It was about this time that Aunt Fanny, in the large room at
Surrey-street, took to complaining of her neck, and wore a narrow strip
of flannel beneath the stiff white-muslin kerchief, while night and morn
her servant had to rub the said neck with hartshorn and oil. And truly
the old dame's neck was stiff, and cold might have had some share in
producing the stiffness; but undoubtedly it was principally caused by
the many sage shakes she gave her head when pondering over her nephew's
state; for in spite of all the medicaments which he patiently allowed
her to administer, the old lady effected no cure, and was in consequence
sorely troubled in her own mind.
But she was not so sorely troubled as the object of her interest, who
angered himself in vain because of the chaotic state of his mind.
Battle, battle--ever the same useless struggle, till he was ashamed of
his weakness and want of self-control. To-day victor, to-morrow
vanquished; now reviling himself for his want of faith and cruel
suspicions, which he owned were almost baseless; the next day a slave to
duty, and forbidding his heart to harbour further thoughts of her he now
called his enemy. Work seemed the only refuge, and he toiled on. Study
he could not; but he visited from house to house in the fold of
Bennett's-rents, where the tainted sheep of his flock were gathered; and
hiding from himself his real feelings--a shallow pretence--he knew the
while how anxious he was respecting that little ewe-lamb.
But he drew a mask over his face, telling himself it was his true
countenance; and with a calmness that was but on the surface, he called
frequently to see the invalid mother, timing, however, his visits that
they might be made while Lucy was absent--for duty's sake (and he now
knew pretty well when she was likely to visit the warehouse); while,
when he had visited the Bents, and returned without seeing her, he
credited duty largely, and praised his own self-denial. All steps, he
flattered himself, towards the final conquest which he would achieve;
but though casting out the weak thoughts, he told himself that it was
his duty to satisfy his heart concerning the doubts which so constantly
tormented him.
How often the hours came when he scorned his dissimulation, and tore off
the mask, none knew; but his face grew more pale and livid, and the grey
hairs that sprinkled his temples were thicker than of old.
It happened one day, though, when he and Lucy had not encountered since
he saw her bending over the child from Mrs Jarker's room, that,
visiting from house to house and room to room, Mr Sterne stood in front
of Mrs Sims'; but that lady was from home; so hearing the merry voice
of the laughing child, he had ascended the stairs to find Lucy in the
bird-catcher's attic. For the little face had been pressed against the
blackened window, and a pair of bright little eyes had peered, hour
after hour, from beneath the tangled golden hair, watching the busy
fingers at the sewing-machine, till with heart aching for the neglected
babe, and to study her mother, who objected to its being brought into
the room, Lucy had crossed the court, and gone up and played with the
little thing, laughing merrily at the child's delight, though a tear
stood in her eye more than once as she evaded the child's eager,
oft-repeated question of "When mammy come back?" Bill had gone out with
his nets, and most probably would not be back until night; so the child
had been left alone with some food in the dreary room, to play or cry
itself to sleep, unless Mrs Sims should be there to attend to its
wants. But there was that one spot by the window where she could look
down upon Lucy; and there, day after day, she would stand without
murmuring, attracted by that wondrous sense which draws children to the
loveable and true. Lucy's heart yearned as she gazed up from time to
time at the child, and she longed earnestly for the season when its
mother should make fresh arrangements; but for some reason she came not,
and Lucy had not seen her since Mrs Jarker's death.
And now the golden hours for which the little soul had longed had come
again. Lucy was with her, and, herself a child for the time, she
laughed merrily at the little one's delight.
Panting, tumbled, and flushed with exercise, Lucy stood at last,
returning an escaped curl to its bondage, a bright smile playing round
her ruddy lips, which parted to display the white teeth beneath, when
the door opened, and, with a frown upon his brow, the curate stood in
the entrance gazing upon the scene before him.
"In that ruffian's room--there of all places in the world!" doubt
whispered to him; at a time, too, when their chance meetings had been
attended by a cold reserve on Lucy's part--a reserve which his doubting
heart misinterpreted; for he could not in his blindness see the cost at
which it was maintained. And yet this reserve had pleased him while it
pained, for he at times acknowledged the interest he took in her
welfare. But it mattered not, he said, for his desire was but to try
and save her from evil, nothing more; and the oftener he listened to
these delusive whisperings the stronger grew a voice within, telling him
that his reasoning was false, and that he was forgetting duty,
position--all, in a love for one who grew colder and more distant at
every meeting. Wearily, though, he kept on building up a wall between
them--a wall built upon the sand. Stone by stone he laid, telling
himself that it was for duty's sake, as he toiled on helplessly at his
self-imposed task. True, he might have satisfied himself of the motive
for Lucy's actions, which to him wore a blurred and strange aspect; but
to others her name seemed a sealed book, one which he shrank from
opening, lest he should at the same time reveal the secret of his own
heart.
And now he stood at the door of that beggarly room, where was the bed
over which he had so lately bent to whisper comfort to the suffering
woman, or knelt by its side to ask mercy for the poor sufferer and a
blessing on the helpless child. There was the same bare look of misery
in the wretched place; but as the sun streamed through the great leaden
lattice, all seemed glorified and brightened by the presence there.
Unseen he gazed on, while the glow of orange light flooded the room, and
played round the graceful form of Lucy, as, starting again, she was
pursued by the laughing child, varying her attitude each moment as she
eluded its grasp.
Suddenly the child struck itself sharply against a chair, and broke into
a whimpering cry; but the caressing arms, the words of endearment, and
the loving kiss soothed the pain instantly, and a smile came over the
sunny face once more; when Lucy stood as if transfixed, the merry light
faded from her eyes, the smile from her lip, and then the blood flushed
to her temples, but only to retreat and leave her deadly pale, for in an
instant the wall so laboriously built up, and at so great a cost in
suffering, was swept down by the flood of passion. Arthur Sterne knew
that the battle had been in vain, and that he was but man; while doubt,
everything, was cast to the winds as he was by her side, her hands
clasped in his, telling her of his beaten-down love, his hopes, his
fears,--all, all in the impassioned burst of words raised by the tempest
of a strong man's love; for the sandy foundation was undermined, and the
last trace of the barrier swept away.
And what said she? No words came in reply to his appeal. At first,
startled, confused, overcome, she shrank from him, pale and trembling;
but as his words came pouring forth, making cheek and neck burn, she
knew that no greater bliss could be hers; and the trembling lids of her
dark-blue eyes were slowly lifted to meet his, when, as if scathing her
once more, came the recollection of his bitter, contemptuous look, his
long coldness, and even scorn; and snatching away her hands, she burst
into tears and darted from the room.
Pale and troubled in mind as to what to attribute Lucy's behaviour, his
brain in a whirl of doubt, Arthur Sterne stood gazing at the door,
until, turning, he became aware that the opposite attic window was being
opened. The lark began to twitter as the hand of Jean Marais secured it
outside; and then he saw the wild dark eyes of the youth begin to
earnestly watch the room.
Turning with a few kind words to the astonished child, who crouched in a
corner, Arthur Sterne made his way from the house; and a sad evening
spent Aunt Fanny, in her anxiety for the "wilful boy" who angrily
rejected her advice. He was not ill, he said; but the good dame nipped
her lips together; while, retiring at last, the curate spent the night
pacing his chamber-floor, trying to examine the tangle in his heart, but
only to conclude that, come what might, difference of position should be
no bar between him and Lucy; for, driving away, as he thought
successfully, the doubt that still assailed him, he declared to himself
that she possessed virtues before which birth and dowry paled and became
as naught.
"Unstable as water," muttered the curate to himself, though, days after,
when meeting with Lucy alone in the front-room of their place in
Bennett's-rents, the barrier was again broken down--the barrier that
time had forced him to renew--while the words he could not but utter
came pouring forth, to bring no response.
Septimus was away with his boy, and Mrs Hardon slept in the back-room;
and the words of Arthur Sterne were low and deep as the passion that
prompted them. But there was no response--no loving look in reply--
naught but the pale cheek and quivering eyelid, tears and looks of
half-anger; for still clung to Lucy the recollection of his scorn and
contempt, his misinterpretation of her motives; and the hands he clasped
were cold and drawn away.
Then anger took the place of love--a foolish, mad anger, which robbed
him of his self-control, and made him utter words beneath whose passion
the poor girl bent as bends flower before the storm. He uttered words
then that an hour after he would have given anything to recall; telling
her angrily of _ma mere_ and her slighting hints, of Jarker's
familiarity, and lastly of the meeting he had witnessed in the Lane;
unheeding the hands held up so deprecatingly, the appealing looks, and
the tear-wet, pallid cheeks; for, as he told himself again and again
that night, he was mad--mad in his passionate love for one unworthy--mad
in his words; and he writhed as he recalled the way in which he felt
that he had lowered himself.
"I insist--I hold it as a right!" he had exclaimed; "tell me, Lucy, who
was that woman? Do you know her character?" And he clutched her wrist
angrily as he spoke.
He said no more then, for Lucy's face was aflame, and she started
hastily to her feet, facing him almost as it were at bay, and vainly
trying to free her hand from his grasp.
"Do your parents know of your meetings?" he exclaimed.
"No, no, no!" she cried excitedly, as she glanced towards the back-room
door.
"Then I must--nay," he added with almost a cowardly look of triumph, for
the weakness of the man was triumphant that afternoon, and he yielded to
all that he had hitherto triumphed over--"I will tell them," he said,
"for your good."
"For pity's sake," whispered Lucy, "Mr Sterne. Ah, pray, sir, stop--
pray stay! Do not think ill of me--"
But there Lucy ceased, for she was alone; and once more scornfully, with
the cold bitter look, Mr Sterne had dashed her hand from him in
contempt and turned from the room, into which Mrs Hardon now came to
find Lucy weeping as though her heart would break.
Volume Three, Chapter II.