What was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself. As
for Lucy, she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon
her. Her gentleness and piety, under the pressure of so horrible a
life, seemed over-passive to me. She never complained. Mrs. Clarke
complained more than ever. As for me, I was more in love with the
real Lucy than ever; but I shrunk from the false similitude with an
intensity proportioned to my love. I found out by instinct that Mrs.
Clarke had occasional temptations to leave Lucy. The good lady's
nerves were shaken, and, from what she said, I could almost have
concluded that the object of the Double was to drive away from Lucy
this last, and almost earliest friend. At times, I could scarcely
bear to own it, but I myself felt inclined to turn recreant; and I
would accuse Lucy of being too patient--too resigned. One after
another, she won the little children of Coldholme. (Mrs. Clarke and
she had resolved to stay there, for was it not as good a place as any
other, to such as they? and did not all our faint hopes rest on
Bridget--never seen or heard of now, but still we trusted to come
back, or give some token?) So, as I say, one after another, the
little children came about my Lucy, won by her soft tones, and her
gentle smiles, and kind actions. Alas! one after another they fell
away, and shrunk from her path with blanching terror; and we too
surely guessed the reason why. It was the last drop. I could bear
it no longer. I resolved no more to linger around the spot, but to
go back to my uncle, and among the learned divines of the city of
London, seek for some power whereby to annul the curse.

My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite testimonials
relating to Lucy's descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and
from Mr. Gisborne. The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he