In Lucilla’s desperation in the cause of her favourite Edna, she went through a rapid self-debate. Honor would gladly wait for her for such a cause; she could sleep at Woolstone-lane, and thence go on to join Horatia in Derbyshire, escorted by a Hiltonbury servant. But what would that entail? She would be at their mercy. Robert would obtain his advantage—it would be all over with her! Pride arose; Edna’s cause sank. How many destinies were fixed in the few seconds while she stood with one foot forward, spinning her black hat by the elastic band!
‘Too late, Mr. Prendergast; I cannot go,’ she said, as she saw him waiting for her at the door. ‘Don’t be angry with me, and don’t let the womankind prejudice you against poor Edna. You forgive me! It is really too late.’
‘Forgive you?’ smiled Mr. Prendergast, pressing her caressing hand in his great, lank grasp; ‘what for?’
‘Oh, because it is too late; and I can’t help it. But don’t be hard with her. Good-bye.’
Too late! Why did Lucilla repeat those words so often? Was it a relief to that irreflective nature to believe the die irrevocably cast, and the responsibility of decision over? Or why did she ask forgiveness of the only one whom she was not offending, but because there was a sense of need of pardon where she would not stoop to ask it.
Miss Charlecote and the Fulmorts, Rashe and Cilly, were to be transported to London by the same train, leaving Owen behind to help Charles Charteris entertain some guests still remaining, Honora promising him to wait in town until Lucilla should absolutely have started for Ireland, when she would supply him with the means of pursuit.
Lucilla’s delay and change of mind made the final departure so late that it was needful to drive excessively fast, and the train was barely caught in time. The party were obliged to separate, and Robert took Phœbe into a different carriage from that where the other three found places.
In the ten minutes’ transit by railway, Lucy, always softened by parting, was like another being towards Honor, and talked eagerly of ‘coming home’ for Christmas, sent messages to Hiltonbury friends, and did everything short of retractation to efface the painful impression she had left.
‘Sweetest Honey!’ she whispered, as they moved on after
the tickets had been taken, thrusting her pretty head over into Honor’s place. ‘Nobody’s looking, give me a kiss, and say you don’t bear malice, though your kitten has been in a scratching humour.’