“A very dear friend of mine and of Tom's. One you could not have ever met, I'm sure.”
“And how do you know whom I have met?” cried she, fiercely. “What can you know of my life and my associates?”
“I said so, because he is one who has lived long estranged from the world,” said Lucy, gently; for in the sudden burst of the other's passion she only saw matter for deep compassion. It was but another part of a nature torn and distracted by unceasing anxieties.
“But his name,—his name?” said Mrs. Sewell, wildly.
“His name is Sir Brook Fossbrooke.”
“I knew it, I knew it!” cried she, wildly,—“I knew it!” and said it over and over again. “Go where we will we shall find him. He haunts; us like a curse,—like a curse!” And it was in almost a shriek the last word came forth.
“You cannot know the man if you say this of him,” said Lucy, firmly.
“Not know him!—not know him! You will tell me next that I do not know myself,—not know my own name,—not know the life of bitterness I have lived,—the shame of it,—the ineffable shame of it!” and she threw herself on her face on the sofa, and sobbed convulsively. Long and anxiously did Lucy try all in her power to comfort and console her. She poured out her whole heart in pledges of sisterly love and affection. She assured her of a sympathy that would never desert her; and, last of all, she told her that her judgment of Sir Brook was a mistaken one,—that in the world there lived not one more true-hearted, more generous, or more noble.
“And where did you learn all this, young woman?” said the other, passionately. “In what temptations and trials of your life have these experiences been gained? Oh, don't be angry with me, dearest Lucy; forgive this rude speech of mine; my head is turning, and I know not what I say. Tell me, child, did this man speak to you of my husband?”
“No.”