'Mary, Mary!' Lucy exclaimed, as she hid her face, weeping, on her sister's pillow. 'Oh, Mary! I will try to comfort you. I will not think only of myself—I will think of you and all you suffer. Mary, I am not really so heartless and vain, I will be good and comfort you, Mary.'
Mary Gifford stroked Lucy's brown head, and murmured,—
'Dear child! dear child! we will help each other now as we have never done before.'
From that moment, from that day of her return to Ford Manor, Lucy Forrester seemed to have left her careless, pleasure-loving, pleasure-seeking girlhood behind. She had crossed the meeting place of the brook and river of womanhood and childhood. Some cross it all unawares—others with reluctant, lingering feet; some, like Lucy Forrester, brought face to face with the great realities of life and of suffering love, suddenly find themselves on the other side to return no more.
BOOK II
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Since nature's works be good, and death doth serve As nature's work, why should we fear to die? Since fear is vain but when it may preserve, Why should we fear that which we cannot fly? Fear is more pain than is the pain it fears, Disarming human minds of native might; While each conceit an ugly figure bears Which were we ill, well viewed in reason's light. Our owly eyes, which dimmed with passions be, And scarce discern the dawn of coming day, Let them be cleared, and now begin to see Our life is but a step in dusty way, Then let us hold the bliss of peaceful mind; Since, feeling this, great loss we cannot find.—Arcadia, p. 457. Sir Philip Sidney. |
CHAPTER X
AT WILTON