“Could you lend me a shawl of your own, Jane?” she asked, by-and-by, when Robert said they would have tea in—and she glanced down at her shabby brown gown. “I don’t wish the servants to see me like this.”
Jane flew out and brought one. A handsome cashmere of scarlet and gold-colour, that her mother had given her before the wedding.
“Just for an hour or two, until I leave,” said Lucy, as she covered herself up in it.
“You will not go out of this house to-night, Lucy.”
“I must, Robert. You can guess who it was I came to Timberdale to see.”
“Of course I can. She is going on all right and getting stronger; so there’s no immediate haste about that. Mr. Bird would not—not come, I suppose.”
Lucy did not answer. Robert was right—Bird would not come: his young sister might die where she was or be sheltered in the workhouse, for all the concern he gave himself. For one thing, the man was at his wits’ end for money, and not too sure of his own liberty. But Lucy’s conscience had not let her be still: as soon as she had scraped together the means for a third-class ticket, she came over.
“The poor girl has lain like a weight upon my mind, since the time when we abandoned her in London,” confessed Lucy.
“Why did you abandon her?”
“It was not my fault,” murmured Lucy; and Robert felt vexed to have asked the hasty question. “I hoped she went home, as I desired her; but I did not feel sure of it, for Clara was thoughtless. And those unsuspicious country girls cannot take care of themselves too well. Robert, whatever has happened I regard as our fault,” she added, looking up at him with some fever in her eyes.