“He looks! O Lucy, he is grown such a noble cavalier; most like the picture of that uncle of yours who was killed, and that Sir Philip always grieves for.”
“My father always hoped Charley would be like him,” said Lucy. “You must tell him that. But I fear he may be grave and sad.”
“Graver, but not sad now.”
“And you have seen him and talked to him, Anne? Did you know he was going on this terrible enterprise?”
“He spoke of it, but never told me when.”
“Ah! I was sure you knew more about it than the old tutor man. You always were his little sweetheart before poor little Madam came in the way, and he would tell you anything near his heart. Could you not have stopped him?”
“I think not, Lucy; he gave his reasons like a man of weight and thought, and you see his Honour thinks them sound ones.”
“Oh yes; but somehow I cannot fancy our Charley doing anything for grand, sound, musty reasons, such as look well marshalled out in a letter.”
“You don’t know how much older he is grown,” said Anne, again, with the tell-tale colour in her cheeks. “Besides, he cannot bear to come home.”
“Don’t tell me that, Nan. My mother does not see it; but though he was fond of poor little Madam in a way, and tried to think himself more so, as in duty bound, she really was fretting and wearing the very life—no, perhaps not the life, but the temper—out of him. What I believe it to be the cause is, that my father must have been writing to him about that young gentlewoman in the island that he is so set upon, because she would bring a landed estate which would give Charles something to do. They say that Peregrine Oakshott ran away to escape wedding his cousin; Charley will banish himself for the like cause.”