the parlour. On opening the door
she saw Clifford standing in the recess of the window; his face was
partly turned from her, and his eyes downcast. The good old squire sat
in an elbow-chair, and a sort of puzzled and half-satisfied complacency
gave expression to his features.

"Come hither, child," said he, clearing his throat; "Captain
Clifford--ahem!--has done you the honour to--and I dare say you will be
very much surprised--not that, for my own part, I think there is much to
wonder at in it, but such may be my partial opinion (and it is certainly
very natural in me)--to make you a declaration of love. He declares,
moreover, that he is the most miserable of men, and that he would die
sooner than have the presumption to hope. Therefore you see, my love, I
have sent for you, to give him permission to destroy himself in any way
he pleases; and I leave him to show cause why (it is a fate that sooner
or later happens to all his fellowmen) sentence of death should not be
passed against him." Having delivered this speech with more propriety of
word than usually fell to his share, the squire rose hastily and hobbled
out of the room.

Lucy sank into the chair her father had quitted; and Clifford,
approaching towards her, said in a hoarse and low voice,--

"Your father, Miss Brandon, says rightly, that I would die rather than
lift my eyes in hope to you. I thought yesterday that I had seen you for
the last time; chance, not my own folly or presumption, has brought me
again before you; and even the few hours I have passed under the same
roof with you have made me feel as if my love, my madness, had never
reached its height till now. Oh, Lucy!" continued Clifford, in a more
impassioned tone, and, as if by a sudden and irresistible impulse,
throwing himself at her feet, "if I could hope to merit you,--if I could
hope to raise myself,--if I could--But no, no, no! I am cut off from all
hope, and forever!"

There was so deep, so bitter, so heartfelt an anguish and remorse in the
voice with which these last words were spoken, that Lucy, hurried
off her guard, and forgetting everything in wondering sympathy and
compassion, answered, extending her hand towards Clifford, who, still
kneeling, seized and covered it with kisses of fire,--

"Do not speak thus, Mr. Clifford; do not accuse yourself of what I am
sure, quite sure, you cannot deserve. Perhaps--forgive me--your birth,
your fortune, are beneath your merits, and you have penet