She was not dying, but the fainting fit which ensued was longer and
more like death than that which had come upon Anna when she heard that
Arthur was lost. Twice they thought her heart had ceased to beat, and,
in an agony of remorse, Valencia hung over her, accusing herself as
her murderer, but giving no other explanation to those around her
than: "I was combing her hair when the white froth spirted all over
her wrapper, and she said that she was dying."
And that was all the family knew of the strange attack, which lasted
till the dawn of the day, and left upon Lucy's face a look as if years
and years of anguish had passed over her young head and left its
footprints behind.
Early in the morning she asked to see Valencia alone, and the
repentant girl went to her prepared to take back all she had said and
declare the whole a lie. But Lucy wrung the truth from her, and she
repeated the story again so clearly that Lucy had no longer a doubt
that Anna was preferred to herself, and sending Valencia away, she
moaned piteously: "Oh, what shall I do? What is my duty?"
The part which hurt her most of all was the terrible certainty that
Arthur did not love her as he loved Anna Ruthven. She saw it now just
as it was; how, in an unguarded moment, he had offered himself to save
her good name from gossip, and how, ever since, his life had been a
constant struggle to do his duty by her.
"Poor Arthur," she sobbed, "yours has been a hard lot trying to act
the love you did not feel; but it shall be so no longer. Lucy will set
you free."
This was her final decision, but she did not reach it till a day and a
night had passed, during which she lay with her white face turned to
the wall, saying she wanted nothing except to be left alone.
"When I can, I'll tell you," she had said to Fanny and her aunt, when
they insisted upon knowing the cause of her distress. "When I can I'll
tell you. Leave me alone till then."
So they ceased to worry her, but Fanny sat constantly in the room
watching the motionless figure, which took whatever she offered, but
otherwise gave no sign of life until the morning of the second day,
when it turned slowly towards her, the livid lips quivering piteously
and making an attempt to smile as they said: "Fanny, I can tell you now; I have made up my mind."
Fanny's black eyes were dim with the truest tears she had ever shed
when Lucy's story was ended, and her voice was very low as she asked: "And do you mean to give him up at this late hour?"