CHAPTER XXX.
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,--after, 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!
