The journey gave her no concern. The way was direct to Ostend, and Spitzwasserfitzung contained a ‘pension,’ which was a great resort of incipient English governesses, so that there were no difficulties such as to give her enterprising spirit the least concern. She refused the escort that Rashe would have pressed upon her, and made her farewells with quiet resolution. No further remonstrance was offered; and though each party knew that what had passed would be a barrier for ever, good breeding preferred an indifferent parting. There were light, cheery words, but under the full consciousness that the friendship begun in perverseness had ended in contempt.
Horatia turned aside with a good-natured ‘Poor child! she will soon wish herself back.’ Lucilla, taking her last glance, sighed as she thought, ‘My father did not like them. But for Honor, I would never have taken up with them.’
Without misadventure, Lucilla arrived at London Bridge, and took a cab for Woolstone-lane, where she must seek more exact intelligence of the locality of those she sought. So long had her eye been weary of novelty, while her mind was ill at ease, that even Holborn in the August sun was refreshingly homelike; and begrimed Queen Anne, ‘sitting in the sun’
before St. Paul’s, wore a benignant aspect to glances full of hope and self-approval. An effort was necessary to recall how melancholy was the occasion of her journey, and all mournful anticipation was lost in the spirit of partisanship and patronage—yes, and in that pervading consciousness that each moment brought her nearer to Whittingtonia.
Great was the amaze of good Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper, at the arrival of Miss Lucy, and equal disappointment that she would neither eat nor rest, nor accept a convoy to No. 8, Little Whittington-street. She tripped off thither the instant she had ascertained the number of the house, and heard that her brother was there, and his wife still living.
She had formed to herself no image of the scenes before her, and was entirely unprepared by reflection when she rang at the door. As soon as she mentioned her name, the little maid conducted her down-stairs, and she found herself in the sitting-room, face to face with Robert Fulmort.
Without showing surprise or emotion, or relaxing his grave, listening air, he merely bowed his head, and held out his hand. There was an atmosphere of awe about the room, as though she had interrupted a religious office; and she stood still in the solemn hush, her lips parted, her bosom heaving. The opposite door was ajar, and from within came a kind of sobbing moan, and a low, feeble, faltering voice faintly singing—
‘For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner ’tis over, the sooner to sleep.’
The choking thrill of unwonted tears rushed over Lucilla, and she shuddered. Robert looked disappointed as he caught the notes; then placing a seat for Lucilla, said, very low, ‘We hoped she would waken sensible. Her mother begged me to be at hand.’
‘Has she never been sensible?’