‘And the maid said that there had been a gentleman speaking about it, and trying to secure it. She thought he had written to Mr. Charteris about it.’
‘What gentleman?’ and Lucy was ready to spring back to inquire.
‘Miss Charlecote asked, and I believe it was Mr. Prendergast!’
There was a bright, though strange flickering of pleasure and pain over Cilla’s face, and her eyelids quivered as she said, ‘Yes—yes—of course; but he must not—he must not do it! He cannot afford it! I cannot let him!’
‘Perhaps your cousin only needed to be reminded.’
‘I have no hope of him. Besides, he cannot help himself; but at least—I say, Phœbe, tell Honor that it is kindness itself in her; but I can’t talk about it to her—’
And Lucilla’s steps sprang up-stairs, as desirous to escape the sight and speech of all.
After the melancholy round of deserted bedrooms, full of bitter recollections, Lucilla again descended first, and at the door met the curate. After a few words, she turned, and said, ‘Mr. Prendergast would row us down to the vicarage, if you liked.’
‘Indeed, my dear,’ said Honor, unwillingly, ‘I am afraid of the cold on the water for you.’
‘Then pray let me walk across the park!’ she said imploringly; and Miss Charlecote yielded rather than try her submission too severely, though dreading her over-fatigue, and set off with Phœbe in the fly.