December 12th, 1747.—My life has been strangely bound up withextraordinary incidents, some of which occurred before I had any connectionwith the principal actors in them, or indeed, before I even knew of theirexistence. I suppose, most old men are, like me, more given to looking backupon their own career with a kind of fond interest and affectionateremembrance, than to watching the events—though these may have far moreinterest for the multitude—immediately passing before their eyes. If thisshould be the case with the generality of old people, how much more so with me!. . . If I am to enter upon that strange story connected with poor Lucy, I mustbegin a long way back. I myself only came to the knowledge of her familyhistory after I knew her; but, to make the tale clear to any one else, I mustarrange events in the order in which they occurred—not that in which Ibecame acquainted with them.
There is a great old hall in the north-east of Lancashire, in a part theycalled the Trough of Bolland, adjoining that other district named Craven.Starkey Manor-house is rather like a number of rooms clustered round a gray,massive, old keep than a regularly-built hall. Indeed, I suppose that the houseonly consisted of a great tower in the centre, in the days when the Scots madetheir raids terrible as far south as this; and that after the Stuarts came in,and there was a little more security of property in those parts, the Starkeysof that time added the lower building, which runs, two stories high, all roundthe base of the keep. There has been a grand garden laid out in my days, on thesouthern slope near the house; but when I first knew the place, thekitchen-garden at the farm was the only piece of cultivated ground belonging toit. The deer used to come within sight of the drawing-room windows, and mighthave browsed quite close up to the house if they had not been too wild and shy.Starkey Manor-house itself stood on a projection or peninsula of high land,jutting out from the abrupt hills that form the sides of the Trough of Bolland.These hills were rocky and bleak enough towards their summit; lower down theywere clothed with tangled copsewood and green depths of fern, out of which agray giant of an ancient forest-tree would tower here and there, throwing upits ghastly white branches, as if in imprecation, to the sky. These trees, theytold me, were the remnants of that forest which existed in the days of theHeptarchy, and were even then noted as landmarks. No wonder that their upperand more exposed branches were leafless, and that the dead bark had peeledaway, from sapless old age.
Not far from the house there were a few cottages, apparently, of the same dateas the keep; probably built for some retainers of the family, who soughtshelter—they and their families and their small flocks and herds—atthe hands of their feudal lord. Some of them had pretty much fallen to decay.They were built in a strange fashion. Strong beams had been sunk firm in theground at the requisite distance, and their other ends had been fastenedtogether, two and two, so as to form the shape of one of those roundedwaggon-headed gipsy-tents, only very much larger. The spaces between werefilled with mud, stones, osiers, rubbish, mortar—anything to keep out theweather. The fires were made in the centre of these rude dwellings, a hole inthe roof forming the only chimney. No Highland hut or Irish cabin could be ofrougher construction.
The owner of this property, at the beginning of the present century, was a Mr.Patrick Byrne Starkey. His family had kept to the old faith, and were stanchRoman Catholics, esteeming it even a sin to marry any one of Protestantdescent, however willing