Lucilla had no reply. She had not learnt the joy of the week’s Easter-day. It had an habitual awe for her, not sacred delight; and she could not see that because it was one point where religion taught the world that it had laws of its own,
besides those of mere experience and morality, therefore the world complained, and would fain shake off the thraldom.
Owen relieved her by a voluntary proposal to turn down Whittington-street, and see the child. Perhaps he had an inkling that the chapel in Cat-alley would be in full play, and that the small maid would be in charge; besides, it was gas-light, and the lodgers would be out. At any rate softening was growing on him. He looked long and sorrowfully at the babe in its cradle, and at last,—
‘He will never be like her.’
‘No; and I do not think him like you.’
‘In fact, it is an ugly little mortal,’ said Owen, after another investigation. ‘Yet, it’s very odd, Lucy, I should like him to live.’
‘Very odd, indeed!’ she said, nearly laughing.
‘Well, I own, before ever I saw him, when they said he would die, I did think it was best for himself, and every one else. So, maybe, it would; but you see I shouldn’t like it. He will be a horrible expense, and it will be a great bore to know what to do with him: so absurd to have a son only twenty years younger than oneself: but I think I like him, after all. It is something to work for, to make up to him for what she suffered. And I say, Lucy,’ his eye brightened, ‘perhaps Honor will take to him! What a thing it would be if he turned out all she hoped of me, poor thing! I would be banished for life, if he could be in my place, and make it up to her. He might yet have the Holt!’
‘You have not proposed sending him to her?’
‘No, I am not so cool,’ he sadly answered; ‘but she is capable of anything in an impulse of forgiveness.’