‘Malice! no indeed!’ said Honor, fondly; ‘but, oh! remember, dear child, that frolics may be at too dear a price.’
She longed to say more, but the final stop was made, and their roads diverged. Honor thought that Lucy looked white and trembling, with an uneasy eye, as though she would have given much to have been going home with her.
Nor was the consoling fancy unfounded. Lucilla’s nerves were not at their usual pitch, and an undefined sense of loss of a safeguard was coming over her. Moreover, the desire for a last word to Robert was growing every moment, and he would keep on hunting out those boxes, as if they mattered to anybody.
She turned round on his substitute, and said, ‘I’ve not spoken to Robin all this time. No wonder his feathers are ruffled. Make my peace with him, Phœbe dear.’
On the very platform, in that moment of bustle, Phœbe conscientiously and reasonably began, ‘Will you tell me how much you mean by that?’
‘Cilly—King’s-cross—1.15,’ cried Ratia, snatching at her arm.
‘Oh! the slave one is! Next time we meet, Phœbe, the redbreast will be in a white tie, I shall—’
Hurry and agitation were making her flippant, and Robert was nearer than she deemed. He was assisting her to her seat, and then held out his hand, but never raised his eyes. ‘Goodbye, Robin,’ she said; ‘Reason herself shall meet you at the Holt at Christmas.’
‘Good-bye,’ he said, but without a word of augury, and loosed her hand. Her fingers clung one moment, but he drew his away, called ‘King’s-cross’ to the coachman, and she was whirled off. Angler as she was, she no longer felt her prey answer her pull. Had the line snapped?
When Owen next appeared in Woolstone-lane he looked fagged and harassed, but talked of all things in sky, earth, or air, politics, literature, or gossip, took the bottom of the table, and treated the Parsonses as his guests. Honora, however, felt that something was amiss; perhaps Lucilla engaged to Lord William; and when, after luncheon, he followed her to the cedar room, she began with a desponding ‘Well?’