‘And where is he? how did I miss him?’ said Lucilla, forcibly repressing the mortification for which her cousin was watching.
‘Gone. As I was not in travelling trim, and you not forthcoming, he could not wait; but we are to be off to-morrow at ten o’clock.’
‘Why did he not come out to find me? Did you tell him I was close by?’
‘He had to join his friend, and go to the Vale of Avoca. I’ve found out the man, Cilla. No, don’t look so much on the qui vive; it’s only Jack Hastings!’
‘Jack Hastings!’ said Lucilla, her looks fallen. ‘No wonder he would not bring him here.’
‘Why not, poor fellow? I used to know him very well before he was up the spout.’
‘I wish Owen had not fallen in with him,’ said the sister, gravely. ‘Are you certain it is so, Rashe?’
‘I taxed him with it, and he did not deny it; only put it from him, laughing. What’s the harm? Poor Jack was always a good-natured, honourable fellow, uncommonly clever and amusing—a well-read man, too; and Owen is safe enough—no one could try to borrow of him.’
‘What would Honor’s feelings be?’ said Lucilla, with more fellow-feeling for her than for months past. Lax as was the sister’s tolerance, she was startled at his becoming the associate of an avowedly loose character under the stigma of the world, and with perilous abilities and agreeableness; and it was another of Horatia’s offences against proper feeling, not only to regard such evil communications with indifference, but absolutely to wish to be brought into contact with a person of this description in their present isolated state. Displeased and uneasy, Lucilla assumed the rôle of petulance and
quarrelsomeness for the rest of the day, and revenged herself to the best of her abilities upon Rashe and Owen, by refusing to go to inspect the scene of Kathleen’s fatal repulse.