What were the thoughts of Aunt Fanny as she ushered in Lucy Grey, the
bearer of her answer to a note she had received? Strange thoughts, no
doubt--thoughts of the time when her own hands were like her cheeks,
plump and soft, and dimpled; but she said no word, only kissed the
visitor tenderly, held her in her arms a minute to gaze in the blushing
face, and then with a sigh, half of pleasure, half sorrowful, she led
the way to the door and opened it for the humbly-dressed girl--nay, not
humbly dressed, for Heaven had clothed her with a beauty that in a
higher sphere would have been called peerless. Aunt Fanny then closed
the door, and went back to the sitting-room to smoothe the stiff plaits
of her poplin and black apron, and shed a few tears.
Aunt Fanny stood by the window gazing into vacancy, but her look could
not penetrate to where Lucy was kneeling, like some fair penitent,
beside the easy-chair where Arthur Sterne sat propped up by pillows.
There was a desire to flee again when once she was there, but Lucy's
hands were prisoned, and even for a time the eyes were downcast; but
then those words, powerful in their eloquence--words which made the
young girl's heart beat quickly--had their effect, and soon the flushed
face was raised, and in the long unflinching gaze that met his own,
there was all that doubting man could desire.
Ah, Arthur Sterne, you may have mumbled so that poor Aunt Fanny had to
move her seat in church, but there was something now in the true
eloquence of your words that must have thrilled the heart of the fair
girl by your side; for the tears of happiness fell fast as her face was
buried in your breast.
Explanations? Yes, all he could wish for; and how could he blame the
loving tender heart, which saw not as the world saw, but was ready to
stretch forth her hand to help the lost soul struggling in the slough of
sin? How could he blame as he listened to the story of Agnes Hardon's
sorrow, and how she had made herself known, begging again and again so
earnestly, as she asked Lucy's protection for her child, that Septimus
or Mrs Hardon might never be told of their intimacy, lest they should
be of the world worldly, and cast the wretched woman from this last hold
upon something pure?
Explanations! ay, many; and could he have done so he would have knelt to
Lucy, as, weeping, she whispered to him of her wounded heart, and of how
gladly she would have told him all, but that she feared his condemnation
and contempt.
But there, love-scenes should be matters of the strictest privacy; and
if Arthur Sterne gazed long and lovingly in the pure candid face before
him with a look of fond protection which saw nothing then in humbleness
or poverty, and Lucy Grey returned that look with one from her tear-wet
eyes, that saw in his face everything that was great, noble, and to be
desired by the tender, untouched heart of woman--if these two joined
their lips in one long kiss of love, why it seems to be only natural,
and what might be expected under the circumstances.
"And poor Agnes?" whispered Lucy from where she nestled.
"Have you not seen her since?" said the curate.
And then followed much long happy planning for the future, in which
Agnes Hardon and her little golden-haired child had their share, and
Somesham was more than once mentioned in connection with
reconciliations.
Time will fly at such times, and after Arthur Sterne had told of his
arrangements that he had already made for the child, and once more
related his interview with Agnes, smiling at the pain of Lucy as he
lightly touched upon his mishap, one that he gloried in as he felt the
maiden's soft cheek laid to his throbbing heart--after all this, and
much more that both had forgotten as soon as spoken, the curate
discovered that the interview had lasted more than two hours, though
much of that time had been spent in a silence that neither felt disposed
to break--a silence quite in unison with the doctor's orders, since he
had left instructions that for some days yet the patient was to be kept
perfectly undisturbed.
But there is an end to all things, and Arthur Sterne did not look much
the worse for his visitor, when Aunt Fanny tapped gently at the door to
announce another in the shape of Septimus Hardon come to escort his
step-child back to their new home.
And that night, upon her way back, the something new that appeared to
have come over the spirit of Lucy Grey was more than ever manifest; the
ever-anxious look had departed, and her step was light, bounding, and
elastic as she walked on by Septimus Hardon's side; a strange contrast--
now quiet and hopeful, now elate and light-hearted, as she conversed,
while every topic was tinged with the future.
"And what did Mr Sterne want?" said Septimus as his eyes twinkled, half
from merriment, half from sadness, as he drew the graceful arm he held
farther through his own.
Lucy was serious in a moment, and as she turned beneath a street-lamp
and looked in her stepfather's face, he abused himself roundly, for he
could see tears glittering in the bright eyes that met his own.
"Don't, don't ask me, dear," whispered Lucy. "Don't talk of it now, for
indeed, indeed, I could not leave you."
"Hush, hush," whispered Septimus soothingly, for they passed another
post, and he could this time see how fast the tears were falling, and
now he tried to change the conversation.
"But he's getting better now very fast, eh? my darling," whispered
Septimus.
"O, yes, yes," murmured Lucy. "I think so."
"And--but there, I'm making you worse. Let's talk of something else."
But Septimus Hardon's attempts at starting fresh subjects for
conversation were one and all failures, and Lucy was silent until they
reached Essex-street; though hers were not tears kindred to those she
had shed days--weeks--months back, and, as to her dreams that night,
they must have been sweet to cause so happy a smile to play upon her
lip; for though a tear once stole from the fringed lid, and lay like a
pearl upon her cheek, it did not seem like a tear wrung from the heart,
neither did the sigh which followed betoken sorrow; for it was a sigh
like that sweet expiration some of us have heard when a confession has
been wrung from lips we love, and those lips, when pressed, have hardly
been withdrawn, but pouted sweetly, looking more ruddy for shame.
Only yesterday that they wore that look; it can't be further back than
the day before, or, say last week; and--the sweet recollection
clings--"There, I do wish to goodness, dear, you would not always make a
point of firing off into conversation directly I sit down to read or
write. _Now_ what is it? `Young Fitzpater was too attentive to Maude
last night?' Pooh! nonsense! sugar-candy! Why, the child isn't
seventeen yet, and--"
That could not have been last week, after all. How time does fly!
Volume Three, Chapter XIV.