At last he stood on one of the bridges, leaning against the parapet and gazing down at the hurrying river, feeling the soft sweet breeze of early dawn sweep up with the tide, whispering of the moaning sea and far-off reaches where the green reeds sighed and rustled, and the wide green marshes were spread out. There was a faint light coming in the east, and the stars were paling, as the gas grew sickly-hued and dim. All was still and peaceful, so that he could hear the lapping of the water far below as it seemed to whisper peace to his perturbed spirit, telling of the far-off sea and its mysteries, the hopes and fears there buried, and then of the many lost whom the river had borne down, when, from perhaps where he then stood, they had taken the last fearful plunge. And who were they? he asked himself; who were they that plunged daringly into the rushing river? and for reply the faint breeze seemed to whisper, and the tide to sigh, “Our beauty, some of us!” And then trembling he leaned his hot brow against the cold stone balustrade, fighting with the thoughts that oppressed him, with duty, religion, the world, till, with almost a groan, burst from his lips:
“Save her? My God! yes, as I hope to be saved!”
The early untainted breeze breathed upon his fevered lips as it rode upon the breast of the coming tide; the stars paled more and more, the faint pearly light in the east became roseate; and at last Arthur Sterne stood gazing up towards the glowing cross of the great cathedral, glittering as it was in the morning sun, while now, weary and jaded, he turned to seek his home, but only to gaze with doubting eyes, for he stood face to face with the woman he had sought through the night.
Volume Two—Chapter Ten.
On the Search.
Doctor Thomas Hardon, of Somesham, seemed likely to have full enjoyment of his brother’s property, for Time kept on busy at work over his harvest. Septimus Hardon slowly and laboriously did copying for the law-stationers, apparently quite content with his lot, for he scarcely ever gave a thought now to the quest he had commenced with old Matt; Lucy toiled on incessantly at her sewing-machine, the bright needle flashing up and down, and the treadles set in motion by her feet were hardly ever still. Journeys were made to and from the warehouse from whence she had her work, but mostly alone, for Lucy had lost her protector: he had not returned since the day upon which he had been taken ill, and they knew not where he lodged. The information might have been obtained from Agnes, but save a short note or two enclosed in the regular letters sent to Mrs Jarker, in which she implored her to watch over the child, Lucy had not heard from her. Mr Sterne came and went, visiting them as he would have visited at any other house, treating Lucy with a calm, cold deference that made her weep bitterly after each visit, and grow paler day by day; for the curate told himself that he had at last conquered a foolish fancy, that he had triumphed as became him, and that all he felt now was a sublime pity which prompted him to watch her when she went out alone, and follow her at a distance till he saw her once more in safety, when he would hurry home; for his heart was very full of pity for Lucy Grey, even though he knew not of the tears she shed in secret.
As to carrying on his researches alone, the very thought of such a proceeding never occurred to Septimus Hardon—it seemed to border too much upon the impossible; and besides, he was deep in that Slough of Despond—poverty, which, instead of prompting men to energetic action, too often enervates and breeds despair. So he waited on day after day, hoping to see old Matt again, and yet dreading the prosecution of his claim-shrinking when it was named, for he seemed to grow less hopeful as time wore on. The curate had hinted more than once how willing he would be to aid him; but Septimus always shrank so from entering upon the matter, that Mr Sterne, from motives of delicacy, soon ceased to broach the subject.
The sewing-machine clicked on early and late, and Jean’s lark, when he heard it, would set up his crest and whistle away, waking the echoes of the court, while at the open window, when the bird was silent, Jean Marais himself would crane forward and listen eagerly to the fragment of some mournful little air which he could just catch at times, as the machine stopped, and Lucy arranged a portion of her work. But the sweet notes from the first-floor seemed to rouse the lark to fresh exertions, when its master would angrily chide it, and perhaps cover it with a handkerchief, but only to snatch it away hurriedly.