Robert again sighed heavily. ‘Then it will be over,’ he said.
‘Did you say anything there?’ he pursued, as they plunged into the dark shadows of the woodland path, more congenial to the subject than the light.
‘Yes, I did,’ said Phœbe.
‘And she thought me a weak, unworthy wretch for ever dreaming of swerving from my original path.’
‘No!’ said Phœbe, ‘not if it were your duty.’
‘I tell you, Phœbe, it is as much my duty to consult Lucilla’s happiness as if any words had passed between us. I have never pledged myself to take Orders. It has been only a wish, not a vocation; and if she have become averse to the prospect of a quiet country life, it would not be treating her fairly not to give her the choice of comparative wealth, though procured by means her family might despise.’
‘Yes, I knew you would put right and duty first; and I suppose by doing so you make it certain to end rightly, one way or other.’
‘A very few years, and I could realize as much as this Calthorp, the millionaire, whom they talk of as being so often at the Charterises.’
‘It will not be so,’ said Phœbe. ‘I know what she will say;’ and as Robert looked anxiously at her, she continued—
‘She will say she never dreamt of your being turned from anything so great by any fancies she has seemed to have. She will say so more strongly, for you know her father was a clergyman, and Miss Charlecote brought her up.’