“She often talked of uncle, and I learnt to love him long ago. How am I to love papa? I don’t know him.”
“Oh, all children love their parents,” I said. “Your mother, perhaps, thought you would want to be with him if she mentioned him often to you. Let us make haste. An early ride on such a beautiful morning is much preferable to an hour’s more sleep.”
“Is she to go with us,” he demanded, “the little girl I saw yesterday?”
“Not now,” replied I.
“Is uncle?” he continued.
“No, I shall be your companion there,” I said.
Linton sank back on his pillow and fell into a brown study.
“I won’t go without uncle,” he cried at length: “I can’t tell where you mean to take me.”
I attempted to persuade him of the naughtiness of showing reluctance to meet his father; still he obstinately resisted any progress towards dressing, and I had to call for my master’s assistance in coaxing him out of bed.
The poor thing was finally got off, with several delusive assurances that his absence should be short: that Mr. Edgar and Cathy would visit him, and other promises, equally ill-founded, which I invented and reiterated at intervals throughout the way.
The pure heather-scented air, the bright sunshine, and the gentle canter of Minny, relieved his despondency after a while. He began to put questions concerning his new home, and its inhabitants, with greater interest and liveliness.