While the riding party was so occupied, Lucy walked alone to the Circus, and as, on her way thither, she passed some well-known shop or house, she could not help wondering to herself how very long it seemed since that foggy morning after her first meeting with Beauclerc, when, with glowing fancy and light steps, she had hastened to her friend Millie Foster, in order that she might have the pleasure of describing him. Since that meeting, their acquaintance had tacitly dropped, Miss Foster had never sought her, and Lucy was not sorry to avoid a friend, who seemed likely to prove too officious an adviser. She being rather inclined to agree with the Scotch damsel who says:—
I'll gie ye my bonny black hen
If ye will advise me to marry
The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.
Often now, as she walked, she paused, for she was weary, and very, very changed; and pale was the cheek that had then been so bright and glowing. Often her spirits failed, and she seemed inclined to turn back, and urge to herself her aching limbs as an excuse for her failing purpose. Her airy form dragged rather than tripped over the ground; yet still she went on.
As she was thus proceeding, with her eyes bent upon the ground, fearing, that, if she raised them, some unwelcome acquaintance might recognise her as the lady with the married lover, some one knocked slightly against her—they both stopped to apologise.
It was Beauclerc.
He looked timidly, as if he would enquire for her if he dared.
"Give me your arm up this hill," said Lucy, with gentle calmness. "I am tired and faint."
He offered it instantly, though rather surprised, and she saw that he was pale and thoughtful.
"I am going," she said, quietly, "to see what I can do for you; but I can do little, and you can do much. Give me an hour by your watch to be alone with her—then force your way in—this is all I can do. Good-bye. You can wait in the Circus."
She took her hand from his arm; he made no reply; but the look of remorse which met hers, spoke more than words could do.