‘Mr. Currie has promised to let me hear of Owen,’ said Robert; but no more passed. Owen came back hasty and flushed, wanting to be gone and have it over. The cabs were called, and he was piling them with luggage; Robert was glad to be actively helpful. All were in the hall; Owen turned back for one more solitary gaze round the familiar room; Robert shook Lucilla’s hand.
‘O bid me good speed,’ broke from her; ‘or I cannot bear it.’
‘God be with you. God bless you!’ he said.
No more! He had not approved, he had not blamed. He would interfere no more in her fate. She seated herself, and drew down her black veil, a chill creeping over her.
‘Thank you, Robert, for all,’ was Owen’s farewell. ‘If you will say anything to Phœbe from me, tell her she is all that is left to comfort poor Honor.’
‘Good-bye,’ was the only answer.
Owen lingered still. ‘You’ll write? Tell me of her; Honor, I mean, and the child.’
‘Yes, yes, certainly.’
Unable to find another pretext for delay, Owen again wrung Robert’s hand, and placed himself by his sister, keeping his head out as long as he could see Robert standing with crossed arms on the doorstep.
When, the same afternoon, Mr. Parsons came home, he blamed himself for having yielded to his youngest curate the brunt of the summer work. Never had he seen a man not unwell look so much jaded and depressed.