The Poor Clare
Page 6
varied: a pale, quiet, resigned look of intense suffering,that irresistibly attracted me,—not with love, but with a sense ofinfinite compassion for one so young yet so hopelessly unhappy. Thecompanion wore something of the same look: quiet melancholy, hopeless,yet resigned. I asked my landlord who they were. He said they werecalled Clarke, and wished to be considered as mother and daughter; butthat, for his part, he did not believe that to be their right name, orthat there was any such relationship between them. They had been in theneighbourhood of Harrogate for some time, lodging in a remote farm-house.The people there would tell nothing about them; saying that they paidhandsomely, and never did any harm; so why should they be speaking of anystrange things that might happen? That, as the landlord shrewdlyobserved, showed there was something out of the common way he had heardthat the elderly woman was a cousin of the farmer’s where they lodged,and so the regard existing between relations might help to keep themquiet.
“What did he think, then, was the reason for their extreme seclusion?”asked I.
“Nay, he could not tell,—not he. He had heard that the young lady, forall as quiet as she seemed, played strange pranks at times.” He shookhis head when I asked him for more particulars, and refused to give them,which made me doubt if he knew any, for he was in general a talkative andcommunicative man. In default of other interests, after my uncle left, Iset myself to watch these two people. I hovered about their walks drawntowards them with a strange fascination, which was not diminished bytheir evident annoyance at so frequently meeting me. One day, I had thesudden good fortune to be at hand when they were alarmed by the attack ofa bull, which, in those unenclosed grazing districts, was a particularlydangerous occurrence. I have other and more important things to relate,than to tell of the accident which gave me an opportunity of rescuingthem, it is enough to say, that this event was the beginning of anacquaintance, reluctantly acquiesced in by them, but eagerly prosecutedby me. I can hardly tell when intense curiosity became merged in love,but in less than ten days after my uncle’s departure I was passionatelyenamoured of Mistress Lucy, as her attendant called her; carefully—forthis I noted well—avoiding any address which appeared as if there was anequality of station between them. I noticed also that Mrs. Clarke, theelderly woman, after her first reluctance to allow me to pay them anyattentions had been overcome, was cheered by my evident attachment to theyoung girl; it seemed to lighten her heavy burden of care, and sheevidently favoured my visits to the farmhouse where they lodged. It wasnot so with Lucy. A more attractive person I never saw, in spite of herdepression of manner, and shrinking avoidance of me. I felt sure atonce, that whatever was the source of her grief, it rose from no fault ofher own. It was difficult to draw her into conversation; but when attimes, for a moment or two, I beguiled her into talk, I could see a rareintelligence in her face, and a grave, trusting look in the soft, grayeyes that were raised for a minute to mine. I made every excuse Ipossibly could for going there. I sought wild flowers for Lucy’s sake; Iplanned walks for Lucy’s sake; I watched the heavens by night, in hopesthat some unusual beauty of sky would justify me in tempting Mrs. Clarkeand Lucy forth upon the moors, to gaze at the great purple dome above.
It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some motivewhich I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but then againI saw, or fancied I saw, that her heart spoke in my favour, and thatthere was a struggle going on in her mind, which at times (I loved sodearly) I could have begged her to spare herself, even though thehappiness of my whole life should have been the sacrifice; for hercomplexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more hopeless, her delicateframe yet slighter. During this period I had written, I should say, tomy uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong my stay at Harrogate, notgiving any reason; but such was his tenderness towards me, that in a fewdays I heard from him, giving me a willing permission, and only chargingme to take care of myself, and not use too much exertion during the hotweather.
One sultry evening I drew near the farm. The windows of their parlourwere open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the house, as Ipassed the first window (there were two windows in their littleground-floor room). I saw Lucy distinctly; but when I had knocked attheir door—the house-door stood always ajar—she was gone, and I saw onlyMrs. Clarke, turning over the work-things lying on the table, in anervous and purposeless manner. I felt by instinct that a conversationof some importance was coming on, in which I should be expected to saywhat was my object in paying these frequent visits. I was glad of theopportunity. My uncle had several times alluded to the pleasantpossibility of my bringing home a young wife, to cheer and adorn the oldhouse in Ormond Street. He was rich, and I was to succeed him, and had,as I knew, a fair reputation for so young a lawyer. So on my side I sawno obstacle. It was true that Lucy was shrouded in mystery; her name (Iwas convinced it was not Clarke), birth, parentage, and previous lifewere unknown to me. But I was sure of her goodness and sweet innocence,and although I knew that there must be something painful to be told, toaccount for her mournful sadness, yet I was willing to bear my share inher grief, whatever it might be.
Mrs. Clarke began, as if it was a relief to her to plunge into thesubject.
“We have thought, sir—at least I have thought—that you knew very littleof us, nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant the intimateacquaintance we have fallen into. I beg your pardon, sir,” she went on,nervously; “I am but a plain kind of woman, and I mean to use norudeness; but I must say straight out that I—we—think it would be betterfor you not to come so often to see us. She is very unprotected, and—”
“Why should I not come to see you, dear madam?” asked I, eagerly, glad ofthe opportunity of explaining myself. “I come, I own, because I havelearnt to love Mistress Lucy, and wish to teach her to love me.”
Mistress Clarke shook her head, and sighed.
“Don’t, sir—neither love her, nor, for the sake of all you hold sacred,teach her to love you! If I am too late, and you love her already,forget her,—forget these last few weeks. O! I should never have allowedyou to come!” she went on passionately; “but what am I to do? We areforsaken by all, except the great God, and even He permits a strange andevil power to afflict us—what am I to do! Where is it to end?” She wrungher hands in her distress; then she turned to me: “Go away, sir! go away,before you learn to care any more for her. I ask it for your own sake—Iimplore! You have been good and kind to us, and we shall alwaysrecollect you with gratitude; but go away now, and never come back tocross our fatal path!”
“Indeed, madam,” said I, “I shall do no such thing. You urge it for myown sake. I have no fear, so urged—nor wish, except to hear more—all. Icannot have seen Mistress Lucy in all the intimacy of this lastfortnight, without acknowledging her goodness and innocence; and withoutseeing—pardon me, madam—that for some reason you are two very lonelywomen, in some mysterious sorrow and distress. Now, though I am notpowerful myself, yet I have friends who are so wise and kind that theymay be said to possess power. Tell me some particulars. Why are you ingrief—what is your secret—why are you here? I declare solemnly thatnothing you have said has daunted me in my wish to become Lucy’s husband;nor will I shrink from any difficulty that, as such an aspirant, I mayhave to encounter. You say you are friendless—why cast away an honestfriend? I will tell you of people to whom you may write, and who willanswer any questions as to my character and prospects. I do not shuninquiry.”
She shook her head again. “You had better go away, sir. You knownothing about us.”
“I know your names,” said I, “and I have heard you allude to the part ofthe country from which you came, which I happen to know as a wild andlonely place. There are so few people living in it that, if I chose togo there, I could easily ascertain all about you; but I would rather hearit from yourself.” You see I wanted to pique her into telling mesomething definite.
“You do not know our true names, sir,” said she, hastily.
“Oh, what can I do?” exclaimed she. “If I am turning away a true friend,as he says?—Stay!” coming to a sudden decision—“I will tell yousomething—I cannot tell you all—you would not believe it. But, perhaps,I can tell you enough to prevent your going on in your hopelessattachment. I am not Lucy’s mother.”
“So I conjectured,” I said. “Go on.”
“I do not even know whether she is the legitimate or illegitimate childof her father. But he is cruelly turned against her; and her mother islong dead; and for a terrible reason, she has no other creature to keepconstant to her but me. She—only two years ago—such a darling and such apride in her father’s house! Why, sir, there is a mystery that mighthappen in connection with her any moment; and then you would go away likeall the rest; and, when you next