She had to think
over what she had said and done, and it was necessary that she should
be alone to do so. It might be that, when she came to reconsider the
matter, she would not be quite so well satisfied as was her brother.
Her grandeur of demeanour and slow propriety of carriage lasted her
till she was well into her own room. There are animals who, when
they are ailing in any way, contrive to hide themselves, ashamed, as
it were, that the weakness of their suffering should be witnessed.
Indeed, I am not sure whether all dumb animals do not do so more or
less; and in this respect Lucy was like a dumb animal. Even in her
confidences with Fanny she made a joke of her own misfortunes, and
spoke of her heart ailments with self-ridicule. But now, having
walked up the staircase with no hurried step, and having deliberately
locked the door, she turned herself round to suffer in silence and
solitude--as do the beasts and birds. She sat herself down on a low
chair, which stood at the foot of her bed, and, throwing back her
head, held her handkerchief across her eyes and forehead, holding it
tight in both her hands; and then she began to think. She began to
think and also to cry, for the tears came running down from beneath
the handkerchief; and low sobs were to be heard--only that the animal
had taken itself off, to suffer in solitude. Had she not thrown from
her all her chances of happiness? Was it possible that he should
come to her yet again--a third time? No; it was not possible. The
very mode and pride of this, her second rejection of him, made it
impossible. In coming to her determination, and making her avowal,
she had been actuated by the knowledge that Lady Lufton would regard
such a marriage with abhorrence. Lady Lufton would not and could not
ask her to condescend to be her son's bride. Her chance of happiness,
of glory, of ambition, of love, was all gone. She had sacrificed
everything, not to virtue, but to pride; and she had sacrificed
not only herself, but him. When first he came there--when she had
meditated over his first visit--she had hardly given him credit for
deep love; but now--there could be no doubt that he loved her now.
After his season in London, his days and nights passed with all
that was beautiful, he had returned there, to that little country
parsonage, that he might again throw himself at her feet. And
she--she had refused to see him, though she loved him with all her
heart, she had refused to s