What a tale awaited her! Harry, restless, miserable,—almost maddened by the false reports against her,—and from the great pressure of business in his master’s shop, from the innumerable visits of modistes’ assistants to procure the necessary materials so needed for the costumes of Mrs. Gresham’s fête, not released till past one o’clock Sunday morning, had perambulated the streets all night, in the vain hope of meeting Fanny, encountering one of his jovial companions, who, half intoxicated, swore he had seen her entering a coach with—Merton knew whom—and when collared and shaken by the infuriated lover till he recovered his more sober senses, declared he could not tell exactly, but he thought it was her: at all events, Harry would know to-morrow, if she had gone as usual to Mrs. Miller’s.
There she was not. Never before had six o’clock on Sunday evening come without her presence; and really anxious, Mrs. Miller (though not believing a syllable against her) conjured the unhappy young man to call himself at Madame Malin’s, and inquire if she were ill or detained. He did so. The well-instructed lacquey declared the family were all at evening service, and if the apprentices were not with their friends, he supposed they were there also; he knew nothing about them; but he was quite sure his mistress never permitted them to work on Sundays. Harry was in no state coolly to consider his words. He rushed back like a madman to Mrs. Miller, uttered a few incoherent sentences, and darted away before she had time or thought even to reply. That very evening he enlisted, and the Monday found him marching to Southampton with other troops about to embark for India. A few lines to Mrs. Miller told her this, and accompanied a parcel directed to Fanny, in case she should ever see or hear of her again. The poor girl had just strength to tear it open, to discover all her letters and formerly treasured gifts, even to some withered flowers, returned, with a few words of stinging reproach, bidding her farewell for ever, and dropped lifeless at the old woman’s feet. One or two intervals of coherency enabled her, by a few broken phrases, to explain the reason of her absence; but brain fever followed, and even when Miss Neville saw her, all hope was over. Vain was the skill of the gifted and benevolent physician Lucy called in. Disease had been too long and too deeply rooted for resistance to a shock which, in its agony, would have prostrated even a healthy constitution. A few, a very few days of intense suffering, and the crushed heart ceased to beat, the blighted frame to feel, and misery for her was over. But for poor Harry—for the parents of both—what might comfort them? We have seen the deterioration of Harry’s character. There were many to mark and condemn the faults, but none to perceive their cause. And when he absconded from his apprenticeship, it did but bring conviction as to his determined depravity. Who may tell the agony of those two humble English homes, when the post brought the miserable news of death to the one, and of sin and utter separation to the other? They had not even the poor comfort of knowing the cause of their son’s change; their own bold, free, happy, loving Harry,—how could his parents associate him with sin?—or Fanny, the healthy, rosy, graceful Fanny, with suffering and death? And what caused these fearful evils, amongst which our tale is but one amongst ten thousand? Lucy Neville buried her face in her hands as she sat by the lowly pallet, where lay the faded form whence life had only half an hour before departed, and thanked God that the temptation had been indeed resisted, and that she had not made one at Lady Gresham’s fête. It had not, indeed, been the primary, or even the secondary cause. It did but strike the last blow and shiver to atoms the last lingering dream of hope and joy which, despite of oppression, misery, despair, will rest invisibly in the youthful heart, till driven thence by death.
“Lucy!” exclaimed Lord Valery that same day, stopping the carriage unexpectedly as it was about to drive off from that part of St. James’s where it usually waited for her (she shrunk from the notice which a nobleman’s carriage, seen in such localities as Mrs. Miller’s, would inevitably produce),—“Lucy, an old friend wishes to recall himself to your memory; will you give him a seat in your carriage, and take me on the box? We both pine for fresh air, and a drive in the Park will revive us for dinner, which, whether he will or no, I intend this gentleman to partake.”
The words were the lightest, but the tone which spoke them betrayed the truth at once. It was Herbert Gresham by his side. Herbert Gresham, whose earnest eyes were fixed on hers, with an expression in their dark depths needing no words to tell her that his early dream, even as her own, was unchanged—that the first action of his now unshackled will was to seek her, requiring no renewal of acquaintance, again to love and trust her. And though the suddenness of the meeting, the rapid transition from sorrowing sympathy to individual joy, did so flush and pale her cheek, that her brother looked at her with some alarm, there was neither hesitation nor idle reserve. Her hand was extended at once, and the pressure which clasped it was sufficient response. Whether they continued so silent, when Herbert did spring into the carriage, and took his seat by her side, indeed we know not. Certain it is that, had it not been for Lord Valery, the footman might have waited long enough for orders to drive “home;” and equally certain that no day had ever seemed so short to Lucy,—short in its fullness of present enjoyment; in its retrospect, could it have been but one brief day?
“And that poor girl is really gone?” inquired Lord Valery, just as Herbert Gresham was about taking his departure, most reluctantly warned to do so by a neighbouring clock striking midnight. “Another victim to that hateful system, desecrating our lovely and most noble land!”
“Dear Edward, hush!” interposed Lucy, gently, as her eye rested on her lover.
“Do not check him, dearest, though I prize that fond thought for me. I know the whole tale—that the fête welcoming my return, by misdirected zeal and thoughtless folly, has added incalculably to the general burden, and to individuals brought death and a life-long despair. The past, alas! we cannot remedy—the future——” and his arm was fondly thrown round Lucy, and his lip pressed her brow—“dearest, let us hope next season there will be another Lady Gresham’s fête fraught with happiness for all.”