heard her name, you would loathe her.Others, who have loved her longer, have done so before now. My poorchild! whom neither God nor man has mercy upon—or, surely, she woulddie!”
The good woman was stopped by her crying. I confess, I was a littlestunned by her last words; but only for a moment. At any rate, till Iknew definitely what was this mysterious stain upon one so simple andpure, as Lucy seemed, I would not desert her, and so I said; and she mademe answer:—
“If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir, afterknowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but I am sofoolish and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain hope to find afriend in you. I cannot help trusting that, although you may no longerfeel toward her as a lover, you will have pity upon us; and perhaps, byyour learning you can tell us where to go for aid.”
“I implore you to tell me what this mystery is,” I cried, almost maddenedby this suspense.
“I cannot,” said she, solemnly. “I am under a deep vow of secrecy. Ifyou are to be told, it must be by her.” She left the room, and Iremained to ponder over this strange interview. I mechanically turnedover the few books, and with eyes that saw nothing at the time, examinedthe tokens of Lucy’s frequent presence in that room.
When I got home at night, I remembered how all these trifles spoke of apure and tender heart and innocent life. Mistress Clarke returned; shehad been crying sadly.
“Yes,” said she, “it is as I feared: she loves you so much that she iswilling to run the fearful risk of telling you all herself—sheacknowledges it is but a poor chance; but your sympathy will be a balm,if you give it. To-morrow, come here at ten in the morning; and, as youhope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of fear orrepugnance you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted.”
I half smiled. “Have no fear,” I said. It seemed too absurd to imaginemy feeling dislike to Lucy.
“Her father loved her well,” said she, gravely, “yet he drove her outlike some monstrous thing.”
Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden. Itwas Lucy’s voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one side ofthe open casement—and as though she were suddenly stirred tomerriment—merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings or sayingsof some other person. I can scarcely say why, but the sound jarred on meinexpressibly. She knew the subject of our conversation, and must havebeen at least aware of the state of agitation her friend was in; sheherself usually so gentle and quiet. I half rose to go to the window,and satisfy my instinctive curiosity as to what had provoked this burstof, ill-timed laughter; but Mrs. Clarke threw her whole weight and powerupon the hand with which she pressed and kept me down.
“For God’s sake!” she said, white and trembling all over, “sit still; bequiet. Oh! be patient. To-morrow you will know all. Leave us, for weare all sorely afflicted. Do not seek to know more about us.”
Again that laugh—so musical in sound, yet so discordant to my heart. Sheheld me tight—tighter; without positive violence I could not have risen.I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a shadow passbetween the sun’s warmth and me, and a strange shudder ran through myframe. In a minute or two she released me.
“Go,” repeated she. “Be warned, I ask you once more. I do not think youcan stand this knowledge that you seek. If I had had my own way, Lucyshould never have yielded, and promised to tell you all. Who knows whatmay come of it?”
“I am firm in my wish to know all. I return at ten to-morrow morning,and then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself.”
I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to MistressClarke’s sanity.
Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable thoughtsconnected with that strange laughter, filled my mind. I could hardlysleep. I rose early; and long before the hour I had appointed, I was onthe path over the common that led to the old farm-house where theylodged. I suppose that Lucy had passed no better a night than I; forthere she was also, slowly pacing with her even step, her eyes bent down,her whole look most saintly and pure. She started when I came close toher, and grew paler as I reminded her of my appointment, and spoke withsomething of the impatience of obstacles that, seeing her once more, hadcalled up afresh in my mind. All strange and terrible hints, and giddymerriment were forgotten. My heart gave forth words of fire, and mytongue uttered them. Her colour went and came, as she listened; but,when I had ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me,and said—
“But you know that you have something to learn about me yet. I only wantto say this: I shall not think less of you—less well of you, I mean—ifyou, too, fall away from me when you know all. Stop!” said she, as iffearing another burst of mad words. “Listen to me. My father is a manof great wealth. I never knew my mother; she must have died when I wasvery young. When first I remember anything, I was living in a great,lonely house, with my dear and faithful Mistress Clarke. My father,even, was not there; he was—he is—a soldier, and his duties lie aboard.But he came from time to time, and every time I think he loved me moreand more. He brought me rarities from foreign lands, which prove to menow how much he must have thought of me during his absences. I can sitdown and measure the depth of his lost love now, by such standards asthese. I never thought whether he loved me or not, then; it was sonatural, that it was like the air I breathed. Yet he was an angry man attimes, even then; but never with me. He was very reckless, too; and,once or twice, I heard a whisper among the servants that a doom was overhim, and that he knew it, and tried to drown his knowledge in wildactivity, and even sometimes, sir, in wine. So I grew up in this grandmansion, in that lonely place. Everything around me seemed at mydisposal, and I think every one loved me; I am sure I loved them. Tillabout two years ago—I remember it well—my father had come to England, tous; and he seemed so proud and so pleased with me and all I had done.And one day his tongue seemed loosened with wine, and he told me muchthat I had not known till then,—how dearly he had loved my mother, yethow his wilful usage had caused her death; and then he went on to say howhe loved me better than any creature on earth, and how, some day, hehoped to take me to foreign places, for that he could hardly bear theselong absences from his only child. Then he seemed to change suddenly,and said, in a strange, wild way, that I was not to believe what he said;that there was many a thing he loved better—his horse—his dog—I know notwhat.
“And ’twas only the next morning that, when I came into his room to askhis blessing as was my wont, he received me with fierce and angry words.‘Why had I,’ so he asked, ‘been delighting myself in such wantonmischief—dancing over the tender plants in the flower-beds, all set withthe famous Dutch bulbs he had brought from Holland?’ I had never been outof doors that morning, sir, and I could not conceive what he meant, andso I said; and then he swore at me for a liar, and said I was of no trueblood, for he had seen me doing all that mischief himself—with his owneyes. What could I say? He would not listen to me, and even my tearsseemed only to irritate him. That day was the beginning of my greatsorrows. Not long after, he reproached me for my undue familiarity—allunbecoming a gentlewoman—with his grooms. I had been in the stable-yard,laughing and talking, he said. Now, sir, I am something of a coward bynature, and I had always dreaded horses; be-sides that, my father’sservants—those whom he brought with him from foreign parts—were wildfellows, whom I had always avoided, and to whom I had never spoken,except as a lady must needs from time to time speak to her father’speople. Yet my father called me by names of which I hardly know themeaning, but my heart told me they were such as shame any modest woman;and from that day he turned quite against me;—nay, sir, not many weeksafter that, he came in with a riding-whip in his hand; and, accusing meharshly of evil doings, of which I knew no more than you, sir, he wasabout to strike me, and I, all in bewildering tears, was ready to takehis stripes as great kindness compared to his harder words, when suddenlyhe stopped his arm mid-way, gasped and stag
gered, crying out, ‘Thecurse—the curse!’ I looked up in terror. In the great mirror opposite Isaw myself, and right behind, another wicked, fearful self, so like methat my soul seemed to quiver within me, as though not knowing to whichsimilitude of body it belonged. My father saw my double at the samemoment, either in its dreadful reality, whatever that might be, or in thescarcely less terrible reflection in the mirror; but what came of it atthat moment I cannot say, for I suddenly swooned away; and when I came tomyself I was lying in my bed, and my faithful Clarke sitting by me. Iwas in my bed for days; and even while I lay there my double was seen byall, flitting about the house and gardens, always about some mischievousor detestable work. What wonder that every one shrank from me indread—that my father drove me forth at length, when the disgrace of whichI was the cause was past his patience to bear. Mistress Clarke came withme; and here we try to live such a life of piety and prayer as may intime set me free from the curse.”
All the time she had been
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