Lucilla had no mind to imagine any such thing.
CHAPTER XIII
An upper and a lower spring
To thee, to all are given:
They mingle not, apart they gleam,
The joys of earth, of heaven on high;
God grant thee grace to choose the spring,
Even before the nether spring is dry.—M.
‘One moment, Phœbe, I’ll walk a little way with you;’ and Honor Charlecote, throwing on bonnet and scarf, hurried from the drawing-room where Mrs. Saville was working.
In spite of that youthful run, and girlish escape from ‘company’ to a confidante, the last fortnight had left deep traces. Every incipient furrow had become visible, the cheeks had fallen, the eyes sunk, the features grown prominent, and the auburn curls were streaked with silver threads never previously perceptible to a casual eye. While languid, mechanical talk was passing, Phœbe had been mourning over the change; but she found her own Miss Charlecote restored in the freer manner, the long sigh, the tender grasp of the arm, as soon as they were in the open air.
‘Phœbe,’ almost in a whisper, ‘I have a letter from him.’
Phœbe pressed her arm, and looked her sympathy.
‘Such a nice letter,’ added Honor. ‘Poor fellow! he has suffered so much. Should you like to see it?’
Owen had not figured to himself what eyes would peruse his letter; but Honor was in too much need of sympathy to withhold the sight from the only person who she could still hope would be touched.
‘You see he asks nothing, nothing,’ she wistfully pleaded. ‘Only pardon! Not to come home; nor anything.’