‘But, I say, Fulmort, there are things to settle—funeral, and all that,’ he said in a helpless voice, like a sulky schoolboy.
‘Your sister has been arranging with Mrs. Murrell.’
‘Yes, Owen,’ said Lucilla, tears glistening in her eyes, and her voice thrilling with emotion; ‘it is right and just that she should be with our mother and little Mary at home; so I have written to Mr. Prendergast.’
‘Very well,’ he languidly answered. ‘Settle it as you will; only deliver me from the old woman!’
He was in no state for reproaches; but Lucilla was obliged to bite her lip to restrain a torrent of angry weeping.
At his urgent instance, Robert engaged to return to dinner, and went, leaving Lucilla with nothing to do but to watch those heavy slumberings on the sofa and proffer attentions that were received with the surliness of one too miserable to know what to do with himself. She yearned over him with a new awakening of tenderness, longing, yet unable, to console or soothe. The light surface-intercourse of the brother and sister, each selfishly refraining from stirring the depths of the other’s mind, rendered them mere strangers in the time of trouble; and vainly did Lucy gaze wistfully at the swollen eyelids and flushed cheeks, watch every peevish gesture, and tend each sullen wish, with pitying sweetness; she could not reach the inner man, nor touch the aching wound.
Towards evening, Mrs. Murrell’s name was brought in, provoking a fretful injunction from Owen not to let him be molested with her cant. Lucilla sighed compliance, though vexed at his egotism, and went to the study, where she found that Mrs. Murrell had brought her grandson, her own most precious comforter, whom she feared she must resign ‘to be bred up as a gentleman as he was, and despise his poor old granny; and she would say not a word, only if his papa would let her keep him till he had cut his first teeth, for he had always been tender, and she could not be easy to think that any one else had the charge of him.’ She devoured him with kisses as she spoke, taking every precaution to keep her profuse tears from falling on him; and Lucilla, much moved, answered, ‘Oh! for the present, no one could wish to part him from you. Poor little fellow! May I take him for a little while to my brother? It may do him good.’
Cilly had rather have ridden a kicking horse than handled an infant. She did not think this a prepossessing specimen, but it was passive. She had always understood from books that this was the sure means of ‘opening the sealed fountains of grief.’ She remembered what little Mary had been to her father, and in hopes that parental instinct would make Owen know better what to do with her burden than she did, she entered the drawing-room, where a little murmuring sound caused Owen to start up on his elbow, exclaiming, ‘What are you at? Don’t bring that here!’
‘I thought you might wish to see him.’
‘What should I do with him?’ asked Owen, in the same glum, childish tone, turning his face inwards as he lay down. ‘Take it away. Ain’t I wretched enough already to please you?’