He had heard that the young lady, for
all as quiet as she seemed, played strange pranks at times.”  He shook
his head when I asked him for more particulars, and refused to give them,
which made me doubt if he knew any, for he was in general a talkative and
communicative man. In default of other interests, after my uncle left, I
set myself to watch these two people. I hovered about their walks drawn
towards them with a strange fascination, which was not diminished by
their evident annoyance at so frequently meeting me. One day, I had the
sudden good fortune to be at hand when they were alarmed by the attack of
a bull, which, in those unenclosed grazing districts, was a particularly
dangerous occurrence. I have other and more important things to relate,
than to tell of the accident which gave me an opportunity of rescuing
them, it is enough to say, that this event was the beginning of an
acquaintance, reluctantly acquiesced in by them, but eagerly prosecuted
by me. I can hardly tell when intense curiosity became merged in love,
but in less than ten days after my uncle’s departure I was passionately
enamoured of Mistress Lucy, as her attendant called her; carefully—for
this I noted well—avoiding any address which appeared as if there was an
equality of station between them. I noticed also that Mrs. Clarke, the
elderly woman, after her first reluctance to allow me to pay them any
attentions had been overcome, was cheered by my evident attachment to the
young girl; it seemed to lighten her heavy burden of care, and she
evidently favoured my visits to the farmhouse where they lodged. It was
not so with Lucy. A more attractive person I never saw, in spite of her
depression of manner, and shrinking avoidance of me. I felt sure at
once, that whatever was the source of her grief, it rose from no fault of
her own. It was difficult to draw her into conversation; but when at
times, for a moment or two, I beguiled her into talk, I could see a rare
intelligence in her face, and a grave, trusting look in the soft, gray
eyes that were raised for a minute to mine. I made every excuse I
possibly could for going there. I sought wild flowers for Lucy’s sake; I
planned walks for Lucy’s sake; I watched the heavens by night, in hopes
that some unusual beauty of sky would justify me in tempting Mrs. Clarke
and Lucy forth upon the moors, to gaze at the great purple dome above. It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some motive
which I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but then again
I saw, or fancied I saw, that her heart spoke in my favour, and that
there was a struggle going on in her mind, which at times (I loved so
dearly) I could have begged her to spare herself, even though the
happiness of my whole life should have been the sacrifice; for her
complexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more hopeless, her delicate
frame yet slighter. During this period I had written, I should say, to
my uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong my stay at Harrogate, not
giving any reason; but such was his tenderness towards me, that in a few
days I heard from him, giving me a willing permission, and only charging
me to take care of myself, and not use too much exertion during the hot
weather. One sultry evening I drew near the farm. The windows of their parlour
were open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the house, as I
passed the first window (there were two windows in their little
ground-floor room). I saw Lucy distinctly; but when I had knocked at
their door—the house-door stood always ajar—she was gone, and I saw only
Mrs. Clarke, turning over the work-things lying on the table, in a
nervous and purposeless manner. I felt by instinct that a conversation
of some importance was coming on, in which I should be expected to say
what was my object in paying these frequent visits. I was glad of the
opportunity. My uncle had several times alluded to the pleasant
possibility of my bringing home a young wife, to cheer and adorn the old
house in Ormond Street. He was rich, and I was to succeed him, and had,
as I knew, a fair reputation for so young a lawyer. So on my side I saw
no obstacle. It was true that Lucy was shrouded in mystery; her name (I
was convinced it was not Clarke), birth, parentage, and previous life
were unknown to me. But I was sure of her goodness and sweet innocence,
and although I knew that there must be something painful to be told, to
account for her mournful sadness, yet I was willing to bear my share in
her grief, whatever it might be. Mrs. Clarke began, as if it was a relief to her to plunge into the
subject. “We have thought, sir—at least I have thought—that you knew very little
of us, nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant the intimate
acquaintance we have fallen into. I beg your pardon, sir,” she went on,
nervously; “I am but a plain kind of woman, and I mean to use no
rudeness; but I must say straight out that I—we—think it would be better
for you not to come so often to see us. She is very unprotected, and—”

“Why should I not come to see you, dear madam?” asked I, eagerly, glad of
the opportunity of explaining myself. “I come, I own, because I have
learnt to love Mistress Lucy, and wish to teach her to love me.”

Mistress Clarke shook her head, and sighed. “Don’t, sir—neither love her, nor, for the sake of all you hold sacred,
teach her to love you! If I am too late, and you love her already,
forget her,—forget these last few weeks. O! I should never have allowed
you to come!” she went on passionately; “but what am I to do? We are
forsaken by all, except the great God, and even He permits a strange and
evil power to afflict us—what am I to do! Where is it to end?” She wrung
her hands in her distress; then she turned to me: “Go away, sir! go away,
before you learn to care any more for her. I ask it for your own sake—I
implore! You have been good and kind to us, and we shall always
recollect you with gratitude; but go away now, and never come back to
cross our fatal path!”

“Indeed, madam,” said I, “I shall do no such thing. You urge it for my
own sake. I have no fear, so urged—nor wish, except to hear more—all. I
cannot have seen Mistress Lucy in all the intimacy of this last
fortnight, without acknowledging her goodness and innocence; and without
seeing—pardon me, madam—that for some reason you are two very lonely
women, in some mysterious sorrow and distress. Now, though I am not
powerful myself, yet I have friends who are so wise and kind that they
may be said to possess power. Tell me some particulars. Why are you in
grief—what is your secret—why are you here? I declare solemnly that
nothing you have said has daunted me in my wish to become Lucy’s husband;
nor will I shrink from any difficulty that, as such an aspirant, I may
have to encounter. You say you are friendless—why cast away an honest
friend? I will tell you of people to whom you may write, and who will
answer any questions as to my character and prospects.