Sir Thomas, who shams Illness, is too sharp for Mrs. Mainwaring, who
visits Him--Affecting interview between Lucy and Lady Gourlay
Lucy Gourlay, anxious to relieve her father's mind as much as it was in
her power to do, wrote to him the day after the visit of Ensign Roberts
and old Sam to Summerfield Cottage. Her letter was affectionate, and
even tender, and not written without many tears, as was evident by
the blots and blisters which they produced upon the paper. She fully
corroborated the stranger's explanation to her father; for although
ignorant at the time that an interview had taken place between them,
she felt it to be her duty toward all parties to prevent, as far as her
testimony could go, the possibility of any misunderstanding upon the
subject. This letter was posted in Dublin, from an apprehension lest the
local post-office might furnish a clew to her present abode. The truth
was, she feared that if her father could trace her out, he would claim
her at once, and force her home by outrage and violence. In this,
however, she was mistaken; he had fallen upon quite a different and far
more successful plan for that purpose. He knew his daughter well,
and felt that if ever she might be forced to depart from those strong
convictions of the unhappiness that must result from a union between
baseness and honor, it must be by an assumption of tenderness and
affection toward her, as well as by a show of submission, and a
concession of his own will to hers. This was calculating at once upon
her affection and generosity. He had formed this plan before her letter
reached him, and on perusing it, he felt still more determined to
make this treacherous experiment upon her very virtues--thus most
unscrupulously causing them to lay the groundwork of her own permanent
misery.
In the meantime, Mrs. Mainwaring, having much confidence in the effect
which a knowledge of her disclosure must, as she calculated, necessarily
produce on the ambitious baronet, resolved to lose no time in seeing
him. On the evening before she went, however, the following brief
conversation took place between her and Lucy:
“My dear Lucy,” said she, “a thought has just struck me. Your situation,
excepting always your residence with us, is one of both pain and
difficulty. I am not a woman who has ever been much disposed to rely on
my own judgment in matters of importance.”
“But there, my dear Mrs. Mainwaring, you do yourself injustice.”
“No, my dear child.”
“But what is your thought?” asked Lucy, who felt some unaccountable
apprehension at what her friend was about to say.
“You tell me that neither you nor your aunt, Lady Gourlay, have ever
met.”
“Never, indeed,” replied Lucy; “nor do I think we should know each other
if we did.”
“Then suppose you were, without either favor or ceremony, to call upon
her--to present yourself to her in virtue of your relationship--in
virtue of her high character and admirable principles--in virtue of the
painful position in which you are placed--to claim the benefit of
her experience and wisdom, and ask her to advise you as she would a
daughter.”
Lucy's eyes glistened with delight, and, stooping down, she imprinted a
kiss upon the forehead of her considerate and kind friend.
“Thank you, my dear Mrs. Mainwaring,” she exclaimed: “a thousand thanks
for that admirable suggestion. Many a time has my heart yearned to know
that extraordinary woman, of whose virtues the world talks so much,
and whose great and trusting spirit even sorrow and calamity cannot
prostrate. Yes, I will follow your advice; I will call upon her; for,
even setting aside all selfish considerations, I should wish to know her
for her own worth.”
“Very well, then; I am going in to see your father to-morrow--had you
not better come with me? I shall leave you at her house, and can call
for you after my interview with him shall have been concluded. I shall
order a chaise from the hotel to be with us in the morning, so that you
may run little or no risk of being seen or known.”
“That will be delightful,” replied Lucy; “for I am sure Lady
Gourlay will be a kind and affectionate friend to me. In seeking
her acquaintance--may I hope, her friendship--I am not conscious
of violating any command or duty. Ever since I recollect, it was a
well-known fact, that the families, that is to say, my father and
uncle, never met, nor visited--mamma knew, of course, that to keep up
an intimacy, under such circumstances, would occasion much domestic
disquietude. This is all I know about it; but I never remember having
heard any injunction not to visit.”
“No,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring; “such an injunction would resemble that
of a man who should desire his child not to forget to rise next morning,
or, to be sure to breathe through his lungs. I can very well understand
why such a prohibition was never given in that case. Well, then, we
shall start pretty early in the morning, please God; but remember that
you must give me a full detail of your reception and interview.”
The next day, about the hour of two o'clock, a chaise drew up at the
residence of Lady Gourlay, and on the hall-door being opened, a steady,
respectable-looking old footman made his appearance at the chaise door,
and, in reply to their inquiries, stated, “that her ladyship had been
out for some time, but was then expected every moment.”
“What is to be done?” said Lucy, in some perplexity; “or how am I to
bestow myself if she does not return soon?”
“We expect her ladyship every moment, madam,” replied the man; “and
if you will have the goodness to allow me to conduct you to the
drawing-room, you will not have to wait long--I may assure you of that.”
“You had better go in, my dear,” said Mrs. Mainwaring, “and I shall call
for you in about an hour, or, perhaps, a little better.”
It was so arranged, and Lucy went in accordingly.
We must now follow Mrs. Mainwaring, who, on inquiring if she could see
Sir Thomas Gourlay, was informed by Gibson, who had got his cue, that he
was not in a condition to see any one at present.
“My business is somewhat important,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring, with a
good deal of confidence in the truth of what she said.
Gibson, however, approached her, and, with the air of a man who was in
possession of the secrets of the family, said, “Perhaps, ma'am, you come
on behalf of Miss Gourlay?”
“Whatever my business may be,” she replied, indignantly, “be it
important or otherwise, I never communicate it through the medium of a
servant; I mean you no offence,” she proceeded; “but as I have already
stated that it is of importance, I trust that will be sufficient for the
present.”
“Excuse me, ma'am,” replied Gibson, “I only put the question by Sir
Thomas's express orders. His state of health is such, that unless upon
that subject he can see no one. I will go to him, however, and mention
what you have said. He is very ill, however, exceedingly ill, and I fear
will not be able to see you; but I shall try.”
Sir Thomas was seated upon a sofa reading some book or other, when
Gibson reappeared.
“Well, Gibson, who is this?”
“A lady, sir; and she says she wishes to see you on very important
business.”
“Hum!--do you think it anything connected with Miss Gourlay?”
“I put the question to her, sir,” replied the other, “and she bridled a
good deal--I should myself suppose it is.”
“Well, then, throw me over my dressing-gown and nightcap; here, pull it
up behind, you blockhead;--there now--how do I look?”
“Why, ahem, a little too much in health, Sir Thomas, if it could be
avoided.”
“But, you stupid rascal, isn't that a sign of fever? and isn't my
complaint fulness about the head--a tendency of blood there? That will
do now; yes, the plethoric complexion to a shade; and, by the way, it is
no joke either. Send her up now.”
When Mrs. Mainwaring entered, the worthy invalid was lying incumbent
upon the sofa, his head raised high upon pillows, with his dressing-gown
and night-cap on, and his arms stretched along by his sides, as if he
were enduring great pain.
“Oh, Mrs. Norton,” said he, after she had courtesied, “how do you do?”
“I am sorry to see you ill, Sir Thomas,” she replied, “I hope there is
nothing serious the matter.”
“I wish I myself could hope so, Mrs. Norton.”
“Excuse me, Sir Thomas, I am no longer Mrs. Norton; Mrs. Mainwaring, at
your service.”
“Ah, indeed! Then you have changed your condition, as they say. Well,
I hope it is for the better, Mrs. Mainwaring; I wish you all joy and
happiness!”
“Thank you, Sir Thomas, it is for the better; I am very happily
married.”
“I am glad to hear it--I am very glad to hear it; that is to say, if
I can be glad at anything. I feel very ill, Mrs. Mainwaring, very ill,
indeed; and this blunt, plain-spoken doctor of mine gives me but little
comfort. Not that I care much about any doctor's opinion--it is what
I feel myself that troubles me. You are not aware, perhaps, that my
daughter has abandoned me--deserted me--and left me solitary--sick--ill;
without care--without attendance--without consolation;--and all because
I wished to make her happy.”
“This, Sir Thomas,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring, avoiding a direct reply as
to her knowledge of Lucy's movements, “is, I presume, with reference to
her marriage with Lord Dunroe.”
“Oh yes; young women will not, now-a-days, allow a parent to form any
opinion as to what constitutes their happiness; but I cannot be angry
with Lucy now; indeed, I am not. I only regret her absence from my sick
bed, as I may term it; for, indeed, it is in bed I ought to be.”
“Sir Thomas, I, came to speak with you very seriously, upon the subject
of her union with that young nobleman.”
“Ah, but I am not in a condition, Mrs. Mainwaring, to enter upon such a
topic at present. The doctor has forbidden me to speak upon any subject
that might excite me. You must excuse me, then, madam; I really cannot
enter upon it. I never thought T loved Lucy so much;--I only want my
child to be with me. She and I are all that I are left together now; but
she has deserted me at the last moment, for I fear I am near it.”
“But, Sir Thomas, if you would only hear me for a few minutes, I could
satisfy you that--”
“But I cannot hear you, Mrs. Mainwaring; I cannot hear you; I am not in
a state to do so; I feel feverish, and exceedingly ill.”
“Five minutes would do, Sir Thomas.”
“Five minutes! five centuries of torture! I must ring the bell, Mrs.
Mainwaring, if you attempt to force this subject on me. I should be
sorry to treat you rudely, but you must see at once that I am quite
unable to talk of anything calculated to disturb me. I have a tendency
of blood to the head--I am also nervous and irritable. Put it off, my
dear madam. I trust you shall have another and a better opportunity. Do
ring, and desire Lucy to come to me.”
Mrs. Mainwaring really became alarmed at the situation of the baronet,
and felt, from this request to have his daughter sent to him, which
looked like delirium, that he was not in a state to enter upon or hear
anything that might disappoint or disturb him. She consequently rose to
take her leave, which she did after having expressed her sincere regret
at his indisposition, as she termed it.
“I wish it was only indisposition, Mrs. Mainwaring, I wish it was.
Present my respects to your husband, and I wish you and him all
happiness;” and so with another courtesy, Mrs. Mainwaring took her leave.
After she had gone, Gibson once more attended the bell.
“Well, Gibson,” said his master, sitting up and flinging his nightcap
aside, “did you see that old grindress? Zounds and the devil, what are
women? The old mantrap has got married at these years! Thank heaven, my
grandmother is dead, or God knows what the devil might put into her old
noddle.”
“Women are very strange cattle, certainly, sir,” replied Gibson, with a
smirk, “and not age itself will keep them from a husband.”
“Lucy--Miss Gourlay, I mean--is with her; I am certain of it. The girl
was always very much attached to her, and I know the sly old devil has
been sent to negotiate with me, but I declined. I knew better than
to involve myself in a controversy with an old she prig who deals in
nothing but maxims, and morals, and points of duty. I consequently sent
her off in double quick time, as they say. Get me some burgundy and
water. I really am not well. There is something wrong, Gibson, whatever
it is; but I think it's nothing but anxiety. Gibson, listen. I have
never been turned from my purpose yet, and I never shall. Miss Gourlay
must be Countess of Cullamore, or it is a struggle for life and death
between her and me; either of us shall die, or I shall have my way.
Get me the burgundy and water,” and Gibson, with his sleek bow, went to
attend his orders.
Mrs. Mainwaring having some purchases to make and some visits to pay,
and feeling that her unexpectedly brief visit to Sir Thomas had allowed
her time for both, did not immediately return to call upon Lucy, fearing
that she might only disturb the interview between her and Lady Gourlay.
Lucy, as the servant said, was shown up to the drawing-room, where she
amused herself as well as she could, by examining some fine paintings,
among which was one of her late uncle. The features of this she studied
with considerable attention, and could not help observing that, although
they resembled collectively those of her father, the deformity of the
one eye only excepted, yet the general result was strikingly different.
All that was harsh, and coarse, and repulsive in the countenance of
her father, was here softened down into an expression of gentleness,
firmness, and singular candor, whilst, at the same time, the family
likeness could not for a moment be questioned or mistaken.
Whilst thus occupied, a foot was heard, as if entering the drawing-room,
and naturally turning round, she beheld the stranger before her. The
surprise of each was mutual, for the meeting was perfectly unexpected by
either. A deep blush overspread Lucy's exquisite features, which
almost in a moment gave way to a paleness that added a new and equally
delightful phase to her beauty.
“Good heavens, my dear Lucy,” exclaimed the stranger, “do I find you
here! I had heard that the families were estranged; but on that very
account I feel the more deeply delighted at your presence under Lady
Gourlay's roof. This happiness comes to me with a double sense of
enjoyment, from the fact of its being unexpected.”
The alternations of red and white still continued as Lucy replied, her
sparkling eye chastened down by the veil of modesty as she spoke: “I am
under Lady Gourlay's roof for the first time in my life. Indeed, I have
come here to make an experiment, if I may use the expression, upon the
goodness of her heart. The amiable lady with whom I now reside suggested
to me to do so, a suggestion which I embraced with delight. I have been
here only a few minutes, and await her ladyship's return, which they
tell me may be expected immediately.”
“It would indeed be unfortunate,” replied the stranger, “that two
individuals so nearly connected by family, and what is more, the
possession of similar virtues, should not be known to each other.”
This compliment brought a deeper tinge of color to Lucy's cheek,
who simply replied, “I have often wished most sincerely for
the pleasure--the honor, I should say--of her acquaintance; but
unfortunately the ill-feeling that has subsisted between the families,
or rather between a portion of them, has hitherto prevented it. If I
were now under my father's roof a visit here were out of the question;
but you know, Charles, I cannot, and I ought not, to inherit his
resentments.”
“True, my dear Lucy, and I am glad to see you here for many, many
reasons. No, your father's resentments would perish for want of nurture
in a heart like yours. But, Lucy, there is a subject in which I trust we
both feel a dearer and a deeper interest than that of family feud. I
am aware of this hateful union which your father wishes to bring about
between you and this Lord Dunroe. I have been long aware of it, as
you know; but need I say that I place every reliance, all honorable
confidence, in your truth and attachment?”
He had approached, and gently taking her hand in his as he spoke, he
uttered these words in a tone so full at once of tenderness and that
sympathy to which he knew her sufferings on this point had entitled
her, that Lucy was considerably affected, although she restrained her
emotions as well as she could.
“If it were not so,” she replied, in a voice whose melody was made
more touchingly beautiful by the slight tremor which she endeavored to
repress, “if it were not so, Charles, I would not now be a fugitive.
from my father's roof.”
The stranger's eye sparkled with the rapturous enthusiasm of love,
as the gentle girl, all blushes, gave expression to an assurance so
gratifying, so delicious to his heart.
“Dearest Lucy,” said he, “I fear I am unworthy of you. Oh, could you but
know how those words of yours have made my heart tremble with an excess
of transport which language fails to express, you would also know that
the affection with which I love you is as tender, as pure, as unselfish,
as ever warmed the heart of man. And yet, as I said, I fear it is
unworthy of you. I know your father's character, his determination, the
fierce force of his will, and the energy with which he pursues every
object on which he sets his heart or ambition. I say I know all this,
and I sometimes fear the consequences. What can the will of only one
pure, gentle, and delicate heart avail against the united powers of
ambition, authority, persuasion, force, determination, perhaps violence?
What, I repeat, can a gentle heart like yours ultimately avail against
such a host of difficulties? And it is for this reason that I say I am
unworthy of you, for I fear--and you know that perfect love casteth out
all fear.”
“My dear Charles, if love were without fear it would lose half its
tenderness. An eternal sunshine, would soon sicken the world. But as
for your apprehensions of my solitary heart failing against such
difficulties as it must encounter, you seem to omit one slight element
in calculating your terrors, and that simple element is a host in
itself.”
“Which is?”
“Love for you, dear Charles. I know you may probably feel that this
avowal ought to be expressed with more hesitation, veiled over by
the hypocrisy of language, disguised by the hackneyed forms of mere
sentiment, uttered like the assertions of a coquette, and degraded by
that tampering with truth which makes the heart lie unto itself. Oh,
yes!--perhaps, Charles, you may think that because I fail to express
what I feel in that spirit of ambiguity which a love not confident
in the truth, purity, and rectitude of its own principles must always
borrow--that because my heart fails to approach yours by the usual
circuitous route with which ordinary hearts do approach--yes, you may
imagine for all these reasons that my affection is not--but--” and here
she checked herself--“why,” she added, with dignity, whilst her cheeks
glowed and her eyes sparkled, “why should I apologize for the avowal of
a love of which I am not ashamed, and which has its strongest defence in
the worth and honor of its object?”
Tears of enthusiasm rushed down her cheeks as she spoke, and her lover
could only say, “Dearest Lucy, most beloved of my heart, your language,
your sentiments, your feelings--so pure, so noble, so far above those
commonplaces of your sex, only cause me to shrink almost into nothing
when I compare or contrast myself with you. Let, however, one principle
guide us--the confidence that our love is mutual and cannot be
disturbed. I am for the present placed in circumstances that are
exceedingly painful. In point of fact, I am wrapped in obscurity and
shadow, and there exists, besides, a possibility that I may not become,
in point of fortune, such a man as you might possibly wish to look upon
as your husband.”
“If you are now suffering your fine mind, Charles, to become
unconsciously warped by the common prejudices of life, I beseech you to
reflect upon the heart to which you address yourself. Society presents
not a single prejudice which in any degree aids or supports virtue, and
truth, and honor, that I do not cherish, and wish you to cherish; but if
you imagine that you will become less dear to me because you may fail to
acquire some of the artificial dignities or honors of life, then it is
clear that you know not how to estimate the spirit and character of Lucy
Grourlay.”
“I know you will be severely tried, my dear Lucy.”
“Know me aright, Charles. I have been severely tried. Many a girl, I am
sorry to say, would forget Dunroe's profligacy in his rank. Many a
girl, in contemplating the man, could see nothing but the coronet; for
ambition--the poorest, the vainest, and the most worthless of all
kinds of ambition--that of rank, title, the right of precedence--is
unfortunately cultivated as a virtue in the world of fashion, and as
such it is felt. Be it so, Charles; let me remain unfashionable and
vulgar. Perish the title if not accompanied by worth; fling the gaudy
coronet aside if it covers not the brow of probity and honor. Retain
those, dear Charles--retain worth, probity, and honor--and you retain a
heart that looks upon them as the only titles that confer true rank and
true dignity.”
The stranger gave her a long gaze of admiration, and exclaimed, deeply
affected,
“Alas, my Lucy, you are, I fear, unfit for the world. Your spirit is too
pure, too noble for common life. Like some priceless gem, it sparkles
with the brilliancy of too many virtues for the ordinary mass of mankind
to appreciate.”
“No such thing, Charles: you quite overrate me; but God forbid that
the possession of virtue and good dispositions should ever become a
disqualification for this world. It is not so; but even if it were,
provided I shine in the estimation of my own little world, by which
I mean the affection of him to whom I shall unite my fate, then I am
satisfied: his love and his approbation shall constitute my coronet and
my honor.”
The stranger was absolutely lost in admiration and love, for he felt
that the force of truth and sincerity had imparted an eloquence and an
energy to her language that were perfectly fascinating and irresistible.
“My dear life,” said he, “the music of your words, clothing, as it does,
the divine principles they utter, must surely resemble the melody of
heaven's own voices. For my part, I feel relaxed in such a delicious
rapture as I have never either felt or dreamt of before--entranced, as
it were, in a sense of your wonderful beauty and goodness. But, dearest
Lucy, allow me to ask on what terms are you with your father? Have you
heard from him? Have you written to him? Is he aware of your present
residence?”
“No,” she replied; “he is not aware of my present residence, but I have
written to him. I wished to set his mind at rest as well as I could, and
to diminish his anxiety as far as in me lay. Heaven knows,” she added,
bursting into tears, “that this unnatural estrangement between father
and daughter is most distressing. I am anxious to be with papa, to
render him, in every sense, all the duties of a child, provided only he
will not persist in building up the superstructure of rank upon my own
unhappiness. Have you seen him?” she inquired, drying her eyes, a task
in which she was tenderly assisted by the stranger.
“I saw him,” he replied, “for a short time;” but the terms in which he
explained the nature of the interview between himself and the baronet
were not such as could afford her a distinct impression of all that
took place, simply because he wished to spare her the infliction of
unnecessary pain.
“And now, Lucy,” he added, “I feel it necessary to claim a large portion
of your approbation.”
She looked at him with a smile, but awaited his explanation.
“You will scarcely credit me when I assure you that I have had a clew to
your place of residence, or concealment, or whatever it is to be termed,
since the first morning of your arrival there, and yet I disturbed you
not, either by letter or visit. Thus you may perceive how sacred your
lightest wish is to me.”
“And do you imagine that I am insensible to this delicate generosity?”
she asked--“oh, no; indeed, I fully appreciate it; but now, Charles,
will you permit me to ask how, or when, or where you have been
acquainted with my aunt Gourlay, for I was not aware that you had known
each other?”
“This, my dear Lucy,” he replied, smiling, “you shall have cleared up
along with all my other mysteries. Like every riddle, although it may
seem difficult now, it will be plain enough when told.”
“It matters not, dear Charles; I have every confidence in your truth and
honor, and that is sufficient.”
He then informed her briefly, that he should be under the necessity
of going to France for a short space, upon business of the deepest
importance to himself.
“My stay, however,” he added, “will not be a very long one; and I trust,
that after my return, I shall be in a position to speak out my love.
Indeed, I am anxious for this, dear Lucy, for I know how strong the love
of truth and candor is in your great and generous heart. And yet, for
the sake of one good and amiable individual, or rather, I should say, of
two, the object of my journey to France will not be accomplished without
the deepest pain to myself. It is, I may say here, to spare the feelings
of the two individuals in question, that I have preserved the strict
incognito which I thought necessary since my arrival in this country.”
“Farewell until then, my dear Charles; and in whatever object you may
be engaged, let me beg that you will not inflict a wanton or unnecessary
wound upon a good or amiable heart; but I know you will not--it is not
in your nature.”
“I trust not,” he added, as he took his leave. “I cannot wait longer for
lady Gourlay; but before I go, I will write a short note for her in the
library, which will, for the present, answer the same purpose as seeing
her. Farewell, then, dearest and best of girls!--farewell, and be as
happy as you can; would that I could say, as I wish you, until we meet
again.”
And thus they separated.
The scene that had just taken place rendered every effort at composure
necessary on the part of Lucy, before the return of Lady Gourlay. This
lady, strange as it may seem, she had yet never seen or met, and she now
began to reflect upon the nature of the visit she had made her, as well
as of the reception she might get. If it were possible that her father
had made away with her child on the one hand, could it be possible,
on the other, that Lady Gourlay would withhold her resentment from the
daughter of the man who had made her childless? But, no; her generous
heart could not for a moment admit the former possibility. She reasoned
not from what she had felt at his hands, but as a daughter, who, because
she abhorred the crime imputed to him, could not suppose him capable
of committing it. His ambition was all for herself. Neither, she felt,
would Lady Gourlay, even allowing for the full extent of her suspicions,
confound the innocent daughter with the offending parent. Then her
reputation for meekness, benevolence, patience, charity, and all those
virtues which, without effort, so strongly impress themselves upon the
general spirit of social life, spoke with a thousand tongues on her
behalf. Yes, she was glad she came; she felt the spirit of a virtuous
relationship strongly in her heart; and in that heart she thanked the
amiable Mrs. Mainwaring for the advice she had given her.
A gentle and diffident tap at the door interrupted the course of
her reflections; and the next moment, a lady, grave, but elegant in
appearance, entered. She courtesied with peculiar grace, and an air
of the sweetest benignity, to Lucy, who returned it with one in which
humility, reverence, and dignity, were equally blended. Neither, indeed,
could for a single moment doubt that an accomplished and educated
gentlewoman stood before her. Lucy, however, felt that it was her duty
to speak first, and account for a visit so unexpected.
“I know not,” she said, “as yet, how to measure the apology which I
ought to make to Lady Gourlay for my presence here. My heart tells me
that I have the honor of addressing that lady.”
“I am, indeed, madam, that unhappy woman.”
Lucy approached her, and said, “Do not reject me, madam; pardon me--love
me--pity me;--I am Lucy Gourlay.”
Lady Gourlay opened her arms, exclaiming, as she did it, in a voice of
the deepest emotion, “My dear niece--my child--my daughter if you will;”
and they wept long and affectionately on each other's bosoms.
“You are the only living individual,” said Lucy, after some time, “whom
I could ask to pity me; but I am not ashamed to solicit your sympathy.
Dear, dear aunt, I am very unhappy. But this, I fear, is wrong; for why
should I add my sorrows to the weight of misery which you yourself have
been compelled to bear? I fear it is selfish and ungenerous to do so.”
“No, my child; whatever the weight of grief or misery which we are
forced, perhaps, for wise purposes, to bear, it is ordained, for
purposes equally wise and beneficent, that every act of sympathy with
another's sorrow lessens our own. Dear Lucy, let me, if you can, or will
be permitted to do so, be a loving mother to you, and stand to my heart
in relation to the child I have lost; or think that your own dear mother
still survives in me.”
This kindness and affection fairly overcame Lucy, who sat down on a
sofa, and wept bitterly. Lady Gourlay herself was deeply affected for
some minutes, but, at length, resuming composure, she sat beside Lucy,
and, taking her hand, said: “I can understand, my dear child, the nature
of your grief; but be comforted. Your heart, which was burdened, will
soon become lighter, and better spirits will return; so, I trust, will
better times. It is not from the transient and unsteady, and too often
painful, incidents of life, that we should attempt to draw consolation,
but from a fixed and firm confidence in the unchangeable purposes of
God.”
“I wish, dear Lady Gourlay--dear aunt--”
“Yes, that is better, my love.”
“I wish I had known you before; of late I have been alone--with none
to advise or guide me; for, she, whose affectionate heart, whose tender
look, and whose gentle monition, were ever with me--she--alas, my dear
aunt, how few know what the bitterness is--when forced to struggle
against strong but misguided wills, whether of our own or others'; to
feel that we are without a mother--that that gentle voice is silent
forever; that that well in the desert of life--a mother's heart--is
forever closed to us; that that protecting angel of our steps is
departed from us--never, never to return.”
As she uttered these words in deep grief, it might have been observed,
that Lady Gourlay shed some quiet but apparently bitter tears. It is
impossible for us to enter into the heart, or its reflections; but it
is not, we think, unreasonable to suppose that while Lucy dwelt so
feelingly upon the loss of her mother, the other may have been thinking
upon that of her child.
“My dear girl,” she exclaimed, “let the affectionate compact which I
have just proposed be ratified between us. My heart, at all events, has
already ratified it. I shall be as a mother to you, and you shall be to
me as a daughter.”
“I know not, my dear aunt,” replied Lucy, “whether to consider you more
affectionate than generous. How few of our sex, after--after--that
is, considering the enmities--in fact, how a relative, placed as you
unhappily are, would take me to her heart as you have done.”
“Perhaps, my child, I were incapable of it, if that heart had never been
touched and softened by affliction. As it is, Lucy, let me say to you,
as one who probably knows the world better, do not look, as most young
persons like you do, upon the trials you are at present forced to
suffer, as if they were the sharpest and heaviest in the world. Time, my
love, and perhaps other trials of a still severer character, may one day
teach you to think that your grief and impatience were out of proportion
to what you then underwent. May He who afflicts his people for their
good, prevent that this ever should be so in your case; but, even if
it should, remember that God loveth whom he chasteneth. And above all
things, my dear child, never, never, never despair in his providence.
Dry your eyes, my love,” she added, with a smile of affection and
encouragement, that Lucy felt to be contagious by its cheering
influence upon her; “dry your tears, and turn round to the light until
I contemplate more clearly and distinctly that beauty of which I have
heard so much.”
Lucy obeyed her with all the simplicity of a child, and turned round so
as to place herself in the position required by the aunt; but whilst she
did so, need we say that the blushes followed each other beautifully and
fast over her timid but sparkling countenance?
“I do not wonder, my dear girl, that public rumor has borne its ample
testimony to your beauty. I have never seen either it or your figure
surpassed; but it is here, my dear,” she added, placing her hand upon
her heart, “where the jewel that gives value to so fair a casket lies.”
“How happy I am, my dear aunt,” replied Lucy, anxious to change
the subject, since I know you. The very consciousness of it is a
consolation.”
“And I trust, Lucy, we shall all yet be happy. When the dispensations
ripen, then comes the harvest of the blessings.”
The old footman now entered, saying: “Here is a note, my lady,” and
he presented one, “which the gentleman desired me to deliver on your
ladyship's return.”
Lady Gourlay took the note, saying: “Will you excuse me, my dear
niece?--this, I believe, is on a subject that is not merely near to, but
in the innermost recesses of my heart.”
Lucy now took that opportunity on her part of contemplating the features
of her aunt; but, as we have already described them elsewhere, it is
unnecessary to do so here. She was, however, much struck with their
chaste but melancholy beauty; for it cannot be disputed, that sorrow and
affliction, while they impair the complexion of the most lovely, very
frequently communicate to it a charm so deep and touching, that in
point of fact, the heart that suffers within is taught to speak in the
mournful, grave, and tender expression, which they leave behind them
as their traces. As Lucy surveyed her aunt's features, which had been
moulded by calamity into an expression of settled sorrow--an expression
which no cheerfulness could remove, however it might diminish it, she
was surprised to observe at first a singular degree of sweetness appear;
next a mild serenity; and lastly, she saw that that serenity gradually
kindled into a radiance that might, in the hands of a painter, have
expressed the joy of the Virgin Mother on finding her lost Son in the
Temple. This, however, was again succeeded by a paleness, that for a
moment alarmed Lucy, but which was soon lost in a gush of joyful tears.
On looking at her niece, who did not presume to make any inquiry as to
the cause of this extraordinary emotion, Lady Gourlay saw that her eyes
at least were seeking, by the wonder they expressed, for the cause of
it.
“May the name,” she exclaimed, “of the just and merciful God be praised
forever! Here, my darling, is a note, in which I am informed upon the
best authority, that my child--my boy, is yet alive--and was seen but
very recently. Dear God of all goodness, is my weak and worn heart
capable of bearing this returning tide of happiness!”
Nature, however, gave way; and after several struggles and throbbings,
she sank into insensibility. To ring for assistance, to apply all kinds
of restoratives; and to tend her until she revived, and afterwards, were
offices which Lucy discharged with equal promptitude and tenderness.
On recovering, she took the hand of the latter in hers, and said, with
a smile full of gratitude, joy, and sweetness, “Our first thanks are
always due to God, and to him my heart offers them up; but, oh, how
feebly! Thanks to you, also, Lucy, for your kindness; and many thanks
for your goodness in giving me the pleasure of knowing you. I trust that
we shall both see and enjoy better and happier days. Your visit has been
propitious to me, and brought, if I may so say, an unexpected dawn of
happiness to the widowed mother's heart.”
Lucy was about to reply, when the old footman came to say that the lady
who had accompanied her was waiting below in the chaise. She accordingly
bade her farewell, only for a time she said, and after a tender embrace,
she went down to Mrs. Mainwaring who respectfully declined on that
occasion to be presented to Lady Gourlay, in consequence of the number
of purchases she had yet to make, and the time it would occupy to make
them.