“Nevil, dear—dear Nevil, you are ill; and I, selfish as I am, prevent your going home to rest. You are more than tired. Pray let me get something for you.”
She laid both hands on his arms as she spoke, looking up in his agitated face with an expression of such anxious affection, that it was with difficulty Nevil could restrain himself from snatching her to his bosom, and pouring forth the agony which at that moment well-nigh prostrated mind and frame; but he did not. Even at that moment religion and virtue were triumphant; he conquered the wild impulse of passion, assured her it was but passing faintness, which a glass of water would remove; and when she flew to fetch it, he bowed his head upon his hands in prayer, and, on her return, received it with his own meek, soul-felt smile.
With all the artless confidence of her nature, Lucy imparted every feeling which that letter caused, except its pain, for that would seem reproach on Mordaunt. She would depart herself for answer—to write first would be but waste of time. The term of parting known, it was better for her mother as for herself to be spared the suffering of anticipation; besides, her uncle only waited for her to set sail for India;—his wife went with him, and such an opportunity might not occur again.
And what could Nevil Herbert answer? Could he reiterate Mordaunt’s own counsel, and beseech her to ponder well ere her final decision? A chill for her had fallen on his heart. He bade her repeat again and again that part of Lyndsey’s letter which she had confided to him; and each time confirmed the dread conviction, that it was in no spirit of self-sacrifice Mordaunt had written, but that the engagement hung upon him as a weight and chain, from which he longed to be released, yet shrunk from the dishonour of breaking it himself. In vain Nevil struggled with the idea; it would force itself upon his mind, regard it which way he would. Could he but have believed she was going to happiness, he would not have paused till all in his power was done to forward it; but, as it was, the chaos of that fond and faithful heart no words are adequate to describe. He felt she was going to misery, which he was denied all power, all possibility of averting—nay, which he was compelled, by a stern peremptory destiny, to advise and forward.
A few words must suffice to narrate Lucy’s departure from her native shores, and uneventful voyage. Doting as she did upon her mother, yet so strong, so omnipotent, was that young girl’s love for her betrothed, that even this pang was assuaged by the intense delight which even to think of gazing on his face, of listening to his voice again, never, never more on earth to be divided, emanated over her whole being. The long weary months of the voyage were beguiled by such fond visions; they told of dangers, of hovering storms, and she smiled, as if love could guard her even from these; and the fond fancy was realized, for she reached India in safety.
To Mrs. Lethvyn and Margaret, Lucy’s departure was indeed desolation; and as Nevil tried to soothe and comfort by the anticipation of her happiness—oh! what a storm of contending feelings crushed his very heart. He heard her mother bewail that love had not sprung up between her Lucy and himself; that two beings, each so fitted to form the happiness of the other, fate had so divided; and, though his very spirit trembled, he smiled, and with gentle monition, soothed the momentary irritability by a reference to that wiser, kinder Providence, from whom all things, even the darkest, have their source in love.
From a return ship, which had met the Syren about two hundred miles from her destined port, the anxious friends of Lucy received intelligence of her safety thus far; and Nevil nerved his heart and frame to receive, without any visible emotion, the intelligence expected in her next—her arrival and her marriage.
The time seemed unusually long before the Indian mail came in; and when he saw by the papers that it had, and the postman passed the vicarage, evidently on his way to the widow’s cottage, Nevil felt as if all physical power had departed from him. How long he thus sat he knew not;—the papers on which he had been writing notes for his next sermon were before him, and his mother fancied he was still busied with them. A hurried step aroused him, and Margaret Lethvyn rushed into the parlour, every feature betraying agitation.
“Oh! Mr. Herbert, come—pray come with me to poor mamma. Lucy, our own dear, injured Lucy! That wretch—that villain Mordaunt! Oh! that I were but a man, that I could but seek revenge!”
“Margaret!” exclaimed Nevil, springing from his seat, and convulsively grasping her arm, his face livid as death, while that of the young, high-spirited Margaret glowed like crimson; “revenge! for what? on whom?—what of—of—speak, for God’s sake!”