Lucy (Chapter_16)

her reserve wore off. In the indulgence of natural affections of the heart, in the tender and sportiveness of a father, a mother could fully sympathise without being reminded by the conventional forms of society of the distance which separated their conditions. William too, her darling William, came in for a share of the Captain's notice and carresses, and the grateful mother, unhesitatingly discovered the pleasure she received from his society. Mrs Dey was too completely engrossed with her self and with the world, to notice how her husband passed his time, but the watchful eye of jealousy was not so blind, and Miss Blyht's frequent hints and sarcasms, and Hetty's impertinent remarks, put the Captain more on his guard. As the winter advanced, the gaiety of the city increased and there was not a night that the ladies were not engaged to parties abroad, or by company at home.

cards and dancing were not confined to the drawing room--nor drinking to the dining-room. Lucy now seldom went into the kitchen of an evening, at least when the master and mistress were out, that she did not meet a parcel of servants gaily dressed and indulging in the same pleasures as their Masters. The familiarity with which she was treated, so shocked and distressed her, that she determined rather to go supperless to bed, than to expose herself to their disgusting freedom. She therefore secluded herself in her own apartment, where sad and solitary she wept-over her fate, while the noise of merriment and riot rose from below. She was one evening sitting thus lost in her own sad thoughts, her infant sleeping on her bosom, with no light, but that emitted from the expiring fire, so insensible to all external sounds or sights, that it was not until she felt herself pressed in some ones arms that she looked up and saw Capt. Dey. She started with astonishment and

looked up and saw Capt. Dey. She started with astonishment and hastily withdrew from his embrace. She rose, laid her child on the bed, took a candle from the mantle-piece, lit it, placed a small table between her and the Captain, drew out her work and sat down. This was all done without uttering a word, and before the Captain could make out what were her intentions. There was such simplicity in this conduct that he could scarcely believe she was aware of his feeling's or designs; it left him no opportunity for the arts of persuasion, afforded him no room for violence. Such was her perfect composure, implied such unsuspecting security, such entire confidence that libertive as he was, he dared not violate that confidence. Had he met with resistance, reproaches, or tears he would have known how to act--for those he was prepared,--but such an upbraiding sweetness, such gentle firmness, left him no pretence, to appease fears which were not avowed, to soothe terrors, that were not felt-to persuade

where there was no denial, or apply force where there was no resistance. He was wholly disarmed and sat for some moments disconcerted and embarrassed. He looked at Lucy with astonishment, who as quickly pursued her work as if he had not been there: he knew not what to think, and starting up walked backwards and forwards in the room with hasty and perturbed steps, every now and then throwing a glance at Lucy, in hopes of discovering some emotion, some agitation on which he could lay hold. But Lucy's eyes were fixed on her work, nor could he discover what was passing in her bosom and it required more resolution than he possessed to disturb such imperturbable tranquility. Poor Lucy, had she ventured to speak, the tremulousness of her voice must have betrayed--had she dared to look up, her speaking eyes would have discovered the agitation and alarm within her bosom. Her only security was quietude and silence

quietude and silence. As the waves that have been lashed into foam by the violence of the wind, gently subside when the wind dies away, so did the swelling and tumultuous passions of Capt Dey's breast by degrees sink into a calm when not opposed by resistance. By degrees the quickness of his steps slackened; he still walked the room, but it was slowly and thoughtfully, and when he again stole a glance at Lucy and saw the tears stealing down her cheeks, he was entirely subdued. He drew a chair opposite to her, and after a pause of a moment looked up and said, "You are a strange girl Lucy." Lucy did not answer. "Very strange indeed," he continued. "I cannot understand you: "There," said he pointing to her child, "there is the proof of your frailty and can a woman who has once fallen ever rise again?" "Never!" said Lucy mournfully--but I would feign try to fall no lower." "But if you can never hope to enjoy the advantages of virtue--to what end would you still be virtuous? If you must suffer the now punishment of your weakness, why not enjoy its pleasures then