She gave up the point, much grieved and strongly drawn to the little helpless one, rejected by his father, misused and cast off like his mother. Would no one stand up for him? Yes, it must be her part. She was his champion! She would set him forth in the world, by her own toil if need were!
Sealing the promise with a kiss, she returned him to his grandmother, and talked of him as so entirely her personal concern, that the good woman went home to report to her inquiring friends that the young lady was ready to ‘hact very feeling, and very ‘andsome.’ Probably desirous to avoid further reference to his unwelcome son and heir, Owen had betaken himself to the solace of his pipe, and was pacing the garden with steps now sauntering with depression, now impetuous with impatience, always moving too much like a caged wild beast to invite approach. She was disconsolately watching him from the window, when Mr. Fulmort was admitted. A year ago, what would he not have given for that unfeigned, simple welcome, as she looked up with eyes full of tears, saying, ‘Oh, Robert, it is so grievous to see him!’
‘Very sad,’ was the mournful answer.
‘You may be able to help him. He asks for you, but turns from me.’
‘He has been obliged to rely on me, since we came to town,’ said Robert.
‘You must have been very kind!’ she warmly exclaimed.
But he drew back from the effusion, saying, ‘I did no more than was absolutely necessary. He does not lay himself open to true comfort.’
‘Death never seemed half so miserable before!’ cried Lucilla. ‘Yet this poor thing had little to live for! Was it all poor Honor’s tender softening that took off the edge to our imaginations?’
‘It is not always so mournful!’ shortly said Robert.
‘No; even the mother bears it better, and not for want of heart.’