On the whole, in spite of this return to old faults, Lucilla was improved by her residence at Southminster. Defiance had fallen into disuse, and the habit of respect and affection had softened her and lessened her pride; there was more devotional temper, and a greater desire after a religious way of life. It might be that her fretfulness was the effect of an uneasiness of mind, which was more hopeful than her previous fierce self-satisfaction, and that her aberrations were the last efforts of old evil habits to re-establish their grasp by custom, when her heart was becoming detached from them.
Be that as it might, Mrs. Prendergast’s first duty was to her child, her second to the nephew intrusted to her, and love and pity as she might, she felt that to retain Lucilla was leading all into temptation. Her husband was slow to see the verification of her reluctant opinion, but he trusted to her, and it only remained to part as little harshly or injuriously as might be.
An opening was afforded when, in October, Mrs. Prendergast was entreated by the widow of one of her brothers to find her a governess for two girls of twelve and ten, and two boys younger. It was at a country-house, so much secluded that such temptations as at Southminster were out of reach, and the younger pupils were not likely to try her temper in the same way as Sarah had done.
So Mrs. Prendergast tenderly explained that Sarah, being old enough to pursue her studies alone, and her sister, Mrs. Willis Beaumont, being in distress for a governess, it would be best to transfer Miss Sandbrook to her. Lucilla turned a little pale, but gave no other sign, only answering, ‘Thank you,’ and ‘Yes,’ at fit moments, and acceding to everything, even to her speedy departure at the end of a week.
She left the room in silence, more stunned than even by Robert’s announcement, and with less fictitious strength to brave the blow that she had brought on herself. She repaired to the schoolroom, and leaning her brow against the window-pane, tried to gather her thoughts, but scarcely five minutes had passed before the door was thrown back, and in rushed Sarah, passionately exclaiming—
‘It’s my fault! It’s all my fault! Oh, Miss Sandbrook, dearest Miss Sandbrook, forgive me! Oh! my temper! my temper! I never thought—I’ll go to papa! I’ll tell him it is my doing! He will never—never be so unjust and cruel!’
‘Sarah, stand up; let me go, please,’ said Lucy, unclasping the hands from her waist. ‘This is not right. Your father and mother both think the same, and so do I. It is just that I should go—’
‘You shan’t say so! It is my crossness! I won’t let you go. I’ll write to Peter! He won’t let you go!’ Sarah was really beside herself with despair, and as her mother advanced, and would have spoken, turned round sharply, ‘Don’t, don’t, mamma; I won’t come away unless you promise not to punish her for my temper. You have minded those horrid, wicked, gossiping ladies. I didn’t think you would.’
‘Sarah,’ said Lucilla, resolutely, ‘going mad in this way just shows that I am doing you no good. You are not behaving properly to your mother.’
‘She never acted unjustly before.’