Mr. Venning, though himself much troubled by this most unwonted disturbance of his Sunday evening’s quietude, did his utmost to restore Lucy’s calmness. Knowing her gentle and timid nature, he was scarcely surprised at the distress she manifested. After the first outbreak, she quickly subsided into suppressed sobbing, but it was some time before this could be completely checked. In truth, as the reader knows, it was far more from acute grief that she was suffering than from the mere results of the momentary alarm; and this grief was all the more poignant since it was felt on behalf of a person very dear to her, and not on her own account. Lucy was one of those tender, loving natures which seem to have no independent existence, but always live in the life of others — a being whose mission it is to lighten the suffering of those about her by the sweet exertions of sympathy, or to increase the total of happiness by reflecting the joys of those she loves.
So pale and low-spirited did she appear during the rest of the evening, that Mr. Venning strongly urged her to remain at home that night, and to return to Highbury in the morning. He even offered to walk to Holly Cottage himself, in order to explain to Miss Norman the cause of her absence. But Lucy resisted these propositions with an eagerness which showed her father that it would but make her unhappy to insist upon her staying. He proposed that they should sing together as they were accustomed to do on Sunday evening; but Lucy, the tears rising afresh to her eyes, begged that he would allow her to refuse; she did not feel well enough to sing. So they sat together in scarcely-broken silence, both occupied with strange and unpleasant thoughts, till the clock struck ten. Then Lucy rose as usual, and was on the point of going upstairs to dress for her walk, when the outer door opened, and a step which they knew was Golding’s followed in the passage. Both dreaded lest Arthur should knock at the parlour door, as he not unfrequently did; but happily he passed without doing so, and went directly up to his room. As soon as they had heard his door close, Lucy ran softly up, and in a few minutes was ready to start.
Her father insisted upon accompanying her, and would not be refused. So they walked side by side, scarcely exchanging a word, as far as the gate of Holly Cottage. Here Mr. Venning kissed his child quietly, and, after exacting from her a promise that she would let him know if she were not better in the morning, turned back homewards.
Lucy passed through the gate into the holly-circled garden, but did not ascend the steps to the door. There was but one light in the front of the house, that from Mrs. Cumberbatch’s bedroom. The two front rooms were dark. Helen, most probably, was in her study, the window of which looked out upon the back. Under these circumstances the little lawn was perfectly dark, for it was a moonless night, and no glimmer from the road could pierce the hedges of holly. For nearly half-an-hour Lucy paced up and down here, engaged in an internal struggle which caused her to cry and sob, and sometimes to wring her hands in the extremity of distress. Should she tell Helen what had happened to-night? That was the question which tortured her, driving her mind, so unused to grave doubts and apprehensions, almost to the verge of distraction. If she told Helen what she had heard, she would be the means of causing her dear friend such suffering that a bitter foe could not wish to inflict deeper. On the other hand, if she did not tell her, she knew too well that she would fail in her duty towards Helen, to say nothing of destroying from that day forward all trace of her own peace of mind. Yes, yes, clearly it was her duty to tell all she knew. It might be a falsehood the drunken woman had told; if so, and if Helen proved it to be so, no harm would have been done, but great good in the quieting of her own conscience and the confirmation of Helen’s confidence in her lover. But if it were true — Lucy covered her face with her hands as if to shut out some terrible sight, when she had thought for a moment upon the consequences of its being true. And so she had her period of bitter inward strife out in the cold dark garden — strife such as all of us have to go through one day or another; and, because she possessed a good, true and affectionate heart, the result of it was that she conquered, and chose the right path. Doing her best to dry her eyes and calm her nerves, she ascended the steps and entered the house, resolved to tell Helen before she slept.
The door of Helen’s study was ajar, and the gleam of light issuing from within alone illuminated the hall. As soon as Lucy had entered and closed the front door behind her, she heard Helen’s voice calling to her in a clear, pleasant tone from out of the study.
“Is that you, Lucy?”
“Yes, Miss Norman.”
“Don’t trouble to go upstairs, dear,” she continued. “Come here; I have something to show you.”
Lucy’s heart beat so fiercely as to cause her pain. She walked slowly along the hall, feeling as if she were about to commit a crime. She knew only too well that she bore a message which would turn the glad tones of her dear friend’s voice into those of suffering and woe. She entered the study. Helen was sitting near the fire, with a large book open upon her knees. She did not turn round as Lucy approached her, but, without looking round, held out her hand, and, when Lucy clasped it, drew the latter’s arm over her shoulder.
“Look at this, Lucy,” she said. “I happened, quite by chance, to open this old book about half-an-hour ago. It used to stand in my father’s library at Bloomford, and, when I was quite a child, was rather a favourite of mine; you see, there are such a lot of pictures in it. I think it cannot have been opened for more than ten or twelve years. Well, I was turning over the pages quietly, recalling all manner of strange old recollections, when all at once I came upon this piece of paper, in between two pages. Look! Can you guess what it is?”
Lucy looked and saw an old yellowish scrap of writing paper, on which were written, between ruled pencil lines, several words in a large, tremulous child’s hand. Looking closer, she saw that they were names. First came “Arthur Golding,” then “Helen Norman.” Lucy did her best to make some suitable remark or inquiry, but she could not speak. Her mind was distracted with thoughts as to how she should break her painful news.
“Isn’t it strange?” pursued Helen, in a voice of almost childish delight. “It is Arthur’s own writing, when he was being taught at Bloomford by Mr. Whiffle — you remember, I told you of Mr. Whiffle, our curate. And it has lain there all these years unnoticed, as it would seem merely for the purpose of giving me delight, now that I am becoming aged. No doubt it was Arthur himself who put it there. You know he was always fond of looking at pictures, and he must have been looking at these one day and left the paper there by chance. And both our names! Oh, how I shall prize that piece of paper!”
Lucy maintained absolute silence. Her face had become pale as death. Her hand was chilled in Helen’s warm grasp. Her breath came in pants. She felt as though about to faint. Suddenly Helen turned her head round and looked into her face.
“Whatever is the matter, Lucy?” she asked. “Are you not well, dear? What is it?”
Instead of replying, Lucy covered her face with her hands, and once more burst into bitter tears. For a moment Helen stood in speechless astonishment, then she drew the suffering girl close to her, passing one arm round her, and with the other fondling her as she would have fondled a distressed child.
“What does it all mean, dear?” she asked, in a caressing voice. “Won’t you tell me? Won’t you let me share your trouble? Your grief shocks me, Lucy. What can have occasioned it?”
“It is not on my own account, Miss Norman,” sobbed the poor girl; “not on my own account, but yours.”
“On mine, Lucy?” asked Helen, in astonishment. “You are crying for me? And when I never was so happy in my life? What strange fancy has taken possession of you?”
“Oh, something has happened to-night which I must tell you of, though it will almost kill me to do so! Say you will forgive me, Miss Norman, for the pain I shall cause you? Oh, how I wish some one else could have told you! I cannot bear to make you suffer!”
Consternation had taken the place of mere surprise on Helen’s countenance. With a lover’s instinct her heart foreboded some evil connected with Arthur. She grew almost as pale as Lucy, and pressed her hand against her heart.
“Lucy,” she said, doing her utmost to speak composedly, “whatever it is, you must tell me at once. Now, indeed, you are causing me unnecessary pain, though you do not mean to do so. At once, at once! What have you to tell me?”
Forcing back her tears, Lucy clasped Helen’s hands tightly in her own, and forthwith told her, in few and simple words, all that had happened. She neither softened nor exaggerated a single feature of the event, nor did she draw any conclusion from it. She could not attempt consolation, since it was impossible for her to know what faith was to be reposed in the strange woman’s assertions. Much as she yearned to lighten the effect of her story, she could do nothing but wait and see how Helen would receive it.
The latter listened with forced calm to the end of the relation, but Lucy felt the hands she held clasp convulsively and become moist. A single twinge of acutest agony found expression upon Helen’s features, then they became pale as death, but otherwise undisturbed. The story done, she turned from the reciter, and walked once or twice up and down the room. When she faced Lucy again she was smiling, a strange, weird smile, more trouble to Lucy than a burst of agonised tears.
“The woman lied!” she exclaimed, with a violence of tone and expression most strange to her lips. “Of course she lied! Surely you don’t believe her, Lucy!”
The other kept silence, not knowing how to reply.
“You foolish child!” pursued Helen, with a forced, unnatural laugh. “Who can tell what miserable notion the wretched creature has for saying such a thing? She was drunk, you say — so drunk she could scarcely stand?”
“Oh, yes, I am sure she was,” replied Lucy. “Yet she did not speak much like — like that.”
“What was her face like?”
“I can’t remember; I scarcely dared to look at her. I can only remember that her eyes glared fearfully.”
Again Helen paced the room, smiling in this same strange way.
“We mustn’t think any more of this, Lucy,” she said at length. “I feel sure it can be explained. Arthur will explain it to me. No, no; we mustn’t think of it. Poor girl! you were frightened almost to death by the woman’s violence, dear. You may even have misunderstood what she said. Come, you are tired out, and your eyes are quite red with crying. Give me a kiss, Lucy, and get off to bed. Upon my word, it is half-past eleven. Off with you!”
Lucy drew near to kiss her, but having done so, instead of at once departing, she clasped Helen to her arms, and sobbed against her bosom. The sight of the poor child’s suffering was too much for Helen, and for some minutes they mingled their tears, only the sound of sobs breaking the silence. Then Helen gently freed herself from her friend’s embrace, and, kissing her on the forehead, whispered a good-night.
Lucy soon slept, worn out by her unwonted emotions, but for Helen there was no rest that night. Though the nobility of her nature bade her keep up a good heart and refuse to believe anything that could taint the honour of him at whose feet she had laid the priceless treasure of her love; nay, though forcibly withheld from believing by a vague and terrible fear which, like a shapeless shadow from the realms of darkness, stood menacing her with ghastly vengeance if she dared to approach, in this long night of anguish there were moments when her soul knew for the first time all the bitterness of despair. When midnight was long past, and the fierce beating of a hail-storm against the window was the only sound which could be heard, in one such moment she flung herself upon her knees by the bedside and, with hands clasped above her bead, gave vent to the anguish of her soul in a wild prayer. She had not prayed since those old days of religious fervour when she had almost become a Roman Catholic, and this act was now no off-spring of her reason, merely the result of passionate yearnings for comfort in suffering so terrible that human aid seemed vain. Thus she passed one of those nights which work upon the human body and mind with the effect of years.
She made her appearance at breakfast outwardly calm; only Lucy could distinguish upon her features traces of the suffering she had endured. It was Mrs. Cumberbatch’s habit to maintain throughout this early meal an almost absolute silence, smiling to herself unceasingly the while. In all probability she was discussing in her own mind the probable events of the day, dwelling now and then, by way of diversion, upon some incident of yesterday. Mrs. Cumberbatch had still the delight of reigning as supreme mistress in the house, for, well knowing her powers in that direction, Helen had given into her hands the whole direction of household affairs. This silent habit of hers at breakfast was always grateful to Helen, this morning especially so. The poor girl’s mind was in no humour for trivial conversation.
Before any one else in the house had risen, Helen had been out and posted a letter, the contents of which were urgent. During the morning she passed an hour or two in reading as usual with Lucy, but did not speak a word of last night’s matter. Her companion was surprised at this calmness; it distressed her because it seemed so unnatural. About twelve o’clock, when they had partaken together of lunch, Helen entrusted Lucy with several little commissions, some of which would take her to a considerable distance. As soon as she was once more alone, she repaired to the front sitting-room and sat down by the fire. She had no book in her hands, no occupation of any kind; only she kept glancing impatiently at the clock upon the mantel-piece, as if in expectation of some arrival.
At one o’clock exactly, she heard the door bell ring. At once she became rigid upon her seat, and her features, in their endeavour to be composed, assumed a sternness of expression very little in accordance with the emotions struggling within her heart. Then there was a knock at the door, and the servant made an announcement. She endeavoured to rise upon her feet, but her strength seemed utterly to have failed her. A few quick steps across the carpet, and Arthur Golding was bending over her.
Then she arose, and gave him her hand, but with so little of her usual fervour that Arthur was amazed, and fell back a step or two. He did not speak, for her face forewarned him of some evil, and alarmed him into silence. He stood still, interrogating her with his countenance.
“You were surprised at my urgent note?” asked Helen, breaking the silence with a voice which was low, uncertain, and somewhat sad. “When a difficulty occurs to me, Arthur, it is my habit to go at once to the root of it, as it were, to dig it up out of my path, if my strength suffice to the task. I am face to face with such a difficulty at present, but I cannot remove it without your help. And so I have sent for you.”
A load seemed lifted from Arthur’s breast. Surely she could not speak thus calmly of anything serious affecting the relations between them. Ever since he had received her brief note summoning him immediately, he had been haunted by all manner of horrible fears and suspicions. He felt now that he had been mistaken.
“Whatever the task be,” he replied, smiling, “you know you can depend upon my best efforts.”
“Yes, Arthur,” she continued, “I have absolute confidence in you; but at present I have no difficult achievements to impose upon you. I have sent for you to ask a question, and because I absolutely trust you. I shall require nothing beyond a mere negative or affirmative for my answer.”
His face paled, sure token that the pressure had resumed its place within his heart. Her eyes were fixed unwaveringly upon his, and he forced himself to return the gaze with equal steadiness.
“You know,” she pursued, “that it is Lucy Venning’s custom to spend Sunday evening with her father. When she returned to me last night, she was in sad distress, the result of something that had happened at home. What this was she told me, thinking, and rightly thinking, it her duty to do so. It seems that she and her father were sitting quietly together, when a loud knock came at the door, and Lucy went to answer it, and was alarmed by finding it to be a drunken woman, who asked to see Mr. Golding. Lucy replied that you were not at home, but the woman would not be satisfied, disbelieving the reply. She said that her name was Carrie, and that you would see her if you knew she was there. Then she forced her way into the house, she behaved violently, crying that she would see Arthur, that she was — his wife and insisted upon seeing him. With difficulty she was removed from the house, and did not return. Well, this is the whole story, as Lucy told it to me; and I ask you, Arthur, to tell me whether you can explain this assertion which the woman made, that she was your wife.”
Arthur’s eyes, whilst she spoke, had wandered from her face to the pictures upon the walls, and, resting on one in particular, had endeavoured, for the space of a minute, to discern some object in it which the light rendered obscure. Failing in this, he had looked towards the window, out upon the holly-bushes, which were glistening in the sunshine which had followed upon a sharp shower of rain. Thence his eyes returned for a moment to Helen’s face, and, as he looked at her, she trembled slightly, and resumed the seat from which she had risen at his entrance. Then his face fell, and for more than a minute, he stood in silence, his brows bent, gazing down at the floor. Helen no longer looked at him. She, too, w............