her to meet him at dinner the next day, and she was glad of the opportunity of learning the doctor’s verdict upon him, though all the time she knew the meeting would be but pain, bringing before her the disappointment not of him, but in him.
No one was in the drawing-room but Captain Charteris, who came and shook hands with her as if they were old friends; but she was somewhat amazed at missing Mrs. Sandbrook, whose formality would be shocked by leaving her guests in the lurch.
‘Some disturbance in the nursery department, I fancy,’ said the captain; ‘those children have never been from home, and they are rather exacting, poor things.’
‘Poor little things!’ echoed Honora; then, anxious to profit by the tête-a-tête, ‘has Mr. Sandbrook seen Dr. L.?’
‘Yes, it is just as I apprehended. Lungs very much affected, right one nearly gone. Nothing for it but the Mediterranean.’
‘Indeed!’
‘It is no wonder. Since my poor sister died he has never taken the most moderate care of his health, perfectly revelled in dreariness and desolateness, I believe! He has had this cough about him ever since the winter, when he walked up and down whole nights with that poor child, and never would hear of any advice till I brought him up here almost by force.’
‘I am sure it was time.’
‘May it be in time, that’s all.’
‘Italy does so much! But what will become of the children?’
‘They must go to my brother’s of course. I have told him I will see him there, but I will not have the children! There’s not the least chance of his mending, if they are to be always lugging him about—’
The captain was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Sandbrook, who looked a good deal worried, though she tried to put it aside, but on the captain saying, ‘I’m afraid that you have troublesome guests, ma’am,’ out it all came, how it had been discovered late in the day that Master Owen must sleep in his papa’s room, in a crib to himself, and how she had been obliged to send out to hire the necessary articles, subject to his nurse’s approval; and the captain’s sympathy having opened her heart, she further informed them of the inconvenient rout the said nurse had made about getting new milk for them, for which Honor could have found it in her heart to justify her; ‘and poor Owen is just as bad,’ quoth the old lady; ‘I declare those children are wearing his very life out, and yet he will not hear of leaving them behind.’
She was interrupted by his appearance at that moment, as usual, with a child in either hand, and a very sad picture it was, so mournful and spiritless was his countenance, with the hectic tint of decay evident on each thin cheek, and those two fair healthful creatures clinging to him, thoughtless of their past loss, unconscious of that which impended. Little Owen, after one good stare, evidently recognized a friend in Miss Charlecote, and let her seat him upon her knee, listening to her very complacently, but gazing very hard all the time at her, till at last, with an experimental air, he stretched one hand and stroked the broad golden ringlet that hung near him, evidently to satisfy himself whether it really was hair. Then he found his way to her watch, a pretty little one from Geneva, with enamelled flowers at the back, which so struck his fancy that he called out, ‘Cilly, look!’ The temptation drew the little girl nearer, but with her hands behind her back, as if bent on making no advance to the stranger.
Honora thought her the prettiest child she had ever seen. Small and lightly formed, there was more symmetry in her little fairy figure than usual at her age, and the skin was exquisitely fine and white, tinted with a soft eglantine pink, deepening into roses on the cheeks; the hair was in long flaxen curls, and the eyelashes, so long and fair that at times they caught a glossy light, shaded eyes of that deep blue upon that limpid white, which is like nothing but the clear tints of old porcelain. The features were as yet unformed, but small and delicate, and the upright Napoleon gesture had something peculiarly quaint and pretty in such a soft-looking little creature. The boy was a handsome fellow, with more solidity and sturdiness, and Honora could scarcely continue to amuse him, as she thought of the father’s pain in parting with two such beings—his sole objects of affection. A moment’s wish flashed across her, but was dismissed the next moment as a mere childish romance.
Old Mr. Sandbrook came in, and various other guests arrived, old acquaintance to whom Owen must be re-introduced, and he looked fagged and worn by the time all the greetings had been exchanged and all the remarks made on his children. When dinner was announced, he remained to the last with them, and did not appear in the dining-room till his uncle had had time to look round for him, and mutter something discontentedly about ‘those brats.’ The vacant chair was beside Honora, and he was soon seated in it, but at first he did not seem inclined to talk, and leant back, so white and exhausted, that she thought it kinder to leave him to himself.
When, somewhat recruited, he said in a low voice something of his hopes that his little Cilly, as he called her, would be less shy another time, and Honora responding heartily, he quickly fell into the parental strain of anecdotes of the children’s sayings and doings, whence Honora collected that in his estimation Lucilla’s forte was decision and Owen’s was sweetness, and that he was completely devoted to them, nursing and teaching them himself, and finding his whole solace in them. Tender pity moved her strongly towards him, as she listened to the evidences of the desolateness of his home and his heavy sorrow; and yet it was pity alone, admiration would not revive, and indeed, in spite of herself, her judgment would now and then respond ‘unwise,’ or ‘weak,’ or ‘why permit this?’ at details of Lucilla’s mutinerie. Presently she found that his intentions were quite at variance with those of his brother. His purpose was fixed to take the children with him.
‘They are very young,’ said Honora.
‘Yes; but their nurse is a most valuable person, and can arrange perfectly for them, and they will always be under my eye.’
‘That was just what Captain Charteris seemed to dread.’
‘He little knows,’ began Mr. Sandbrook, with a sigh. ‘Yes, I know he is most averse to it, and he is one who always carries his point, but he will not do so here; he imagines that they may go to their aunt’s nursery, but,’ with an added air of confidence, ‘that will never do!’
Honora’s eyes asked more.
‘In fact,’ he said, as the flush of pain rose on his cheeks, ‘the Charteris children are not brought up as I should wish to see mine. There are influences at work there not suited for those whose home must be a country parsonage, if—Little Cilly has come in for more admiration there already than is good for her.’
‘It cannot be easy for her not to meet with that.’
‘Why, no,’ said the gratified father, smiling sadly; ‘but Castle Blanch training might make the mischief more serious. It is a gay household, and I cannot believe with Kit Charteris that the children are too young to feel the blight of worldly influence. Do not you think with me, Nora?’ he concluded in so exactly the old words and manner as to stir the very depths of her heart, but woe worth the change from the hopes of youth to this premature fading into despondency, and the implied farewell! She did think with him completely, and felt the more for him, as she believed that these Charterises had led him and his wife into the gaieties, which since her death he had forsworn and abhorred as temptations. She thought it hard that he should not have his children with him, and talked of all the various facilities for taking them that she could think of, till his face brightened under the grateful sense of sympathy.
She did not hold the same opinion all the evening.
