"My mother!" replied Lucy. "To leave her to sadness, to solitude and discomfort; that--that is the only obstacle that I think ought to stand in my way."
"It should not stand in the way for a moment," replied Mrs. Effingham, "were it not for other things. But think, Lucy, think of the world--think of what the good and wise, as well as the vicious and malevolent, would say."
"For that, my dear mother," replied Lucy, "I should care little--secure in the approbation of my own heart. When Charles spoke of such a thing--he did not ask me, but merely spoke of it a moment ago--I thought over it all earnestly. I asked myself, were these times of trouble, such as took place in the French Revolution, or in our own Great Rebellion, and he were forced to fly so suddenly, should I not do right to go with him? should I not be applauded for so doing? Who could doubt that I should? How much more need for me to go with him now, when he has so much more need of comfort. Would the world, which says so little against the woman who, in disobedience to her parents, or in opposition to her friends, flies from her home, to be married in Scotland, would it blame me, for crossing the sea, to unite myself to the man to whom I was engaged before, with the consent of all; would it blame me, when I have so much higher objects--so much better purposes in view--when I neither oppose those who love me, nor enter into a family unwilling to receive me; when I go to share the sorrows, and the poverty, and the exile of the only man that I ever loved; and if it did blame me, ought I to value its blame? If it did censure me, should I care for its censure?"
"No, my dear child," replied Mrs. Effingham, "in that you are right. In such cases as these, perhaps, removed from all the ordinary considerations of life, we must cast off ordinary considerations, and for once, think abstractedly of what is just and noble, without considering the world, though that consideration of the world is in almost all instances, a woman's best and surest safeguard. Lucy, I will put no restraint upon you. I will not say do it; for the responsibility is too awful even for me, who do not often shrink from responsibilities. You shall follow the dictates of your own judgment, and of your own heart. Think not of me for one moment, my child. I and poor Lady Tyrrell will console one another, and will, if you so decide, join you as soon as may be."
Lucy paused for a moment without reply. A thousand new and strange sensations--a thousand anxious and painful thoughts crowded her bosom, and might be seen written in legible characters upon her countenance. The last thing that appeared there was the rushing up of the bright, warm, eloquent, blood, suffusing forehead, and cheeks, and neck, with a deep and painful blush, while she held out her hand to Charles Tyrrell, and casting the other arm round her mother's neck, hid her face upon her bosom, and once more burst into tears. Mrs. Effingham pressed her to her heart, and looking upon Charles with a melancholy glance, she said,
"Oh, Charles, Charles! when, with frank and noble confidence, you first told me of your love for Lucy, I promised that, in the coming time, I would repay that confidence to the full; but I little thought that I should ever have to put such a great--such an awful trust in you! But I can trust you--surely, surely I can trust you with the safety, with the happiness, with the honour of my child!"
"Believe me, believe me, Mrs. Effingham!" replied Charles, "as soon as ever we reach the French shore, Lucy shall become mine by a right which none can dispute. Pure, and innocent, and bright as she is, I do not believe that there is mortal man, who would have the impious courage, even in thought, to ruin that purity, or sully that brightness. I know that our marriage can be instantly celebrated in France, though we are now at war with that country, and the very first letter that Lucy writes to you, it shall be as Lucy Tyrrell."
Still, however, Lucy clung to Mrs. Effingham, and raising her eyes to her face, she exclaimed,
"Oh, my mother, my dear mother! how can I leave you? Charles, Charles, ought I to be so selfish?"
"It is I, that am selfish, I fear," said Charles Tyrrell; "for while I own, Lucy, that I would almost bear death itself, rather than part with you, under circumstances of such uncertainty, yet I feel that it is cruel to Mrs. Effingham, to take you from her even now."