‘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 like your cousins better than you expected?’
‘Rashe is famous,’ was the answer, ‘and so is Uncle Kit.’
‘My dear, you noticed the mark on his hand,’ said Honora; ‘you do not know the cause?’
‘No! Was it a shark or a mad dog?’ eagerly asked the child, slightly alarmed by her manner.
‘Neither. But do not you remember his carrying you into Woolstone-lane? I always believed you did not know what your little teeth were doing.’
It was not received as Honora expected. Probably the scenes of the girl’s infancy had brought back associations more strongly than she was prepared for—she turned white, gasped, and vindictively said, ‘I’m glad of it.’
Honora, shocked, had not discovered a reply, when Lucilla, somewhat confused at the sound of her own words, said, ‘I know—not quite that—he meant the best—but, Cousin Honor, it was cruel, it was wicked, to part my father and me! Father—oh, the river is going on still, but not my father!’
The excitable girl burst into a flood of passionate tears, as though the death of her father were more present to her than ever before; and she had never truly missed him till she was brought in contact with her old home. The fatigue and change, the talking evening and restless night, had produced their effect; her very thoughtlessness and ordinary insouciance rendered the rush more overwhelming when it did come, and the weeping was almost hysterical.
It was not a propitious circumstance that Caroline knocked at the door with some message as to the afternoon’s arrangements. Honor answered at haphazard, standing so as to intercept the view, but aware that the long-drawn sobs would be set down to the account of her own tyranny, and nevertheless resolving the more on enforcing the quiescence, the need of which was so evident; but the creature was volatile as well as sensitive, and by the time the door was shut, stood with heaving breast and undried tears, eagerly demanding whether her cousins wanted her.
‘Not at all,’ said Honora, somewhat annoyed at the sudden transition; ‘it was only to ask if I would ride.’
‘Charles was to bring the pony for me; I must go,’ cried Lucy, with an eye like that of a greyhound in the leash.
‘Not yet,’ said Honor. ‘My dear, you promised.’
‘I’ll never promise anything again,’ was the pettish murmur.
Poor child, these two morning hours were to her a terrible penance, day after day. Practically, she might have found them heavy had they been left to her own disposal, but it was expecting overmuch from human nature to hope that she would believe so without experience, and her lessons were a daily irritation, an apparent act of tyranny, hardening her feelings against the exactor, at the same time that the influence of kindred blood drew her closer to her own family, with a revulsion the stronger from her own former exaggerated dislike.
The nursery at Castle Blanch, and the cousins who domineered over her as a plaything, had been intolerable to the little important companion of a grown man, but it was far otherwise to emerge from the calm seclusion and sober restraints of the Holt into the gaieties of a large party, to be promoted to young ladyhood, and treated on equal terms, save for extra petting and attention. Instead of Robert Fulmort alone, all the gentlemen in the house gave her flattering notice—eye, ear, and helping hand at her disposal, and blunt Uncle Kit himself was ten times more civil to her than to either of her cousins. What was the use of trying to disguise from her the witchery of her piquant prettiness?
Her cousin Horatia had always had a great passion for her as a beautiful little toy, and her affection, once so trying to its object, had taken the far more agreeable form of promoting her pleasures and sympathizing with her vexations. Patronage from two-and-twenty to fourteen, from a daughter of the house to a guest, was too natural to offend, and Lucilla requited it with vehement attachment, running after her at every moment, confiding all her grievances, and being made sensible of many more. Ratia, always devising delights for her, took her on the river, rode with her, set her dancing, opened the world to her, and enjoyed her pleasures, amused by her precocious vivacity, fostering her sauciness, extolling the wit of her audacious speeches, and extremely resenting all poor Honora’s attempts to counteract this terrible spoiling, or to put a check upon undesirable diversions and absolute pertness. Every conscientious interference on her part was regarded as duenna-like harshness, and her restrictions as a grievous yoke, and Lucilla made no secret that it was so, treating her to almost unvaried ill-humour and murmurs.
Little did Lucilla know, nor even Horatia, how much of the charms that produced so much effect were due to these very restraints, nor how the droll sauciness and womanly airs were enhanced by the simplicity of appearance, which embellished her far more than the most fashionable air set off her companions. Once Lucilla had overheard her aunt thus excusing her short locks and simple dress—‘It is Miss Charlecote’s doing. Of course, when so much depends on her, we must give way. Excellent person, rather peculiar, but we are under great obligations to her. Very good property.’
No wonder that sojourn at Castle Blanch was one of the most irksome periods of Honora’s life, disappointing, fretting, and tedious. There was a grievous dearth of books and of reasonable conversation, and both she and Owen were exceedingly at a loss for occupation, and used to sit in the boat on the river, and heartily wish themselves at home. He had no companion of his own age, and was just too young and too enterprising to be welcome to gentlemen bent more on amusing themselves than pleasing him. He was roughly admonished when he spoilt sport or ran into danger; his cousin Charles was fitfully good-natured, but generally showed that he was in the way; his uncle Kit was more brief and stern with him than ‘Sweet Honey’s’ pupil could endure; and Honor was his only refuge. His dreariness was only complete when the sedulous civilities of his aunt carried her beyond his reach.
She could not attain a visit to Wrapworth till the Sunday. The carriage went in state to the parish church in the morning, and the music and preaching furnished subjects for persiflage at luncheon, to her great discomfort, and the horror of
