When she at last returned to the room, and tried to converse with her
sister, she observed that Fanny shrank from her approach and that she had
been weeping. In a very ironical tone Julia said, "What now is the matter?
I declare, Fan, I believe you are a perfect little simpleton. I wouldn't
be such a cry baby, anyway; and make so much fuss about one
good-for-nothing doctor."
Fanny replied very calmly, and without once taking her eyes from her
sister's face, "If you think I have been crying about Dr. Lacey, you are
mistaken."
"Pray what did you cry for?" said Julia, laughingly. "Did somebody look
sideways at you, or omit to call you by some pet baby name?"
"I cried," said Fanny, "because I feared you had been acting very wickedly
toward me."
In an instant Julia's assurance left her. The bright color forsook her
cheek, which became perfectly white. Fanny noticed the change, and it
confirmed her fears. She did not know that the circumstances to which she
alluded had long since faded from Julia's memory, and that her present
agitation arose from the fear that she might have been detected in her
work of deception, and that, after all, she might be foiled and entangled
in her own meshes. A glance of intense anger flashed from her large black
eye, as she muttered between her closed teeth: "Has the wretch dared to
betray me?"
Fanny supposed she referred to Luce; and her first feeling was to save the
helpless servant girl from Julia's displeasure; so she said, "Do not
condemn Luce; she did not tell me. I received my information from our
teacher, Mr. Miller."
"Luce! Mr. Miller! What do you mean?" asked Julia, her eyes lessening to
their usual size, and the color again coming to her cheeks and lips. This
sudden change in her sister's appearance puzzled Fanny; but she proceeded
to relate what she had just heard from Mr. Miller. Julia was so much
relieved to find her fears unfounded, and her darling secret safe, that
she burst into a loud laugh, which she continued for some time. During
this fit of laughter, she was determining whether it were best to confess
the whole and seem sorry for it, or to strenuously deny it. Finally, she
decided on the former, but resolved not to give the right reason for her
conduct; so she said, with an air of great penitence: "Yes, Fanny, I am
guilty, and I am glad you know it, too. I have been on the point of
acknowledging it to you many times, but shame kept me silent."