winked knowingly at the housemaid. ‘Yes, yes, my darling, no one likes to hear who is to come after them. Don’t you say nothing about it; ain’t becoming; but, by and by, see if it don’t come so, and if my boy ain’t master here.’
‘I wish I was, and then nursey would never go.’
However, nurse did go, and after some tears Owen was consoled by promotion to the habits of an older boy.
Lucilla was very angry, and revenged herself by every variety of opposition in her power, all which were put down by the strong hand. It was a matter of necessity to keep a tight grasp on this little wilful sprite, the most fiery morsel of engaging caprice and naughtiness that a quiet spinster could well have lit upon. It really sometimes seemed to Honora as if there were scarcely a fault in the range of possibilities that she had not committed; and indeed a bit of good advice generally seemed to act by contraries, and served to suggest mischief. Softness and warmth of feeling seemed to have been lost with her father; she did not show any particular affection towards her brother or Honora. Perhaps she liked Miss Wells, but that might be only opposition; nay, Honor would have been almost thankful if she had melted at the departure of the undesirable nurse, but she appeared only hard and cross. If she liked any one it was Robert Fulmort, but that was too much in the way of flirtation.
Vanity was an extremely traceable spring of action. When nurse went, Miss Lucilla gave the household no peace, because no one could rightly curl the long flaxen tresses upon her shoulders, until the worry became so intolerable that Honora, partly as penance, partly because she thought the present mode neither conducive to tidiness nor comfort, took her scissors and trimmed all the ringlets behind, bowl-dish fashion, as her own carrots had figured all the days of her childhood.
Lucilla was held by Mrs. Stubbs during the operation. She did not cry or scream after she felt herself conquered by main strength, but her blue eyes gleamed with a strange, wild light; she would not speak to Miss Charlecote all the rest of the day, and Honora doubted whether she were ever forgiven.
Another offence was the cutting down her name into Lucy. Honor had avoided Cilly from the first; Silly Sandbrook would be too dreadful a sobriquet to be allowed to attach to any one, but Lucilla resented the change more deeply than she showed. Lucy was a housemaid’s name, she said, and Honor reproved her for vanity, and called her so all the more. She did not love Miss Charlecote well enough to say that Cilly had been her father’s name for her, and that he had loved to wind the flaxen curls round his fingers.
Every new study, every new injunction cost a warfare, disobedience, and passionate defiance and resistance on the one hand, and steady, good-tempered firmness on the other, gradually growing a little stern. The waves became weary of beating on the rock at last. The fiery child was growing into a girl, and the calm will had the mastery of her; she succumbed insensibly; and owing all her pleasures to Cousin Honor, she grew to depend upon her, and mind, manners, and opinions were taking their mould from her.
CHAPTER V
Too soon the happy child
His nook of heavenward thought must change
For life’s seducing wild.—Christian Year
The summer sun peeped through the Venetian blinds greenly shading the breakfast-table.
Only three sides were occupied. For more than two years past good Miss Wells had been lying under the shade of Hiltonbury Church, taking with her Honora Charlecote’s last semblance of the dependence and deference of her young ladyhood. The kind governess had been fondly mourned, but she had not left her child to loneliness, for the brother and sister sat on either side, each with a particular pet—Lucilla’s, a large pointer, who kept his nose on her knee; Owen’s, a white fan-tailed pigeon, seldom long absent from his shoulder, where it sat quivering and bending backwards its graceful head.
Lucilla, now nearly fourteen, looked younger from the unusual smallness of her stature, and the exceeding delicacy of her features and complexion, and she would never have been imagined to be two years the senior of the handsome-faced, large-limbed young Saxon who had so far outstripped her in height; and yet there was something in those deep blue eyes, that on a second glance proclaimed a keen intelligence as much above her age as her appearance was below it.
‘What’s the matter?’ said she, rather suddenly.
‘Yes, sweetest Honey,’ added the boy, ‘you look bothered. Is that rascal not paying his rent?’
‘No!’ she said, ‘it is a different matter entirely. What do you think of an invitation to Castle Blanch?’
‘For us all?’ asked Owen.
‘Yes, all, to meet your Uncle Christopher, the last week in August.’
‘Why can’t he come here?’ asked Lucilla.
‘I believe we must go,’ said Honora. ‘You ought to know both your uncles, and they should be consulted before Owen goes to school.’
‘I wonder if they will examine me,’ said Owen. ‘How they will stare to find Sweet Honey’s teaching as good as all their preparatory schools.’
‘Conceited boy.’
‘I’m not conceited—only in my teacher. Mr. Henderson said I should take as good a place as Robert Fulmort did at Winchester, after four years in that humbugging place at Elverslope.’
‘We can’t go!’ cried Lucilla. ‘It’s the last week of Robin’s holidays!’
‘Well done, Lucy!’ and both Honor and Owen laughed heartily.
‘It is nothing to me,’ said she, tossing her head, ‘only I thought Cousin Honor thought it good for him.’
‘You may stay at home to do him good,’ laughed Owen; ‘I’m sure I don’t want him. You are very welcome, such a bore as he is.’
‘Now, Owen.’
‘Honey dear, I do take my solemn affidavit that I have tried my utmost to be friends with him,’ said Owen; ‘but he is such a fellow—never has the least notion beyond Winchester routine—Latin and Greek, cricket and football.’
‘You’ll soon be a schoolboy yourself,’ said Lucilla.
‘Then I shan’t make such an ass of myself,’ returned Owen.
‘Robin is a very good boy, I believe,’ said Honor.
‘That’s the worst of him!’ cried Lucilla, running away and clapping the door after her as she went.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Owen, very seriously, ‘he says he does not care about the Saints’ days because he has no one to get him leave out.’
‘I remember,’ said Honor, with a sweet smile of tender memory, ‘when to me the merit of Saints’ days was that they were your father’s holidays.’
‘Yes, you’ll send me to Westminster, and be always coming to Woolstone-lane,’ said Owen.
‘Your
