“Children,” said Lady Woodley, gravely, “I shall send you away if you do not behave discreetly.”
“But, mother, Rose is greedy,” said Lucy.
“Hold your tongues, little mischief makers!” burst out Walter, who had been boiling over with anxiety and indignation the whole time.
“Walter is cross now,” said Lucy, pleased to have produced a sensation, and to have shocked Eleanor, who sat all the time as good, demure, and grave, as if she had been forty years old.
“Pray excuse these children,” said Lady Woodley, trying to hide her anxiety under cover of displeasure at them; “no doubt Mrs. Enderby keeps much better order at home. Lucy, Charles, silence at once. Walter, is there no wine?”
“If there is, it is too good for rebels,” muttered Walter to himself, as he rose. “Light me, Deborah, and I’ll see.”
“La! Master Walter,” whispered Deborah, “you know there is nothing but the dregs of the old cask of Malmsey, that was drunk up at the old squire’s burying.”
“Hush, hush, Deb,” returned the boy; “fill it up with water, and it will be quite good enough for those who won’t drink the King’s health.”
Deborah gave a half-puzzled smile. “Ye’re a madcap, Master Walter! But sure, Sir, the spirit of a wolf must have possessed Mistress Rose—she that eats no supper at all, in general! D’ye think it is wearying about Master Edmund that gives her a craving?”
It might be dangerous, but Walter was so much diverted, that he could not help saying, “I have no doubt it is on his account.”