‘She is a Christian,’ said Robert.
‘Poor Owen! It makes me remorseful. I wonder if I made too light of the line he took; yet what difference could I have made? Sisters go for so little; and as to influence, Honor overdid it.’ Then, as he made no reply, ‘Tell me, do you think my acquiescence did harm?’
‘I cannot say. Your conscience must decide. It is not a case for me. I must go to him.’
It was deep mortification. Used to have the least hint of dawning seriousness thankfully cherished and fostered, it was a rude shock, when most in need of épanchement du cœur after her dreary day, to be thrown back on that incomprehensible process of self-examination; and by Robert, too!
She absolutely did not feel as if she were the same Lucilla. It was the sensation of doubt on her personal identity awakened in the good woman of the ballad when her little dog began to bark and wail at her.
She strove to enliven the dinner by talking of Hiltonbury, and of Juliana’s marriage, thus awakening Owen into life and talkativeness so much in his light ordinary humour, as to startle them both. Lucilla would have encouraged it as preferable to his gloom, but it was decidedly repressed by Robert.
She had to repair to solitary restlessness in the drawing-room, and was left alone there till so late that Robert departed after a single cup of tea, cutting short a captious argument of Owen’s about impossibility of proof, and truth being only true in a sense.
Owen’s temper was, however, less morose; and when his sister was lighting his candle for him at night, kindly said, ‘What a bore I’ve been all day, Lucy.’
‘I am glad to be with you, dear Owen; I have no one else.’
‘Eh? What’s become of Rashe?’