Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.
Peace.
What were the thoughts of Aunt Fanny as she ushered in Lucy Grey, the bearer of her answer to a note she had received? Strange thoughts, no doubt—thoughts of the time when her own hands were like her cheeks, plump and soft, and dimpled; but she said no word, only kissed the visitor tenderly, held her in her arms a minute to gaze in the blushing face, and then with a sigh, half of pleasure, half sorrowful, she led the way to the door and opened it for the humbly-dressed girl—nay, not humbly dressed, for Heaven had clothed her with a beauty that in a higher sphere would have been called peerless. Aunt Fanny then closed the door, and went back to the sitting-room to smoothe the stiff plaits of her poplin and black apron, and shed a few tears.
Aunt Fanny stood by the window gazing into vacancy, but her look could not penetrate to where Lucy was kneeling, like some fair penitent, beside the easy-chair where Arthur Sterne sat propped up by pillows. There was a desire to flee again when once she was there, but Lucy’s hands were prisoned, and even for a time the eyes were downcast; but then those words, powerful in their eloquence—words which made the young girl’s heart beat quickly—had their effect, and soon the flushed face was raised, and in the long unflinching gaze that met his own, there was all that doubting man could desire.
Ah, Arthur Sterne, you may have mumbled so that poor Aunt Fanny had to move her seat in church, but there was something now in the true eloquence of your words that must have thrilled the heart of the fair girl by your side; for the tears of happiness fell fast as her face was buried in your breast.
Explanations? Yes, all he could wish for; and how could he blame the loving tender heart, which saw not as the world saw, but was ready to stretch forth her hand to help the lost soul struggling in the slough of sin? How could he blame as he listened to the story of Agnes Hardon’s sorrow, and how she had made herself known, begging again and again so earnestly, as she asked Lucy’s protection for her child, that Septimus or Mrs Hardon might never be told of their intimacy, lest they should be of the world worldly, and cast the wretched woman from this last hold upon something pure?
Explanations! ay, many; and could he have done so he would have knelt to Lucy, as, weeping, she whispered to him of her wounded heart, and of how gladly she would have told him all, but that she feared his condemnation and contempt.
But there, love-scenes should be matters of the strictest privacy; and if Arthur Sterne gazed long and lovingly in the pure candid face before him with a look of fond protection which saw nothing then in humbleness or poverty, and Lucy Grey returned that look with one from her tear-wet eyes, that saw in his face everything that was great, noble, and to be desired by the tender, untouched heart of woman—if these two joined their lips in one long kiss of love, why it seems to be only natural, and what might be expected under the circumstances.
“And poor Agnes?” whispered Lucy from where she nestled.