I do not shun
inquiry.”

She shook her head again. “You had better go away, sir. You know
nothing about us.”

“I know your names,” said I, “and I have heard you allude to the part of
the country from which you came, which I happen to know as a wild and
lonely place. There are so few people living in it that, if I chose to
go there, I could easily ascertain all about you; but I would rather hear
it from yourself.”  You see I wanted to pique her into telling me
something definite. “You do not know our true names, sir,” said she, hastily. “Well, I may have conjectured as much. But tell me, then, I conjure you. Give me your reasons for distrusting my willingness to stand by what I
have said with regard to Mistress Lucy.”

“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 you
something—I cannot tell you all—you would not believe it. But, perhaps,
I can tell you enough to prevent your going on in your hopeless
attachment. 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 child
of her father. But he is cruelly turned against her; and her mother is
long dead; and for a terrible reason, she has no other creature to keep
constant to her but me. She—only two years ago—such a darling and such a
pride in her father’s house! Why, sir, there is a mystery that might
happen in connection with her any moment; and then you would go away like
all the rest; and, when you next heard her name, you would loathe her. Others, who have loved her longer, have done so before now. My poor
child! whom neither God nor man has mercy upon—or, surely, she would
die!”

The good woman was stopped by her crying. I confess, I was a little
stunned by her last words; but only for a moment. At any rate, till I
knew definitely what was this mysterious stain upon one so simple and
pure, as Lucy seemed, I would not desert her, and so I said; and she made
me answer:—

“If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir, after
knowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but I am so
foolish and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain hope to find a
friend in you. I cannot help trusting that, although you may no longer
feel toward her as a lover, you will have pity upon us; and perhaps, by
your learning you can tell us where to go for aid.”

“I implore you to tell me what this mystery is,” I cried, almost maddened
by this suspense. “I cannot,” said she, solemnly. “I am under a deep vow of secrecy. If
you are to be told, it must be by her.”  She left the room, and I
remained to ponder over this strange interview. I mechanically turned
over the few books, and with eyes that saw nothing at the time, examined
the tokens of Lucy’s frequent presence in that room. When I got home at night, I remembered how all these trifles spoke of a
pure and tender heart and innocent life. Mistress Clarke returned; she
had been crying sadly. “Yes,” said she, “it is as I feared: she loves you so much that she is
willing to run the fearful risk of telling you all herself—she
acknowledges it is but a poor chance; but your sympathy will be a balm,
if you give it. To-morrow, come here at ten in the morning; and, as you
hope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of fear or
repugnance you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted.”

I half smiled. “Have no fear,” I said. It seemed too absurd to imagine
my feeling dislike to Lucy. “Her father loved her well,” said she, gravely, “yet he drove her out
like some monstrous thing.”

Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden. It
was Lucy’s voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one side of
the open casement—and as though she were suddenly stirred to
merriment—merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings or sayings
of some other person. I can scarcely say why, but the sound jarred on me
inexpressibly. She knew the subject of our conversation, and must have
been at least aware of the state of agitation her friend was in; she
herself usually so gentle and quiet. I half rose to go to the window,
and satisfy my instinctive curiosity as to what had provoked this burst
of, ill-timed laughter; but Mrs. Clarke threw her whole weight and power
upon the hand with which she pressed and kept me down. “For God’s sake!” she said, white and trembling all over, “sit still; be
quiet. Oh! be patient. To-morrow you will know all. Leave us, for we
are all sorely afflicted. Do not seek to know more about us.”

Again that laugh—so musical in sound, yet so discordant to my heart. She
held me tight—tighter; without positive violence I could not have risen. I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a shadow pass
between the sun’s warmth and me, and a strange shudder ran through my
frame. In a minute or two she released me. “Go,” repeated she. “Be warned, I ask you once more. I do not think you
can stand this knowledge that you seek. If I had had my own way, Lucy
should never have yielded, and promised to tell you all. Who knows what
may come of it?”

“I am firm in my wish to know all. I return at ten to-morrow morning,
and then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself.”

I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to Mistress
Clarke’s sanity. Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable thoughts
connected with that strange laughter, filled my mind. I could hardly
sleep. I rose early; and long before the hour I had appointed, I was on
the path over the common that led to the old farm-house where they
lodged. I suppose that Lucy had passed no better a night than I; for
there she was also, slowly pacing with her even step, her eyes bent down,
her whole look most saintly and pure. She started when I came close to
her, and grew paler as I reminded her of my appointment, and spoke with
something of the impatience of obstacles that, seeing her once more, had
called up afresh in my mind. All strange and terrible hints, and giddy
merriment were forgotten. My heart gave forth words of fire, and my
tongue uttered them. Her colour went and came, as she listened; but,
when I had ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me,
and said—

“But you know that you have something to learn about me yet. I only want
to say this: I shall not think less of you—less well of you, I mean—if
you, too, fall away from me when you know all. Stop!” said she, as if
fearing another burst of mad words. “Listen to me. My father is a man
of great wealth. I never knew my mother; she must have died when I was
very young. When first I remember anything, I was living in a great,
lonely house, with my dear and faithful Mistress Clarke. My father,
even, was not there; he was—he is—a soldier, and his duties lie aboard. But he came from time to time, and every time I think he loved me more
and more.