She had given her back and side a severe twist, but she moved less painfully on more level ground, and, supported between Lucilla and the guide, whom the mischance had converted from a comedy clown to a delicately considerate assistant, she set out for the inn where the car had been left. The progress lasted for two doleful hours, every step worse than the last, and, much exhausted, she at length sank upon the sofa in the little sitting-room of the inn.
The landlady was urgent that the wet clothes should be taken off; and the back rubbed with whiskey, but Cilla stood agitating her small soaked foot, and insisting that the car should come round at once, since the wet had dried on them, and they had best lose no time in returning to Dublin, or at least to Bray.
But Rashe cried out that the car would be the death of her; she could not stir without a night’s rest.
‘And be all the stiffer to-morrow? Once on the car, you will be very comfortable—’
‘Oh, no! I can’t! This is a horrid place. Of all the unlucky things that could have happened—’
‘Then,’ said Cilla, fancying a little coercion would be wholesome, ‘don’t be faint-hearted. You will be glad to-morrow that I had the sense to make you move to-day. I shall order the car.’
‘Indeed!’ cried Horatia, her temper yielding to pain and annoyance; ‘you seem to forget that this expedition is mine! I am paymaster, and have the only right to decide.’
Lucilla felt the taunt base, as recalling to her the dependent position into which she had carelessly rushed, relying on the family feeling that had hitherto made all things as one. ‘Henceforth,’ said she, ‘I take my share of all that we spend. I will not sell my free will.’
‘So you mean to leave me here alone?’ said Horatia, with positive tears of pain, weariness, and vexation at the cruel unfriendliness of the girl she had petted.
‘Nonsense! I must abide by your fate. I only hate to see people chicken-hearted, and thought you wanted shaking up. I stay so long as you own me an independent agent.’