‘Out of the question,’ broke in Owen; ‘I can’t stay here! I would have gone this very night, but I can’t be off till that poor thing—’
‘Off!’
‘Ay, to the diggings, somewhere, anywhere, to get away from it all!’
‘Oh, Owen, do nothing mad!’
‘I’m not going to do anything just now, I tell you. Don’t be in a fright. I shan’t take French leave of you. You’ll find me to-morrow morning, worse luck. Good night.’
Lucilla was doubly glad to have come. Her pride approved his proposal, though her sisterly love would suffer, and she was anxious about the child; but dawning confidence was at the least a relief.
Next morning, he was better, and talked much too like his ordinary self, but relapsed afterwards for want of employment; and when a letter was brought to him, left by his wife to be read after her death, he broke down, and fell into a paroxysm of grief and despair, which still prevailed when a message came in to ask admission for Mr. Prendergast. Relieved to be out of sight of depression that her consolations only aggravated, and hoping for sympathy and counsel, Lucy hastened to the study with outstretched hands, and was met with the warmth for which she had longed.
Still there was disappointment. In participation with Owen’s grief, she had lost sight of his offences, and was not prepared for
any commencement. ‘Well, Cilla, I came up to talk to you. A terrible business this of Master Owen’s.’
‘It breaks one’s heart to see him so wretched.’