‘Don’t talk of that. I should be glad enough to get you in—and I am far enough from the other thing yet.’
So Phœbe obtained the use of the brougham for the next day and set off for her long Essex drive, much against Augusta’s will, and greatly wondering what it would produce; compassionate of course for poor Lucilla, yet not entirely able to wish that Robert should resign the charge for which he was so eminently fitted, even for the sake of Hiltonbury and home. Lucy must be altered, indeed, if he would not be happier without her.
Phœbe had written a few lines, saying that hearing that Lucy was so near, she could not help begging to see her. This she sent in with her card, and after a little delay, was invited to come in. Lucilla met her at the top of the stairs, and at first Phœbe only felt herself, clasped, clung to, kissed, fondled with a sudden gasping, tearful eagerness. Then as if striving to recall the ordinary tone, Lucilla exclaimed—‘There—I beg your pardon for such an obstreperous greeting, but I am a famished creature here, you see, and I did not expect such kindness. Luckily some of my pupils are driving out with their mamma, and I have sent the others to the nurse. Now then, take off your bonnet, let me see you; I want to look at a home face, and you are as fresh and as innocent as if not a year had passed over you.’
Lucilla fervently kissed her again, and then holding her hand, gazed at her as if unwilling that either should break the happy silence. Meantime Phœbe was shocked to see how completely Robert’s alarms were justified by Lucy’s appearance. The mere absence of the coquettish ringlets made a considerable
difference, and the pale colour of the hair, as it was plainly braided, increased the wanness of her appearance. The transparent complexion had lost the lovely carnation of the cheek, but the meandering veins of the temples and eyelids were painfully apparent; and with the eyes so large and clear as to be more like veronicas than ever, made the effect almost ghastly, together with excessive fragility of the form, and the shadowy thinness of the hand that held Phœbe’s. Bertha’s fingers, at her weakest, had been more substantial than these small things, which had, however, as much character and force in their grasp as ever.
‘Lucy, I am sure you are ill! How thin you are!’
‘Well, then, cod-liver oil is a base deception! Never mind that—let me hear of Honor—are you with her?’
‘No, my sisters are, but I am with Augusta.’
‘Then you do not come from her?’
‘No; she does not know.’