13. CHAPTER XIII.
AN ARRIVAL.
It may well be supposed that the family at the
Rectory were in a state of great anxiety after the
departure of Franklin. The air of mystery which
attended his hasty summons to town, served to
increase their distress. Lucy struggled, severely but
vainly, to preserve an appearance of composure.
Much of her time was spent in the retirement of
her chamber, and when she was with the family and
apparently deriving a temporary relief from her sorrows
by joining in the usual occupations of the busy
little circle, a sigh would escape from her in spite of
all her efforts to preserve an appearance of calmness.
It seemed to her that a known calamity, however
terrible and irremediable in its nature, would have
been much more easy to be borne than this state of
suspense. Alas! she was too soon to be undeceived
on this point.
The third day brought a hasty letter from Ainslie
to Mr. Matthews, simply stating the sudden demise
of Colonel Franklin without any mention of the
attending circumstances. This was a relief; a melancholy
one indeed; but still, Lucy felt it as a relief,
because it seemed to set some bounds to her apprehensions.
It seemed natural too, that Ainslie should
be employed to write at such a moment. The sudden
affliction might have rendered Franklin incapable
of the effort. Lucy now awaited the result with
comparative tranquillity.
But the second letter of Edward, written after the
disclosure made by his friend, which spoke of “painful
and peculiarly unfortunate circumstances which
he would explain on his arrival,” threw her into a
new state of suspense. Here was more mystery.
The first letter which summoned Franklin away had
appeared to be unnecessarily dark and doubtful. The
last renewed all the wretched Lucy's doubts and fears.
On the second day after the receipt of this letter,
Lucy was sitting alone by the parlour fire. It was
late in the afternoon, Mr. Matthews and Aura were
absent administering to the wants of the poor, and
distributing clothing to the destitute, in anticipation
of the approaching inclement season. Mrs. Matthews
and her sister were busied about their household
affairs. Lucy was musing on the memory of
past joys and painfully endeavouring to conjecture
the reason of Franklin's mysterious silence; when
the door opened and Edward Ainslie stood before
her, haggard and weary with his journey, and evidently
suffering under mental perplexity and distress.
At that moment he would have given the world for
the relief of Mr. Matthews' presence. He felt as
though possessed of some guilty secret, and his eye
was instantly averted when he met her searching
glance. He had hoped to encounter some other
member of the family first and instantly felt his
mistake in not having sent for Mr. Matthews to
meet him elsewhere. But retreat was now impossible.
He felt that he must stand and answer.
Lucy had advanced and presented her hand as
usual, but with such a look of distressful inquiry as
went to his inmost soul. With an old and tried
friend like Ainslie, ceremony was out of the question.
“Where is Franklin? Is he well? Is he safe?”
“He is well. Be composed, Lucy. Do not look
so distressed.” Ainslie knew not what to say. “Is
he well! Then why—Oh why are you alone,
Edward?”
“There are certain painful circumstances, which
have prevented his accompanying me. You shall
know them—but—”
“Oh tell, I intreat you, tell me all. I have borne
this terrible suspense long enough. Any thing will
be preferable to what I now suffer. I have firmness
to bear the worst certainty, but I have not patience
to endure these doubts. If he is lost to me, say so,
I charge you.”
There was a vehemence, a solemnity in her manner,
an eagerness in her look, a deep pathos in her
voice, which Edward could no longer withstand.
He trusted to the strength of her character and
determined to disclose the worst. With averted
eyes and a low, and hardly audible voice he replied,
“Alas! he is indeed, lost to you!”
She did not shriek nor faint, nor fall into convulsions,
but placing her hand upon her brow, reclined
against the mantel piece a moment, and then left the
apartment.
Ainslie lost no time in finding Mrs. Matthews,
and apprizing her of what had passed and that lady
instantly followed her young friend to her apartment.
She had over-estimated her own strength. The sufferings
of this last week had reduced her almost to
exhaustion and this stroke completed the prostration
of her system. A violent fever was the consequence,
and for several days, her life was despaired
of. The distress of Ainslie during this period may
be imagined.
