, ‘we only desire to be guided by them.’
‘Oh no, indeed,’ cried Honor; ‘I would not think of such a responsibility, it can belong only to his nearer connections;’ then, feeling as if this were casting him off to be pressed by the sailor the next instant, she added, in haste—‘Only I hoped it was understood—if you will let me—the expenses of his education need not be considered. And if he might be with me in the holidays,’ she proceeded imploringly. ‘When Captain Charteris has seen more of him, I am sure he will think it a pity that his talents . . .’ and there she stopped, shocked at finding herself insulting the navy.
‘If a boy have no turn that way, it cannot be forced on him,’ said the captain, moodily.
Honora pitied his disappointment, wondering whether he ascribed it to her influence, and Mr. Charteris blandly expressed great obligation and more complete resignation of the boy than she desired; disclaimers ran into mere civilities, and she was thankful to the captain for saying, shortly, ‘We’ll leave it till we have seen more of the boy.’
Breakfast was very late at Castle Blanch; and Honora expected a tranquil hour in her dressing-room with her children, but Owen alone appeared, anxious for the shooting, but already wearying to be at home with his own pleasures, and indignant with everything, especially the absence of family prayers.
The breakfast was long and desultory, and in the midst Lucilla made her appearance with Horatia, who was laughing and saying, ‘I found this child wandering about the park, and the little pussycat won’t tell where she has been.’
‘Poaching, of course,’ responded Charles; ‘it is what pussycats always do till they get shot by the keepers.’
Et cætera, et cætera, et cætera. Lucilla was among all the young people, in the full tide of fun, nonsense, banter, and repartee of a style new to her, but in which she was formed to excel, and there was such a black look when Honor summoned her after the meal, as impressed the awkwardness of enforcing authority among nearer relations; but it was in vain, she was carried off to the dressing-room, and reminded of the bargain for two hours’ occupation. She murmured something about Owen going out as he liked.
‘He came to me before breakfast; besides, he is a boy. What made you go out in that strange manner?’
There was no answer, but Honor had learnt by experience that to insist was apt to end in obtaining nothing but a collision of wills, and she merely put out the Prayer Books for the morning’s reading of the Psalms. By the time it was over, Lucilla’s fit of temper had past, and she leant back in her chair. ‘What are you listening to, Lucy?’ said Honor, seeing her fixed eye.
‘The river,’ said Lucilla, pausing with a satisfied look to attend to the deep regular rush. ‘I couldn’t think before what it was that always seemed to be wanting, and now I know. It came to me when I went to bed; it was so nice!’
‘The river voice! Yes; it must be one of your oldest friends,’ said Honora, gratified at the softening. ‘So that carried you out.’
‘I couldn’t help it! I went home,’ said Lucilla.
‘Home? To Wrapworth? All alone?’ cried Honor, kindly, but aghast.
‘I couldn’t help it,’ again said the girl. ‘The river noise was so like everything—and I knew the way—and I felt as if I must go before any one was up.’
‘So you really went. And what did you do?’
‘I got over the palings our own old way, and there’s my throne still in the back of the laurels, and I popped in on old Madge, and oh! she was so surprised! And then I came on Mr. Prendergast, and he walked all the way back with me, till he saw Ratia coming, and then he would not go on any farther.’
‘Well, my dear, I can’t blame you this time. I am hoping myself to go to Wrapworth with you and Owen.’
‘Ratia is going to take me out riding and in the boat,’ said Lucy, without a direct answer.
‘You
