“What care I for others? Have I not you, dearest Mordaunt? Do I seek, ask for, need aught else?”
“For that very love I would not so sacrifice you, sweet one; and—and—oh! Lucy, forgive me—man is different to woman. My spirit is restless and ambitious. I could not live in the retirement of an English cottage, and restlessness might seem like irritability; and then—then, Lucy, you would—you must cease to love me!”
She lifted up her sweet face, and, oh! the expression of unutterable sadness upon it. A chill had fallen on her yearning heart, stagnating its every bounding pulse—a sickness and dread, more agonizing than parting’s self; for, for the first time, she felt “he does not love as I love;” but she spoke no word, she uttered no sigh—it was but the shadow on that lovely face which betrayed the cloud that had buried the sunshine of her heart; and when with words of repentant agony, almost in tears, Mordaunt flung himself on his knees before her, covering her cold hand with kisses, and imploring her not to doubt his love, his truth, because he had thus spoken, she tried to smile, to forget herself for him, drawing from him with such sweet gentleness his plans and wishes, that his spirits returned, and he forgot even the fancy that he had given her pain, or that the word of a moment could break the fond dream of months.
Mordaunt Lyndsey went to India. We may not linger on that bitter parting, or on the feelings of either save to say, that with Mordaunt sorrow was so transient, that ere the long voyage was completed, new scenes, new hopes, new wishes had obtained such dominion there was scarcely a void remaining. With Lucy could this be? Alas! she was a young and loving woman; and in those words we have our answer. Nor was she one who had ever so sought outward excitement and enjoyments, as to find in them relief from anxiety, or rest from sorrow. The simple, trusting religion of her own heart—the refreshing and soothing influences of nature—the calm repose of seeking the happiness of others, of devotion to all who gave her the sweet meed of affection; these were her consolations, and enabled her to meet her heart’s deep loneliness with cheerfulness and smiles. And when Mr. Lethvyn sunk gradually away, it seemed not only with individual and present sorrows, but with dim forebodings of his child’s future, it was Lucy who soothed and comforted her mother, and, by her meek and gentle influence, restored peace and serenity to their lowly cottage, and robbed even the memory of death of its lingering sting.
And towards Mordaunt, what were her feelings? Though the conviction that his love was not as hers never left her mind, her affection was too pure and true to know the shadow of a change. She thought it was but the diverse nature of man and woman; that the varied pursuits, the very strength of the one prevented the exclusiveness, the devotedness of the other, and her gentle spirit turned longingly to the time when she should be all his own; and, when, perhaps, tired of excitement and ambition, his heart would turn to his home and to herself for rest and peace, and she would be to him, indeed, almost as he had ever been to her.
His truth she never doubted. Deception, fickleness, or caprice, unkindness or neglect, were things unknown to her; and how then could she associate them with the earthly idol her soul enshrined? She had carried the guilelessness, the innocence, the freshness of the child into the deeper feelings, the clinging devotedness of the woman. Her being was wrapt in the beautiful halo her fancy had flung round another, and did a storm disperse that halo, it would have crushed her in the same destroying blast.
It was this child-like confiding spirit, the rays of her own heart, which shed such warmth and glow over Mordaunt’s letters; for by spirits more exacting and suspicious, the vital spark from the heart, giving life to the words of the head, would have been found wanting.
In the second year of their separation, Mr. Evelyn was raised to a deanery in one of the adjoining counties, and his former living became the property of Nevil Herbert, who had just received his ordination. Again, therefore, was this noble-hearted young man thrown into the closest intimacy with the gentle object of his ill-fated attachment, and in circumstances which could not fail to strengthen its endurance and its force. The barrier between wealth and poverty had been shivered—Lucy was now but his equal; nay, circumstances had rather placed him above her. An unexpected legacy, and some recovered debts of his late father, had given him not only independence, but competence; and he could now have offered her the home, the simple comforts and enjoyments which the more he knew her, the more he felt were all she needed for her happiness. Her friendship, the regard of her poor widowed mother, the delight with which ever the young Margaret welcomed his visits, the consciousness that he was of use to them, all prevented his keeping aloof, as perhaps would have been better for his peace: besides, how could he do so without some cause?—he, whose adversity their prosperity had soothed and blessed! No, better the torture of lingering in her presence, feeling she was the property of another, and that other, one who loved not, valued not as he did, than be, even in seeming, one of the butterfly crowd, who sport in the sunshine to fly from the storm. And though repeatedly alone together, though thrown in constant association, intimate and affectionate, in very truth as a brother with a sister, never once in those eighteen months did Nevil Herbert, by sign or word, betray to Lucy or to any other, even to his much-loved mother, the dread secret which bowed his heart and paled his cheek, and dashed his youth with the calm seriousness—the quiet hush of age.
It was three years after Mordaunt Lyndsey’s departure that the longed-for summons came. He could not return for her himself, his situation would not permit his absence for so long a time; but if, indeed, she loved him still sufficiently to encounter the miseries of a long voyage, of a life in India, the banishment from mother, sister, friends—all for him alone, the sooner their term of suffering and separation closed, the happier for them both; but if time had cooled the enthusiasm of her love—if one feeling of regret, however faint, bound her to England—one emotion of dread accompanied the idea of the voyage, or the thought of dwelling in a strange and dangerous land—he released her from her engagement. She was free. He besought her to think well ere she decided; that he could not, dared not, urge her to make such a weighty sacrifice for him. He did not dilate on his own feelings, but if Lucy marked the omission, she believed he had done so purposely, that no thought of him should bias her decision. Yet even what appeared to her guileless spirit his unselfish resignation of personal happiness for her sake, could not remove the bitter anguish it was to feel, that even now, tried as she had been through absence and time, he did not, could not, understand the might, the devotedness of her love.
“I will go to him—he shall learn how much I love him, if he know it not now,” was her inward ejaculation; and at that moment Nevil Herbert entered the room. She welcomed him gladly, for she needed him even more than usual; and in agitated accents entered at once on the subject which engrossed her, pausing, in sudden fear, as she beheld Nevil’s very lips grow white, and the damp drops standing like beads on his high forehead.