HOW IT HAPPENED.
Lucy had insisted that she did not care to go to Saratoga. She
preferred remaining in Hanover, where it was cool and quiet, and where
she would not have to dress three times a day and dance every night
till twelve. She was beginning to find that there was something to
live for besides consulting one's own pleasure, and she meant to do
good the rest of her life, she said, assuming such a sober nun-like
air, that no one who saw her could fail to laugh, it was so at
variance with her entire nature.
But Lucy was in earnest; Hanover had a greater attraction for her
than all the watering-places in the world, and she meant to stay
there, feeling very grateful when Fanny threw her influence on her
side, and so turned the scale in her favor. Fanny was glad to leave
her dangerous cousin at home, especially after Dr. Bellamy decided to
join their party at Saratoga, and, as she carried great weight with
both her parents, it was finally decided to let Lucy remain at
Prospect Hill in peace, and so one morning in July she saw the family
depart to their summer gayeties without a single feeling of regret
that she was not of their number. She had too much on her hands to
spend her time in regretting anything. There was the parish school to
visit, and a class of children to hear--children who were no longer
ragged, for Lucy's money had been poured out like water, till even
Arthur had remonstrated with her and read her a long lecture on the
subject of misplaced charity. Then, there was Widow Hobbs, waiting for
the jelly Lucy had promised, and for the chapter which Lucy read to
her, sitting where she could watch the road and see just who turned
the corner, her voice always sounding a little more serious and good
when the footsteps belonged to Arthur Leighton, and her eyes, always
glancing at the bit of cracked mirror on the wall, to see that her
dress and hair and ribbons were right before Arthur came in.
It was a very pretty sight to see her there and hear her as she read
to the poor woman, whose surroundings she had so greatly improved, and
Arthur always smiled gratefully upon her, and then walked back with
her to Prospect Hill, where he sometimes lingered while she played or
talked to him, or brought the luscious fruits with which the garden
abounded.
This was Lucy's life, the one she preferred to Saratoga, and they
left her to enjoy it, somewhat to Arthur's discomfiture, for much as
he valued her society, he would a little rather she had gone when the
Hethertons went, for he could not be insensible to the remarks which
were being made by the curious villagers, who watched this new
flirtation, as they called it, and wondered if their minister had
forgotten Anna Ruthven. He had not forgotten Anna, and many a time was
her loved name upon his lips and a thought of her in his heart, while
he never returned from an interview with Lucy that he did not contrast
the two and sigh for the olden time, when Anna was his co-worker
instead of pretty Lucy Harcourt. And yet there was about the latter a
powerful fascination, which he found it hard to resist. It rested him
just to look at her, she was so fresh, so bright, so beautiful, and
then she flattered his self-love by the unbounded deference she paid
to his opinions, studying all his tastes and bringing her own will
into perfect subjection to his, until she scarcely could be said to
have a thought or feeling which was not a reflection of his own. And
so the flirtation, which at first had been a one-sided affair, began
to assume a more serious form; the rector went oftener to Prospect
Hill, while the carriage from Prospect Hill stood daily at the gate of
the rectory, and people said it was a settled thing, or ought to be,
gossiping about it until old Captain Humphreys, Anna's grandfather,
conceived it his duty as senior warden of St. Mark's, to talk with the
young rector and know "what his intentions were."
"You have none?" he said, fixing his mild eyes reproachfully upon his
clergyman, who winced a little beneath the gaze. "Then if you have no
intentions, my advice to you is, that you quit it and let the gal
alone, or you'll ruin her, if she ain't sp'ilt already, as some of the
women folks say she is. It don't do no gal any good to have a chap,
and specially a minister, gallyvantin' after her, as I must say you've
been after this one for the last few weeks. She's a pretty little
creature, and I don't blame you for liking her. It makes my old blood
stir faster when she comes purring around me with her soft ways and
winsome face, and so I don't wonder at you; but when you say you've no
intentions, I blame you greatly. You orter have--excuse my plainness.
I'm an old man who likes my minister, and don't want him to go wrong,
and then I feel for her, left alone by all her folks--more's the shame
to them, and more's the harm for you to tangle up her affections, as
you are doing, if you are not in earnest; and I speak for her just as
I should want some one to speak for Anna."
The old man's voice trembled a little here, for it had been a wish of
his that Anna should occupy the rectory, and he had at first felt a
little resentment against the gay young creature who seemed to have
supplanted her; but he was over that now, and in all honesty of heart
he spoke both for Lucy's interest and that of his clergyman. And
Arthur listened to him respectfully, feeling, when he was gone, that
he merited the rebuke, that he had not been guiltless in the matter,
that if he did not mean to marry Lucy Harcourt he must let her alone.
And he would, he said; he would not go to Prospect Hill again for two
whole weeks, nor visit at the cottages where he was sure to find her.
He would keep himself at home; and he did, shutting himself up among
his books, and not even making a pastoral call on Lucy when he heard
that she was sick. And so Lucy came to him, looking dangerously
charming in her green riding-habit--with the scarlet feather sweeping
from her hat. Very prettily she pouted, too, chiding him for his
neglect, and asking why he had not been to see her, nor anybody. There
was the Widow Hobbs, and Mrs. Briggs and those miserable Donelsons--he
had not been near them for a fortnight. What was the reason? she
asked, beating her foot upon the carpet, and tapping the end of her
riding whip upon the sermon he was writing.
"Are you displeased with me, Arthur?" she continued, her eyes filling
with tears as she saw the grave expression on his face. "Have I done
anything wrong? I am so sorry if I have."
Her voice had in it the grieved tones of a little child, and her eyes
were very bright, with the tears, quivering on her long silken lashes.
Leaning back in his chair, with his hands clasped behind his head, a
position he always assumed when puzzled and perplexed, the rector
looked at her a moment before he spoke. He could not define to himself
the nature of the interest he took in Lucy Harcourt. He admired her
greatly, and the self-denials and generous exertions she had made to
be of use to him since Anna went away had touched a tender chord and
made her seem very near to him.
Habit with him was everything, and the past two weeks' isolation had
shown him how necessary she had become to him. She did not satisfy his
higher wants as Anna Ruthven had done. No one could ever do that, but
she amused, and soothed, and rested him, and made his duties lighter
by taking half of them upon herself. That she was more attached to him
than he could wish, he greatly feared, for, since Captain Humphreys'
visit, he had seen matters differently from what he saw them before,
and had unsparingly questioned himself as to how far he would be
answerable for her future weal or woe.
"Guilty, verily, I am guilty, in leading her on, if I meant nothing by
it," he had written against himself, pausing in his sermon to write it
just as Lucy came in, appealing so prettily to him to know why he had
neglected her so long. She was very beautiful this morning, and Arthur
felt his heart beat rapidly as he looked at her, and thought most any
man who had never known Anna Ruthven would be glad to gather that
bright creature in his own arms and know she was his own. One long,
long sigh to the memory of all he had hoped for once--one bitter pang
as he remembered Anna and that twilight hour in the church and then he
made a mad plunge in the dark and said:
"Lucy, do you know people are beginning to talk about my seeing you so
much?"
"Well, let them talk. Who cares?" Lucy replied, with a good deal of
asperity of manner for her, for that very morning the old housekeeper
at Prospect Hill had ventured to remonstrate with her for "running
after the parson." "Pray, where is the wrong? What harm can come of
it?" and she tossed her head pettishly.
"None, perhaps," Arthur replied, "if one could keep his affections
under control. But if either of us should learn to love the other very
much, and the love was not reciprocated, harm would surely come of
that. At least, that was the view Captain Humphreys took of the matter
when he was speaking to me about it."
There were red spots on Lucy's face, but her lips were very white, and
the buttons on her riding dress rose and fell rapidly with the beating
of her heart as she looked steadily at Arthur. Was he going to send
her from him, send her back to the insipid life she had lived before
she knew him? It was too terrible to believe, and the great tears
rolled slowly down her cheeks. Then, as a flash of pride came to her
aid, she dashed them away, and said haughtily:
"And so, for fear I shall fall in love with you, and be ruined,
perhaps, you are sacrificing both comfort and freedom, shutting
yourself up here among your books and studies to the neglect of other
duties? But it need be so no longer. The necessity for it, if it
existed once, certainly does not now. I will not be in your way.
Forgive me that I ever have been."
Lucy's voice began to tremble as she gathered up her riding-habit and
turned to find her gauntlets. One of them had dropped upon the floor,
between the table and the rector, and as she stooped to reach it her
curls almost swept the young man's lap.
"Let me get it for you," he said, hastily pushing back his chair, and
awkwardly entangling his foot in her dress, so that when she rose she
stumbled backward, and would have fallen but for the arm he quickly
passed around her.
Something in the touch of that quivering form completed the work of
temptation, and he held it for an instant while she said to him:
"Please, let me go, sir!"
"No, Lucy, I can't let you go; I want you to stay with me."
Instantly the drooping head was uplifted, and Lucy's eyes looked into
his with such a wistful, pleading, wondering look, that Arthur saw, or
thought he saw, his duty plain, and, gently touching his lips to the
brow glistening so white within their reach, he continued:
"There is a way to stop the gossip and make it right for me to see
you. Promise to be my wife, and not even Captain Humphreys will say
aught against it."
Arthur's voice trembled a little now, for the mention of Captain
Humphreys had brought a thought of Anna, whose brown eyes seemed for
an instant to look reproachfully upon that wooing. But Arthur had gone
too far to retract--he had committed himself, and now he had only to
wait for Lucy's answer.
There was no deception about her. Hers was a nature as clear as
crystal, and, with a gush of glad tears, she promised to be the
rector's wife, hiding her face in his bosom, and telling him brokenly
how unworthy she was, how foolish and how unsuited to the place, but
promising to do the best she could do not to bring him into disgrace
on account of her shortcomings.
"With the acknowledgment that you love me, I can do anything," she
said, and her white hand crept slowly into the cold, clammy one which
lay so listlessly in Arthur's lap.
He was already repenting, for he felt that it was sin to take that
warm, trusting, loving heart in exchange for the half-lifeless one he
should render in return, the heart where scarcely a pulse of joy was
beating, even though he held his promised wife, and she as fair and
beautiful as ever promised wife could be.
"I can make her happy, and I will," he thought, pressing the warm
fingers which quivered to his touch.
But he did not kiss her again. He could not, for the brown eyes which
still seemed looking at him as if asking what he did. There was a
strange spell about those phantom eyes, and they made him say to Lucy,
who was now sitting demurely at his side:
"I could not clear my conscience if I did not confess that you are not
the first woman whom I have asked to be my wife."
There was a sudden start, and Lucy's face was as pale as ashes, while
her hand went quickly to her side, where the heart beats were so
visible, warning Arthur to be careful how he startled her, so when she
asked:
"Who was it, and why did you not marry her? Did you love her very
much?" he answered indifferently:
"I would rather not tell you who it was, as that might be a breach of
confidence. She did not care to be my wife, and so that dream was over
and I was left for you."
He did not say how much he loved her, but Lucy forgot the omission and
asked:
"Was she young and pretty?"
"Young and pretty both, but not as beautiful as you," Arthur replied,
his fingers softly parting back the golden curls from the face looking
so trustingly into his.
And in that he answered truly. He had seen no face as beautiful of
its kind as Lucy's was, and he was glad that he could tell her so. He
knew how it would please her, and partly make amends for the tender
words which he could not speak for the phantom eyes haunting him so
strangely. And Lucy, who took all things for granted, was more than
content, only she wondered that he did not kiss her again, and wished
she knew the girl who had come so near being in her place. But she
respected his wishes too much to ask, after what he had said, and she
tried to make herself glad that he had been so frank with her, and not
left his other love affair to the chance of her discovering it
afterwards at a time when it might be painful to her.
"I wish I had something to confess," she thought, but from the scores
of her flirtations, and even offers, for she had not lacked for them,
she could not find one where her own feelings had been enlisted in
ever so slight a degree, until she remembered Thornton Hastings, who
for one whole week had paid her much attentions as made her drive
round on purpose to look at the house on Madison Square where the
future Mrs. Hastings was to live. But his coolness afterwards, and his
comments on her frivolity had terribly angered her, making her think
she hated him, as she had said to Anna. Now, however, as she
remembered the drive and the house, she nestled closer to Arthur, and
told him all about it, fingering the buttons on his dressing-gown as
she told it, and never dreaming of the pang she was inflicting as
Arthur thought how mysterious were God's ways, and wondered that he
had not reversed the matter, and given Lucy to Thornton Hastings
rather than to him, who did not half deserve her.
"I know now I never cared a bit for Thornton Hastings, though I might
if he had not been so mean as to call me frivolous," Lucy said, as she
arose to go; then suddenly turning to the rector, she added: "I shall
never ask you who your first love was, but I would like to know if you
have quite forgotten her."
"Have you forgotten Thornton Hastings?" Arthur asked, laughingly, and
Lucy replied, "Of course not; one never forgets, but I don't care a
pin for him now, and, did I tell you Fanny writes that rumor says he
will marry Anna Ruthven?"
"Yes, no, I did not know--I am not surprised," and Arthur stooped to
pick up a book lying on the floor, thus hiding his face from Lucy,
who, woman-like, was glad to report a piece of gossip, and continued:
"She is a great belle, Fanny says--dressed beautifully and in perfect
taste, besides talking as if she knew something, and this pleases Mr.
Hastings, who takes her out to ride and drive, and all this after I
warned her against him, and told her just what he said of me. I am
surprised at her."
Lucy was drawing on her gauntlets, and Arthur was waiting to see her
out, but she still lingered on the threshold, and at last said to him,
"I wonder you never fell in love with Anna yourself. I am sure if I
were you I should prefer her to me. She knows something and I do not,
but I am going to study. There are piles of books in the library at
Prospect Hill, and you shall see what a famous student I will become.
If I get puzzled, will you help me?"
"Yes, willingly," Arthur replied, wishing that she would go before
she indulged in any more speculations as to why he did not love Anna
Ruthven.
But Lucy was not done yet, and Arthur felt as if the earth were giving
way beneath his feet when, as he lifted her into the saddle and took
her hand at parting, she said, "Now, remember, I am not going to be
jealous of that other love. There is only one person who could make me
so, and that is Anna Ruthven; but I know it was not she, for that
night we all came from Mrs. Hobbs' and she went with me up-stairs, I
asked her honestly if you had ever offered yourself to her, and she
told me you had not. I think you showed a lack of taste, but I am glad
it was not Anna."
Lucy was far down the road ere Arthur recovered from the shock her
last words had given him. What did it mean, and why had Anna said he
never proposed? Was there some mistake, and he the victim of it? There
was a blinding mist before the young man's eyes as he returned to his
study, and went over again, with all the incidents of Anna's refusal,
even to the reading of the letter which he already knew by heart.
Then, as the thought came over him that possibly Mrs. Meredith played
him false in some way, he groaned aloud, and the great sweat drops
fell upon the table where he leaned his head. But this could not be,
he reasoned. Lucy was mistaken. She had not heard aright. Somebody,
surely, was mistaken, or he had committed a fatal error.
"But I must abide by it," he said, lifting up his pallid face. "God
forbid the wrong I have done in asking Lucy to be my wife when my
heart belonged to Anna. God help me to forget the one and love the
other as I ought. She is a lovely little girl, trusting me so wholly
that I can make her happy, and I will; but Anna! oh, Anna!"
It was a despairing cry, such as a newly-engaged man should never have
sent after another than his affianced bride. Arthur thought so, too,
fighting back his first love with an iron will, and, after that first
hour of anguish, burying it so far from sight that he went that night
to Captain Humphreys and told of his engagement; then called upon his
bride-elect, trying so hard to be satisfied that, when, at a late
hour, he returned to the rectory, he was more than content; and, by
way of fortifying himself still further, wrote the letter which
Thornton Hastings read at Newport.
And that was how it happened.