"Why," she hastily reasoned, as she entered the silent walks, "why should Beauclerc have sought such an interview, if not to make her acquainted, rather with the history of his present feelings, than with his past life; and what could those feelings be, if they referred not to her. Or, perhaps, some obstacle lay in his way, which one light word of hers might be able to remove."

But she had reached the appointed spot, and now stood there alone. A ma.s.s of rock-work, surmounted by the c.u.mbrous head of some heathen G.o.d, was the place appointed. Was it like a lover, to be so unpunctual!

rather should he come an hour too soon, than one minute too late--for the first time, she began to feel an uneasy conviction of the impropriety of her situation; but sophistry seldom, till too late, deserts those who trust in it. The grim head frowned down upon her; as she walked up and down before it, reasoning with herself, that there could be no possible harm in taking a morning walk, to dissipate the weariness of a ball. She had a quarter of an hour for reflection, but, as it was spent in such reasoning it was of little service to her. At the end of it, Beauclerc was seen advancing in the distance. He must perceive her, and now retreat would be foolish and unavailing, had she even desired it, which she did not; for the thought of being able to announce her proposed marriage to her mamma and sisters, not as a matter of speculation, but of certainty, made her heart beat vehemently; and she did not stop to a.n.a.lyse the feeling of infatuation or vanity, which, in its effect, seemed so akin to love.

"Have you waited for me, Miss Villars?" he enquired, when he reached her, with his usual earnest manner, but with less of ardour than she had expected--so she replied hastily and carelessly--

"Oh, no, only a few minutes; but I see I am a better riser than you are."

"Perhaps an earlier sleeper; I have scarcely closed my eyes since we parted; but you will take my arm and then--." He stopped and sighed.

"And then," replied Lucy, "and then."

"I will, if you still desire it," he replied, in a tone which checked her playfulness, "repeat some part of my own sad history, in order that you may give me that a.s.sistance which I am told you have the power to afford me. If, indeed, I am not mistaken in hoping that you feel some kindly sentiments towards me. Some part you know already."

Lucy raised her eyes archly, but said nothing. Her companion seemed satisfied, for he continued, still more gravely--

"Where, or how shall I begin?"

"Who are you--what are you--and why are you sad?" said Lucy.

"Who am I? Yes, that will do very well," said he, suddenly a.s.suming the quick flow of language most natural to him.

"Like your father, mine was a wealthy merchant; I was his only son, and he earnestly prided himself on bestowing upon me all the learning and accomplishments which money could procure. The advantages of a first-rate education, joined, perhaps, to some natural ability, enabled me to shine at the University; and I left Oxford to pursue the study of the bar in Lincoln's Inn, trusting to be able to use my money skilfully in the pursuit of fame; but how fallacious are all the expectations of human life! My father made some enormous speculations, and, after years of successful ventures, failed this once and for ever. He did not many days survive his loss, and dying broken-hearted, left me heir to his poverty; but how unfit for it--accustomed, from infancy, to the gratification of every whim--lavish in my expenditure, and boundless in my ambition, with nothing but a profession, yet untried, and a feeble dependence on a sick uncle. What a fall for one accustomed to all the elegances of life. But this was not all; I had at this time become acquainted with the daughter of a banker, reported to possess enormous wealth."

"What can be coming," thought Lucy, beginning to feel uncomfortable.

"I had not hesitated to seek her," continued Beauclerc; "she returned my affection, and we fondly looked forward to our union. But, when my poor father died, I felt that we must meet on different terms, and that I had no right to claim a promise given under such different circ.u.mstances. I felt, indeed, the curse of poverty, too bitterly, to wish to make her a sharer in it; and so I went to her at once, and offered to resign all pretensions to her hand."

"You may imagine how a generous warm-hearted girl would receive such an offer. She saw at once, that nothing but my love for her induced me to make it; and declared that she was ready to share my poverty, and would become my wife, as soon as I was able to marry. She only stipulated that I should enter on my professional duties, with some chance of success, in which case she promised to obtain her father's consent."

Lucy began to listen with that constrained attention which a person possessed by nightmare, might give to some horrid vision, from which they would willingly break, though obliged to wait its conclusion in silence. Beauclerc, however, seemed too much occupied by his own thoughts to regard hers, and presently, continued:--

"I was then almost without money or resources; but, being of a confident disposition, I felt there were few things which love could not surmount. I knew, besides, that my wife must be the heiress to her father's wealth, for she was an only child--but, as I was unable to settle any thing of my own upon her, I was timid of approaching the subject; particularly, as, whenever I did so, her father seemed so pained, that I instantly dropped it again. I could not but feel grat.i.tude for this delicacy towards my feelings, and this trust in my honour, where so dear a child was concerned, and I resolved to deserve it. I was far too proud to be dependent on him; and, therefore, privately borrowed money on bond--took chambers, furnished a small house, and obtained a few briefs through the interest of some of my father's friends; and probably, had I been careful, I might have done well.

"This industrious commencement induced my intended father-in-law to give his consent to our marriage; and, in a few months, I had the satisfaction of seeing my wife at the head of a small, but elegant establishment. Poor thing, she had been so accustomed to the luxuries of her old home, that she never doubted me when I told her that mine was arranged with the greatest economy.

"But the consciousness of deceiving her, and the perpetual dread of that wretched debt always hovering round me, insensibly soured my temper, and wore upon my spirits. But this only called forth the depth of her affection. She was never weary of pleasing me, and my very fretfulness rendered her more sweet and patient. It was beautiful to see," he continued with emotion, "how she schooled her naturally fiery and uncurbed temper, to bear my sour complaint, or peevish rebuke. Beautiful to see how little it humbled her when she was most patient; and what a sweet, and gentle, and loving wife, the spoilt child of wealth had become, at my bidding. But, let me spare myself the agony of remembrance. A greater trial was yet in store for her; for we had scarcely been married six months, when her father died. I had by that time become so deeply in debt, that, though I hated myself for it, I felt relieved by the news which fell so heavily on my wife.

"If the clouds we so much dread, are often big with blessing--how often is the sunshine only the fore-runner of the storm?

"In a few days I had cause to know this; for I found, when affairs were inspected, that, instead of being, as I expected, possessed of thousands, I was again the heir of a ruined man. And, even worse, ruined myself; for it was only upon this tacit expectation that I had obtained credit, and creditors would soon press upon me. I knew, now, that all hope was gone. Ah, wretch that I had become, simply, perhaps, because, I had despised the common-place business of money matters.

"Almost mad with the intelligence I had just learned, I rushed home to insult my innocent wife, with the knowledge of her parent's disgrace.

Heaven forgive me, I must have been mad, or I could not have done it.

"I well remember it was morning, and I found my way, I scarce knew how, to her dressing-room--she was weeping--but when I entered, she tried to dry her tears. I was, however, past control, and bitterly did I reproach her for the deception, I alleged she had practised upon me--taunting her with angry violence. At first, she seemed stunned, by what she learnt from my wretched complaints--but then, as if suddenly stung to the quick, she retorted on me, accusing me, with bitter calmness, of having loved her for her expected fortune. I hardly know what I replied--but bad enough it was, I know--I, pa.s.sionate and abusive; she, cold and contemptuous--and then, with a bitter curse, I left the house.

"I hurried out of town; any where to forget myself--some where to the country; it did not signify where. The cool air refreshed me, and nature called me to better feelings, for, happily, pa.s.sion is of short duration--it told me, as I lingered amongst its beauties, of our happy honeymoon--it told me how, from that time, I had declined in my kindness to the wife whom I believed I loved better than self, and how, through all the trying months which had followed, she had preserved an unvarying meekness of temper, till that one day, when, galled beyond endurance, she had ventured to oppose pa.s.sion to pa.s.sion. Such sweetness might well atone for this single act of opposition--and spent with rage, and half repentant, I resolved to return and forgive her, though in a dignified manner; and to offer her my continued love and protection, if she desired to accompany my flight abroad, which I felt certain she would be too willing to do.

"There was a stillness about my house when I returned, which I was not surprised to find, for it was a house of sorrow--yet I had not noticed it so much before--I was late, as I intended, hoping to find my wife frightened and penitent--yet she did not come to meet me--no one did but my man, who asked me, with the tone of one accustomed to a sharp answer, 'if I intended waiting dinner for his mistress?' I hastily replied in the affirmative--and concealing my alarm, I hurried to the room where I had left her. A note lay upon her dressing-table, and, in the haste with which I opened it, something fell jingling to the ground. The note itself contained a few lines, written in a decisive tone, expressive of farewell, and telling her determination of renouncing, at once, my protection and my name. I stooped to pick up what had fallen--it was her wedding ring--that ring which, in happier days, we had so delighted to look upon, because the pledge of a faith which, it seemed, she could so easily cast aside.

"Let me pa.s.s over that dreadful day of stupefaction, and bitter repentance, at the end of which I found myself in prison, for all care for liberty had pa.s.sed from me when she went--and I had not even tried to fly. You see," he continued, perceiving that Lucy listened with breathless attention, "that I was, thus, prevented from inst.i.tuting any enquiry; and, indeed, I felt glad to hide myself from her eyes, for how could I wish her to acknowledge me in a prison--I believe I was completely humbled, and when I say that, I say a good deal--and that I was truly so, must be seen by the candour with which I have unveiled my meanness. Tell me, do you not pity me?"

Lucy made no reply.

He continued, in a more agitated voice--

"Do not turn from me--you can, you will serve me, I know. Stay, I forgot to finish my story. Only two months since, my old uncle died, and bequeathed me his whole fortune. He did not know I was in prison, or he might have cancelled this will. It found me there, wretched and desponding, and relieved me from its chilling influence. Once more free, I discharged every debt of honesty or honor, and then sought for my wife. I found that she had again taken her maiden name, which enabled me to trace her to this city. The rest you know."

"I don't," screamed Lucy.

"Good Heavens," cried Beauclerc, seizing her hand, "the bosom friend of Millie Foster, and not know--"

A hysterical scream, and another, and another, burst from the poor girl--she sunk fainting in his arms.

What was to be done--Lucy could not be left--yet Beauclerc felt the increasing awkwardness of the scene. In his interest in his own narrative, he had not had time to mark her rising agitation till too late to check its effects.

As he was bending over her, endeavouring, with trembling hands, to untie the strings of her bonnet, a hasty step struck upon his ear, and turning quickly, he confronted Captain Clair.

"Beauclerc," said the latter, sternly, "what does this mean?"

And, as he said this, he turned full upon him, with anger flashing in his eyes.

Beauclerc turned pale, and then red, as he answered his angry glance, saying, hurriedly--

"There has been some fearful mistake here: indeed, indeed, it has been no fault of mine."

"No fault of yours," said Clair, even more sternly, "that you have drawn the eyes of all Bath upon your heartless flirtation, and subjected a young girl's name to the ribald jest of any who chose to comment upon it. As I am a soldier, you shall answer for it."

"Whatever you do," said Beauclerc, with a face of ashy paleness, "let us think of her first. Do not let this get abroad."

"Canting hypocrite," cried Clair, fiercely, "do you not know that you have made her a jest, in every place where men congregate, and you would ask me not to let this get abroad--stand back from her I tell you."

Beauclerc, however, did not heed the latter remark, for, having succeeded in loosening the strings, he threw back her bonnet, and suffered the morning air to play, undisturbed, among her fair tresses, and over her heated brow, and, as it did so, the color slowly returned to her blanched lips, and again breathing more freely she slowly raised her head; and then, perhaps, feeling able to stand, she drew herself from the support of Beauclerc's arm, and, as she did so, encountered Clair; she looked at him for an instant, with a terrified expression, and then hid her face in her shawl.

"Will you let me take you home, Miss Lucy," he said, in an abrupt, but kind voice, at the same time, handing her, her bonnet, which he held in his hand, and studiously turning his back on Beauclerc.

"Home!" said Lucy, almost wildly.

Clair made no reply, except by placing himself by her side.

"Yes, I will go anywhere," said Lucy, in the same vacant tone.

He drew her hand within his arm, and without a second glance at Beauclerc, who stood like one who had lost his senses, he hurried her forward at a brisk pace.

She did not speak, and, it is probable, almost forgot whose arm supported her; neither did Clair attempt to gain her attention, till they reached her father's door. He suffered her to enter alone, waiting a short interval before he himself gained admission, when he hurried to Hargrave's room. The latter was waiting for him with some anxiety, and turned towards him as he entered.

"Well!" he exclaimed, "nothing, after all, I trust?"