Before he came, everything loved me, and I had more things to love
than I could reckon by the hairs of my head. Now I feel I can love
but one, and that one has deserted me.... Well, be it so,--
let her perish, let her be anything but mine!--Melmoth.
Early the next morning Sir William Brandon was closeted for a long time
with his niece, previous to his departure to the duties of his office.
Anxious and alarmed for the success of one of the darling projects of
his ambition, he spared no art in his conversation with Lucy, that his
great ingenuity of eloquence and wonderful insight into human nature
could suggest, in order to gain at least a foundation for the raising
of his scheme. Among other resources of his worldly tact, he hinted at
Lucy's love for Clifford; and (though darkly and subtly, as befitting
the purity of the one he addressed) this abandoned and wily person did
not scruple to hint also at the possibility of indulging that love after
marriage; though he denounced, as the last of indecorums, the crime
of encouraging it before. This hint, however, fell harmless upon the
innocent ear of Lucy. She did not in the remotest degree comprehend its
meaning; she only, with a glowing cheek and a pouting lip, resented
the allusion to a love which she thought it insolent in any one even to
suspect.
When Brandon left the apartment, his brow was clouded, and his eye
absent and thoughtful: it was evident that there had been little in the
conference with his niece to please or content him. Miss Brandon herself
was greatly agitated; for there was in her uncle's nature that silent
and impressive secret of influencing or commanding others which almost
so invariably and yet so quietly attains the wishes of its owner; and
Lucy, who loved and admired him sincerely,--not the less, perhaps, for
a certain modicum of fear,--was greatly grieved at perceiving how
rooted in him was the desire of that marriage which she felt was a moral
impossibility. But if Brandon possessed the secret of sway, Lucy was
scarcely less singularly endowed with the secret of resistance. It may
be remembered, in describing her character, that we spoke of her as one
who seemed, to the superficial, as of too yielding and soft a temper.
But circumstances gave the lie to manner, and proved that she eminently
possessed a quiet firmness and latent resolution, which gave to her mind
a nobleness and trustworthy power that never would have been suspected
by those who met her among the ordinary paths of life.
Brandon had not been long gone, when Lucy's maid came to inform her that
a gentleman, who expressed himself very desirous of seeing her, waited
below. The blood rushed from Lucy's cheek at this announcement, simple
as it seemed. “What gentleman could be desirous of seeing her? Was
it--was it Clifford?” She remained for some moments motionless, and
literally unable to move; at length she summoned courage, and smiling
with self-contempt at a notion which appeared to her after thoughts
utterly absurd, she descended to the drawing-room. The first glance she
directed towards the stranger, who stood by the fireplace with folded
arms, was sufficient,--it was impossible to mistake, though the face was
averted, the unequalled form of her lover. She advanced eagerly with a
faint cry, checked herself, and sank upon the sofa.
Clifford turned towards her, and fixed his eyes upon her countenance
with an intense and melancholy gaze, but he did not utter a syllable;
and Lucy, after pausing in expectation of his voice, looked up, and
caught, in alarm, the strange and peculiar aspect of his features. He
approached her slowly, and still silent; but his gaze seemed to grow
more earliest and mournful as he advanced.
“Yes,” said he at last, in a broken and indistinct voice, “I see you
once more, after all my promises to quit you forever,--my solemn
farewell, after all that I have cost you; for, Lucy, you love me, you
love me, and I shudder while I feel it; after all I myself have borne
and resisted, I once more come wilfully into your presence! How have I
burned and sickened for this moment! How have I said, 'Let me behold her
once more, only once more, and Fate may then do her worst!' Lucy! dear,
dear Lucy! forgive me for my weakness. It is now in bitter and stern
reality the very last I can be guilty of!”
As he spoke, Clifford sank beside her. He took both her hands in his,
and holding them, though without pressure, again looked passionately
upon her innocent yet eloquent face. It seemed as if he were moved
beyond all the ordinary feelings of reunion and of love. He did not
attempt to kiss the hands he held; and though the touch thrilled through
every vein and fibre of his frame, his clasp was as light as that in
which the first timidity of a boy's love ventures to stamp itself!
“You are pale, Lucy,” said he, mournfully, “and your cheek is much
thinner than it was when I first saw you. When I first saw you! Ah!
would for your sake that that had never been! Your spirits were light
then, Lucy; your laugh came from the heart, your step spurned the earth.
Joy broke from your eyes, everything that breathed around you seemed
full of happiness and mirth; and now, look upon me, Lucy! lift those
soft eyes, and teach them to flash upon me indignation and contempt!
Oh, not thus, not thus! I could leave you happy,--yes, literally
blessed,--if I could fancy you less forgiving, less gentle, less
angelic!”
“What have I to forgive?” said Lucy, tenderly.
“What! everything for which one human being can pardon another. Have not
deceit and injury been my crimes against you? Your peace of mind, your
serenity of heart, your buoyancy of temper,--have I marred these or
not?”
“Oh, Clifford!” said Lucy, rising from herself and from all selfish
thoughts, “why, why will you not trust me? You do not know me, indeed
you do not,--you are ignorant even of the very nature of a woman, if you
think me unworthy of your confidence! Do you believe I could betray
it, or do you think that if you had done that for which all the world
forsook you, I could forsake?”
Lucy's voice faltered at the last words; but it sank, as a stone sinks
into deep waters, to the very core of Clifford's heart. Transported from
all resolution and all forbearance, he wound his arms around her in one
long and impassioned caress; and Lucy, as her breath mingled with his,
and her cheek drooped upon his bosom, did indeed feel as if the past
could contain no secret powerful enough even to weaken the affection
with which her heart clung to his. She was the first to extricate
herself from their embrace. She drew back her face from his, and smiling
on him through her tears, with a brightness that the smiles of her
earliest youth had never surpassed, she said,--
“Listen to me. Tell me your history or not, as you will. But believe
me, a woman's wit is often no despicable counsellor. They who accuse
themselves the most bitterly are not often those whom it is most
difficult to forgive; and you must pardon me if I doubt the extent of
the blame you would so lavishly impute to yourself. I am now alone in
the world” (here the smile withered from Lucy's lips). “My poor father
is dead. I can injure no one by my conduct; there is no one on earth
to whom I am bound by duty. I am independent, I am rich. You profess to
love me. I am foolish and vain, and I believe you. Perhaps, also, I have
the fond hope which so often makes dupes of women,--the hope that if
you have erred, I may reclaim you; if you have been unfortunate, I may
console you! I know, Mr. Clifford, that I am saying that for which many
would despise me, and for which, perhaps, I ought to despise myself;
but there are times when we speak only as if some power at our hearts
constrained us, despite ourselves,--and it is thus that I have now
spoken to you.”
It was with an air very unwonted to herself that Lucy had concluded her
address, for her usual characteristic was rather softness than dignity;
but, as if to correct the meaning of her words, which might otherwise
appear unmaidenly, there was a chaste, a proud, yet not the less a
tender and sweet propriety and dignified frankness in her look and
manner; so that it would have been utterly impossible for one who heard
her not to have done justice to the nobleness of her motives, or not
to have felt both touched and penetrated, as much by respect as by any
warmer or more familiar feeling.
Clifford, who had risen while she was speaking, listened with a
countenance that varied at every word she uttered,--now all hope, now
all despondency. As she ceased, the expression hardened into a settled
and compulsive resolution.
“It is well!” said he, mutteringly. “I am worthy of this,--very, very
worthy! Generous, noble girl! had I been an emperor, I would have bowed
down to you in worship; but to debase, to degrade you,--no! no!”
“Is there debasement in love?” murmured Lucy.
Clifford gazed upon her with a sort of enthusiastic and self-gratulatory
pride; perhaps he felt to be thus loved and by such a creature was
matter of pride, even in the lowest circumstances to which he could ever
be exposed. He drew his breath hard, set his teeth, and answered,--
“You could love, then, an outcast, without birth, fortune, or character?
No! you believe this now, but you could not.
“Could you desert your country, your friends, and your home,--all that
you are born and fitted for? Could you attend one over whom the sword
hangs, through a life subjected every hour to discovery and disgrace?
Could you be subjected yourself to the moodiness of an evil memory and
the gloomy silence of remorse? Could you be the victim of one who has no
merit but his love for you, and who, if that love destroy you, becomes
utterly redeemed? Yes, Lucy, I was wrong--I will do you justice; all
this, nay, more, you could bear, and your generous nature would disdain
the sacrifice. But am I to be all selfish, and you all devoted? Are you
to yield everything to me, and I to accept everything and yield none?
Alas! I have but one good, one blessing to yield, and that is yourself.
Lucy, I deserve you; I outdo you in generosity. All that you would
desert for me is nothing--O God!--nothing to the sacrifice I make
to you! And now, Lucy, I have seen you, and I must once more bid you
farewell; I am on the eve of quitting this country forever. I shall
enlist in a foreign service. Perhaps” (and Clifford's dark eyes flashed
with fire) “you will yet hear of me, and not blush when you hear! But”
(and his voice faltered, for Lucy, hiding her face with both hands,
gave way to her tears and agitation),--“but, in one respect, you have
conquered. I had believed that you could never be mine,--that my past
life had forever deprived me of that hope! I now begin, with a rapture
that can bear me through all ordeals, to form a more daring vision. A
soil maybe effaced,--an evil name maybe redeemed,--the past is not set
and sealed, without the power of revoking what has been written. If
I can win the right of meriting your mercy, I will throw myself on it
without reserve; till then, or till death, you will see me no more!”
He dropped on his knee, left his kiss and his tears upon Lucy's cold
hand; the next moment she heard his step on the stairs, the door closed
heavily and jarringly upon him, and Lucy felt one bitter pang, and, for
some time at least, she felt no more!