Pollok.

While the riding party was so occupied, Lucy walked alone to the Circus, and as, on her way thither, she passed some well-known shop or house, she could not help wondering to herself how very long it seemed since that foggy morning after her first meeting with Beauclerc, when, with glowing fancy and light steps, she had hastened to her friend Millie Foster, in order that she might have the pleasure of describing him. Since that meeting, their acquaintance had tacitly dropped, Miss Foster had never sought her, and Lucy was not sorry to avoid a friend, who seemed likely to prove too officious an adviser. She being rather inclined to agree with the Scotch damsel who says:—

Often now, as she walked, she paused, for she was weary, and very, very changed; and pale was the cheek that had then been so bright and glowing. Often her spirits failed, and she seemed inclined to turn back, and urge to herself her aching limbs as an excuse for her failing purpose. Her airy form dragged rather than tripped over the ground; yet still she went on.

As she was thus proceeding, with her eyes bent upon the ground, fearing, that, if she raised them, some unwelcome acquaintance might recognise her as the lady with the married lover, some one knocked slightly against her—they both stopped to apologise.

It was Beauclerc.

He looked timidly, as if he would enquire for her if he dared.

"Give me your arm up this hill," said Lucy, with gentle calmness. "I am tired and faint."

He offered it instantly, though rather surprised, and she saw that he was pale and thoughtful.

"I am going," she said, quietly, "to see what I can do for you; but I can do little, and you can do much. Give me an hour by your watch to be alone with her—then force your way in—this is all I can do. Good-bye. You can wait in the Circus."

She took her hand from his arm; he made no reply; but the look of remorse which met hers, spoke more than words could do.

Lucy went on with a quicker step, and did not again stop till she reached the well-known door, and then she hastily rang.

The old butler made his appearance as usual, but looked vexed to see her.

"Is your mistress at home? and can I see her?" said Lucy.

"She is at home, ma'am; but she has been very ill, and I do not think she will be able to see you."

"She will not see me, you mean; but I must go to her. Good Geoffry, tell me where she is," she said, passing him quickly.

"Not with bad news, as you came before," said the old man.

"No, no, no—only let me go to her," she cried, with the impetuosity of a spoilt child.

"You will find her in her own room, ma'am; be careful, whatever you do, for she is very poorly."

"Where is your master then?"

"He is gone to London on business, ma'am; but he will be back to-morrow, I hope."

"Show me to her room—no, stay, I will go alone."

She passed him, and ran quickly up-stairs, and stopped at the door she well knew, and tapped gently.

A moment's pause succeeded, and then a slow and reluctant permission to enter was given; and she opened the door, and paused, for an instant, on its threshold.

In the lonely and darkly hung chamber, which was mostly ornamented by heavy bookcases and frowning pictures, sat the once happy wife. Her white hand, as it rested on the volume, which, with many others, lay before her, was thin and attenuated, and though there was not a trace of tears on her cheek, or in the dark beauty of her eye, yet that cheek was pale and sunken, and the eye was hollow and heavy, while the heavy tresses of her raven hair seemed to oppress the head, which she was resting on her other hand, as she read.

When Lucy appeared, she raised her head, glanced at her, for an instant, and then resumed her reading.

"Do not turn away from me," said Lucy, advancing, "nay, you dare not, for you have used me ill. It is I, not you, who should be angry."

Millie looked at her in haughty surprise; but the speech had had its effect—she was roused.

"I injure you," she said, contemptuously, "I may have suffered the moth to take its wanton flight after one attempt to warn it; but I certainly did not hold the fire to its wings."

"But if you would not stretch out your hand to save that moth when you could, you have done wrong. You are infinitely more clever than I am; but a child knows right from wrong—and I tell you that you were wrong—yes, very, very wrong."

They say a child's questions can pose the learned—certainly the words of a dissipated but repentant girl puzzled the intellectual Millie, who had encircled herself with the stern barriers of injured virtue, and had been contented.

"Yes, you were wrong," repeated Lucy, gathering strength and courage as she spoke, "for a few thoughtless, wilful words of mine, for the sake of your own rash vow to expose me to the ridicule, which none dread more than yourself, you have made me the laughing stock of an idle town—you have brought scandal on the head of him you have vowed to honor—and you have perilled my happiness, and my honor, as a woman ought not to peril that of her worst enemy, much less one whom she once called friend."

"I?" said Millie.

"Yes; when you refused to speak the one word which would have opened my eyes, you did all this. And yet you dare to look upon me as upon some foul thing which your delicate eyes must turn from with disgust and loathing—but it shall not be. I dare you to speak your thoughts. I tell you, that wild butterfly of the ball-room, as I have been—the plaything of an hour—I dare to stand before you, and to say that I would hide my face for shame, had I exposed another, body and soul, as you have exposed me."

As she stood, with the glow of indignation on her face, a film seemed to fall from Millie's eyes, and, laying her head upon the table, she groaned aloud. Lucy's first impulse was to rush to her, but she remembered the look of anguish which Beauclerc shewed when they parted, and she restrained herself, remaining impatiently watching the large tears which found their way through her thin fingers.

"I have wronged you, Lucy," said Millie, sobbing, as she raised her head, and glanced timidly at her; "forgive me."

"Sacred things," returned her companion, "seem profaned by such thoughtless lips as mine, but I have heard that there is a law, and no earthly one, which says, 'forgive, or never be forgiven.'"

"Forgive me, then," said Millie. "Oh, you do not know how I loved, and what I suffered—how my spirits have been wrung and agonised—how, day after day, have I sat here and thought, till, in the anguish of my heart, I believed my senses had forsaken me."

"And did you never feel all this time," said Lucy, steadily, "that you too had done something wrong."

"Not till this moment," replied Millie, her tears now flowing unchecked; and Lucy, as she watched them, almost wondered to see how they softened her features, and turned them all womanly again.

"Till now," she continued, "I believed myself injured, and supporting my injury with the dignity of a Roman matron; but I had not forgiven, no, not in my inmost thoughts. I believed it to be beyond all necessity."

"Did you never remember that he was alone, and in prison, reaping the bitter fruits of deceit?"

"I did; but he deserved that, and more."

"I have heard," said Lucy, meekly, "that we have no right to judge, and that nothing but mercy and forgiveness suits us fallen creatures. But more; did you never think that when those prison horrors were over, prosperity and wealth succeeded. Did you not know that you were supremely loved still? Did you not know the power your intellect gave you to direct his aright? You did; and yet you left him to the flattery of such foolish admiration as mine."

"Spare me, oh, spare me," said Millie; wringing her hands, "why do you torment me so?"

"Oh, Millie," Lucy replied, hurrying to her, and kneeling by her side, taking her hand in hers, and looking up entreatingly. "I don't know how I have had the courage to talk as I have done, but it was to make you forgive him. Oh, do Millie. You know he never admired me, he only wished to make me his friend, to reconcile you, for you would not even take in his letters, and what was he to do, unless he forced you back, as you know he has a right, but he wants you to come willingly."

At this moment the clock struck, and Lucy continued even more earnestly.

"For my sake, for his, for yours; for, look how pale and ill you are, and I know you love him, and he is so unhappy."

All this was hurriedly spoken, almost in a breath, for she heard a footstep upon the stair—it came nearer, they both looked to the door, it opened, and Beauclerc entered. Another moment, and he had lifted his weeping wife in his arms, blessing Lucy as he did so.

She waited but one minute longer—to see them together, and then she left them, and ran down stairs. The old butler was waiting anxiously.

"All is well," she said, as she flitted past him. He was going to ask further, but she was gone down the hill, and across the streets, and home, before she stopped to think, and then she went to the garret chamber to seek for Mabel. She found her sitting on her travelling trunk—with her habit on, but her hat laid at her side—thinking sadly, and seriously; but when she saw her, she looked up with ready interest.

"I have said all you told me, and something more," said Lucy, flinging her bonnet down, seating herself on the floor, and laying her head by her side, upon the box.

"Well, and what success did you meet with, my sweet Lucy?"

"Oh, it is all right between them now, for I met him going there, and told him to meet me when I had been with her one hour. He did, and so I am sure I left them happy."

"And are you not more happy yourself, dear Lucy?"

"Yes, I think I am—I hardly know—yes, I believe I am; but I am a new traveller in your track," she said, looking up with a smile.

"And every step is hard to take—I know it, darling, I know it," Mabel said, fondly smoothing the entangled ringlets of her light brown hair; "but you will go on—I know you will, for it leads to happiness at last."