“But that has not been the reason. There is a great deal more in Lord Lufton than that; and since I must speak, dear Lucy, I cannot but say that I should not wonder at your being in love with him, only—only that—”
“Only what? Come, out with it. Do not mince matters, or think that I shall be angry with you because you scold me.”
“Only that I should have thought that you would have been too guarded to have—have cared for any gentleman till—till he had shown that he cared for you.”
“Guarded! Yes, that’s it; that’s just the word. But it’s he that should have been guarded. He should have had a fire-guard hung before him—or a love-guard, if you will. Guarded! Was I not guarded, till you all would drag me out? Did I want to go there? And when I was there, did I not make a fool of myself, sitting in a corner, and thinking how much better placed I should have been down in the servants’ hall. Lady Lufton—she dragged me out, and then cautioned me, and then, then— Why is Lady Lufton to have it all her own way? Why am I to be sacrificed for her? I did not want to know Lady Lufton, or any one belonging to her.”
“I cannot think that you have any cause to blame Lady Lufton, nor, perhaps, to blame anybody very much.”
“Well, no, it has been all my own fault; though for the life of me, Fanny, going back and back, I cannot see where I took the first false step. I do not know where I went wrong. One wrong thing I did, and it is the only thing that I do not regret.”
“What was that, Lucy?”
“I told him a lie.”
Mrs. Robarts was altogether in the dark, and feeling that she was so, she knew that she could not give counsel as a friend or a sister. Lucy had begun by declaring—so Mrs. Robarts thought—that nothing had passed between her and Lord Lufton but words of most trivial import, and yet she now accused herself of falsehood, and declared that that falsehood was the only thing which she did not regret!
“I hope not,” said Mrs. Robarts. “If you did, you were very unlike yourself.”