He spent the evening over his letter; and, in spite of his sitting with his back towards his sister, she saw more than one sheet spoilt by large tears unperceived till they dropped, and felt a jealous pang in recognizing the force of his affection for Honor. That love and compassion seemed contemptible to her, they were so inconsistent with his deception and disobedience; and she was impatient of seeing that, so far as he felt his errors at all, it was in their aspect towards his benefactress. His ingratitude towards her touched him in a more tender part than his far greater errors towards his wife. The last was so shocking and appalling, that he only half realized it, and, boy-like, threw it from him; the other came home to the fondness that had been with him all his life, and which he missed every hour in his grief. Lucy positively dreaded his making such submission or betraying such sorrow as might bring Honora down on them full of pardon and beneficence. At least, she had the satisfaction of hearing ‘I’ve said nothing about you, Cilla.’
‘That’s right!’
‘Nor the child,’ he continued, brushing up his hair from his brow. ‘When I came to go over it, I did hate myself to such a degree that I could not say a word like asking a favour.’
Lucy was greatly relieved.
He looked like himself when he came down to breakfast exhilarated by the restoration to activity, and the opening of a new path, though there was a subdued, grave look on his young brow not unsuited to his deep mourning.
He took up his last evening’s production, looked at it with some satisfaction, and observed, ‘Sweet old honey! I do hope that letter may be a little comfort to her good old heart!’
Then he told that he had been dreaming of her looking into the cradle, and he could not tell whether it were himself or the boy that he had seen sitting on a haycock at Hiltonbury.
‘Who knows but it may be a good omen,’ said he in his sanguine state. ‘You said you would go to her, if she took the child.’
‘I did not say I would not.’
‘Well, don’t make difficulties; pray don’t, Lucilla. I want nothing for myself; but if I could see you and the child at the Holt, and hear her dear voice say one word of kindness, I could go out happy. Imagine if she should come to town!’