Honora retreated in utter discomfiture.
‘Rashe! Rashe! I’m in for it!’ cried Lucilla, as the door shut, springing up with a look of terror.
‘Proposed by deputy?’ exclaimed Horatia, aghast.
‘No, no!’ gasped Lucilla; ‘it’s this Ireland of yours—that—that—’ and she well-nigh sobbed.
‘My bonny bell! I knew you would not be bullied into deserting.’
‘Oh! Rashe, she was very hard on me. Every one is but you!’ and Lucilla threw herself into her cousin’s arms in a paroxysm of feeling; but their maid’s knock brought her back to composure sooner than poor Honora, who shed many a tear over this last defeat, as, looking mournfully to Phœbe, she said,
‘I have done, Phœbe. I can say no more to her. She will not hear anything from me. Oh! what have I done that my child should be hardened against me!’
Phœbe could offer nothing but caresses full of indignant sorrow, and there was evidently soothing in them, for Miss Charlecote’s tears became softer, and she fondly smoothed Phœbe’s fair hair, saying, as she drew the clinging arms closer round her: ‘My little woodbine, you must twine round your brother and comfort him, but you can spare some sweetness for me too. There, I will dress. I will not keep you from the party.’
‘I do not care for that; only to see Robin.’
‘We must take our place in the crowd,’ sighed Honora, beginning her toilet; ‘and you will enjoy it when you are there. Your first quadrille is promised to Owen, is it not?’