‘You know how angry mamma would be to hear you.’
‘Mamma calls him the Polysyllable herself,’ said Maurice, looking full at his victim.
Lucy, who would have given the world to hinder this epithet from coming to her husband’s knowledge, began explaining something about Gilbert’s nonsense before he knew him, and how it had been long disused.
‘That’s not true, Lucy,’ quoth the tormentor. ‘I heard mamma tell Sophy herself this morning to write for some fish-sauce, because she said that Polysyllable was so fanciful about his dinner.’
Lucy was ready to cry, and Algernon, endeavouring to recal his usual dignity, exclaimed, ‘If Mrs. Kendal—I mean, Mrs. Kendal has it in her power to take liberties, but if I find you repeating such again, you little imp, it shall be at your risk.’
‘What will you do to me?’ asked the sturdy varlet.
‘Dear Maurice, I hope you’ll never know! Pray don’t try!’ cried Lucy; but if she had had any knowledge of character, she would have seen that she had only provoked the little Berserkar’s curiosity, and had made him determined on proving the undefined threat. So the unfortunate Algernon seldom descended the stairs without two childish faces being protruded from the balusters of the nursery-flight over-head, pursuing him with hissing whispers of ‘Polysyllable’ and ‘Polly-silly,’ and if he ventured on indignant gestures, Maurice returned them with nutcracker grimaces and provoking assurances to his little sister that he could not hurt her.
Algernon could not complain without making himself ridiculous, and Albinia was too much engaged to keep watch over her son, so that the persecution daily became more intolerable, and barren indications of wrath were so diverting to the little monkey, that the presence of the heads of the family was the sole security from his tricks. Poor Lucy was the chief sufferer, unable to restrain her brother, and enduring the brunt of her husband’s irritation, with the great disappointment of being unable to make him happy at her home, and fearing every day that he would fulfil his threat of not staying another week in the house with that intolerable child, for the sake of any one’s grandmother.
Tidings came, however, that completely sobered Maurice, and made them unable to think of moving. It was the first rumour of the charge of Balaklava, with the report that the 25th Lancers were cut to pieces. In spite of Algernon’s reiteration that telegraphs were lies, all the household would have been glad to lose the sense of existence during the time of suspense. Albinia’s heart was wrung as she thought of the cold hurried manner of the last farewell, and every look she cast at her husband’s calm melancholy face, seemed to be asking pardon that his son was not safe in India.
Late that evening the maid came hurriedly in with a packet of papers. ‘A telegraph, ma’am, come express from Hadminster.’