Curious, if True

by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

  Chapter 2

  I now come to the time in which I myself was mixed up with the peoplethat I have been writing about. And to make you understand how I becameconnected with them, I must give you some little account of myself. Myfather was the younger son of a Devonshire gentleman of moderateproperty; my eldest uncle succeeded to the estate of his forefathers,my second became an eminent attorney in London, and my father tookorders. Like most poor clergymen, he had a large family; and I have nodoubt was glad enough when my London uncle, who was a bachelor, offeredto take charge of me, and bring me up to be his successor in business.

  In this way I came to live in London, in my uncle's house, not far fromGray's Inn, and to be treated and esteemed as his son, and to labourwith him in his office. I was very fond of the old gentleman. He wasthe confidential agent of many country squires, and had attained to hispresent position as much by knowledge of human nature as by knowledgeof law; though he was learned enough in the latter. He used to say hisbusiness was law, his pleasure heraldry. From his intimate acquaintancewith family history, and all the tragic courses of life thereininvolved, to hear him talk, at leisure times, about any coat of armsthat came across his path was as good as a play or a romance. Manycases of disputed property, dependent on a love of genealogy, werebrought to him, as to a great authority on such points. If the lawyerwho came to consult him was young, he would take no fee, only give hima long lecture on the importance of attending to heraldry; if thelawyer was of mature age and good standing, he would mulct him prettywell, and abuse him to me afterwards as negligent of one great branchof the profession. His house was in a stately new street called OrmondStreet, and in it he had a handsome library; but all the books treatedof things that were past; none of them planned or looked forward intothe future. I worked away--partly for the sake of my family at home,partly because my uncle had really taught me to enjoy the kind ofpractice in which he himself took such delight. I suspect I worked toohard; at any rate, in seventeen hundred and eighteen I was far fromwell, and my good uncle was disturbed by my ill looks.

  One day, he rang the bell twice into the clerk's room at the dingyoffice in Gray's Inn Lane. It was the summons for me, and I went intohis private room just as a gentleman--whom I knew well enough by sightas an Irish lawyer of more reputation than he deserved--was leaving.

  My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering. I wasthere two or three minutes before he spoke. Then he told me that I mustpack up my portmanteau that very afternoon, and start that night bypost-horse for West Chester. I should get there, if all went well, atthe end of five days' time, and must then wait for a packet to crossover to Dublin; from thence I must proceed to a certain town namedKildoon, and in that neighbourhood I was to remain, making certaininquiries as to the existence of any descendants of the younger branchof a family to whom some valuable estates had descended in the femaleline. The Irish lawyer whom I had seen was weary of the case, and wouldwillingly have given up the property, without further ado, to a man whoappeared to claim them; but on laying his tables and trees before myuncle, the latter had foreseen so many possible prior claimants, thatthe lawyer had begged him to undertake the management of the wholebusiness. In his youth, my uncle would have liked nothing better thangoing over to Ireland himself, and ferreting out every scrap of paperor parchment, and every word of tradition respecting the family. As itwas, old and gouty, he deputed me.

  Accordingly, I went to Kildoon. I suspect I had something of my uncle'sdelight in following up a genealogical scent, for I very soon foundout, when on the spot, that Mr. Rooney, the Irish lawyer, would havegot both himself and the first claimant into a terrible scrape, if hehad pronounced his opinion that the estates ought to be given up tohim. There were three poor Irish fellows, each nearer of kin to thelast possessor; but, a generation before, there was a still nearerrelation, who had never been accounted for, nor his existence everdiscovered by the lawyers, I venture to think, till I routed him outfrom the memory of some of the old dependants of the family. What hadbecome of him? I travelled backwards and forwards; I crossed over toFrance, and came back again with a slight clue, which ended in mydiscovering that, wild and dissipated himself, he had left one child, ason, of yet worse character than his father; that this same HughFitzgerald had married a very beautiful serving-woman of the Byrnes--aperson below him in hereditary rank, but above him in character; thathe had died soon after his marriage, leaving one child, whether a boyor a girl I could not learn, and that the mother had returned to livein the family of the Byrnes. Now, the chief of this latter family wasserving in the Duke of Berwick's regiment, and it was long before Icould hear from him; it was more than a year before I got a short,haughty letter--I fancy he had a soldier's contempt for a civilian, anIrishman's hatred for an Englishman, an exiled Jacobite's jealousy ofone who prospered and lived tranquilly under the government he lookedupon as an usurpation. 'Bridget Fitzgerald,' he said, 'had beenfaithful to the fortunes of his sister--had followed her abroad, and toEngland when Mrs. Starkey had thought fit to return. Both her sisterand her husband were dead; he knew nothing of Bridget Fitzgerald at thepresent time: probably Sir Philip Tempest, his nephew's guardian, mightbe able to give me some information.' I have not given the littlecontemptuous terms; the way in which faithful service was meant toimply more than it said--all that has nothing to do with my story. SirPhilip, when applied to, told me that he paid an annuity regularly toan old woman named Fitzgerald, living at Coldholme (the village nearStarkey Manor-House). Whether she had any descendants he could not say.

  One bleak March evening, I came in sight of the places described at thebeginning of my story. I could hardly understand the rude dialect inwhich the direction to old Bridget's house was given.

  'Yo' see yon furleets,' all run together, gave me no idea that I was toguide myself by the distant lights that shone in the windows of theHall, occupied for the time by a farmer who held the post of steward,while the Squire, now four or five and twenty, was making the grandtour. However, at last, I reached Bridget's cottage--a low, moss-grownplace; the palings that had once surrounded it were broken and gone;and the underwood of the forest came up to the walls, and must havedarkened the windows. It was about seven o'clock--not late to my Londonnotions--but, after knocking for some time at the door and receiving noreply, I was driven to conjecture that the occupant of the house wasgone to bed. So I betook myself to the nearest church I had seen, threemiles back on the road I had come, sure that close to that I shouldfind an inn of some kind; and early the next morning I set off back toColdholme, by a field-path which my host assured me I should find ashorter cut than the road I had taken the night before. It was a cold,sharp morning; my feet left prints in the sprinkling of hoar-frost thatcovered the ground; nevertheless, I saw an old woman, whom Iinstinctively suspected to be the object of my search, in a shelteredcovert on one side of my path. I lingered and watched her. She musthave been considerably above the middle size in her prime, for when sheraised herself from the stooping position in which I first saw her,there was something fine and commanding in the erectness of her figure.She drooped again in a minute or two, and seemed looking for somethingon the ground, as, with bent head, she turned off from the spot where Igazed upon her, and was lost to my sight. I fancy I missed my way, andmade a round in spite of the landlord's directions; for by the time Ihad reached Bridget's cottage she was there, with no semblance ofhurried walk or discomposure of any kind. The door was slightly ajar. Iknocked, and the majestic figure stood before me, silently awaiting theexplanation of my errand. Her teeth were all gone, so the nose and chinwere brought near together; the grey eyebrows were straight, and almosthung over her deep, cavernous eyes, and the thick white hair lay insilvery masses over the low, wide, wrinkled forehead. For a moment, Istood uncertain how to shape my answer to the solemn questioning of hersilence.

  'Your name is Bridget Fitzgerald, I believe?' She bowed her head inassent.

  'I have something to say to you. May I come in? I am unwilling t
o keepyou standing.'

  'You cannot tire me,' she said, and at first she seemed inclined todeny me the shelter of her roof. But the next moment--she had searchedthe very soul in me with her eyes during that instant--she led me in,and dropped the shadowing hood of her grey, draping cloak, which hadpreviously hid part of the character of her countenance. The cottagewas rude and bare enough. But before that picture of the Virgin, ofwhich I have made mention, there stood a little cup filled with freshprimroses. While she paid her reverence to the Madonna, I understoodwhy she had been out seeking through the clumps of green in thesheltered copse. Then she turned round, and bade me be seated. Theexpression of her face, which all this time I was studying, was notbad, as the stories of my last night's landlord had led me to expect;it was a wild, stern, fierce, indomitable countenance, seamed andscarred by agonies of solitary weeping; but it was neither cunning normalignant.

  'My name is Bridget Fitzgerald,' said she, by way of opening ourconversation.

  'And your husband was Hugh Fitzgerald, of Knock-Mahon, near Kildoon, inIreland?'

  A faint light came into the dark gloom of her eyes.

  'He was.'

  'May I ask if you had any children by him?'

  The light in her eyes grew quick and red. She tried to speak, I couldsee; but something rose in her throat, and choked her, and until shecould speak calmly, she would fain not speak at all before a stranger.In a minute or so she said:

  'I had a daughter--one Mary Fitzgerald,'--then her strong naturemastered her strong will, and she cried out, with a trembling, wailingcry: 'Oh, man! what of her?--what of her?'

  She rose from her seat, and came and clutched at my arm, and looked inmy eyes. There she read, as I suppose, my utter ignorance of what hadbecome of her child; for she went blindly back to her chair, and satrocking herself and softly moaning, as if I were not there; I notdaring to speak to the lone and awful woman. After a little pause, sheknelt down before the picture of our Lady of the Holy Heart, and spoketo her by all the fanciful and poetic names of the Litany.

  'O Rose of Sharon! O Tower of David! O Star of the Sea! have you nocomfort for my sore heart? Am I for ever to hope? Grant me at leastdespair!'--and so on she went, heedless of my presence. Her prayersgrew wilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the bordersof madness and blasphemy. Almost involuntarily, I spoke as if to stopher.

  'Have you any reason to think that your daughter is dead?'

  She rose from her knees, and came and stood before me.

  'Mary Fitzgerald is dead,' said she. 'I shall never see her again inthe flesh. No tongue ever told me. But I know she is dead. I haveyearned so to see her, and my heart's will is fearful and strong: itwould have drawn her to me before now, if she had been a wanderer onthe other side of the world. I wonder often it has not drawn her out ofthe grave to come and stand before me, and hear me tell her how I lovedher. For, sir, we parted unfriends.'

  I knew nothing but the dry particulars needed for my lawyer's quest,but I could not help feeling for the desolate woman; and she must haveread the unusual sympathy with her wistful eyes.

  'Yes, sir, we did. She never knew how I loved her; and we partedunfriends; and I fear me that I wished her voyage might not turn outwell, only meaning,--O, blessed Virgin! you know I only meant that sheshould come home to her mother's arms as to the happiest place onearth; but my wishes are terrible--their power goes beyond mythought--and there is no hope for me, if my words brought Mary harm.'

  'But,' I said, 'you do not know that she is dead. Even now, you hopedshe might be alive. Listen to me,' and I told her the tale I havealready told you, giving it all in the driest manner, for I wanted torecall the clear sense that I felt almost sure she had possessed in heryounger days, and by keeping up her attention to details, restrain thevague wildness of her grief.

  She listened with deep attention, putting from time to time suchquestions as convinced me I had to do with no common intelligence,however dimmed and shorn by solitude and mysterious sorrow. Then shetook up her tale; and in few brief words, told me of her wanderingsabroad in vain search after her daughter; sometimes in the wake ofarmies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in city. The lady, whosewaiting-woman Mary had gone to be, had died soon after the date of herlast letter home; her husband, the foreign officer, had been serving inHungary, whither Bridget had followed him, but too late to find him.Vague rumours reached her that Mary had made a great marriage; and thissting of doubt was added,--whether the mother might not be close to herchild under her new name, and even hearing of her every day, and yetnever recognising the lost one under the appellation she then bore. Atlength the thought took possession of her, that it was possible thatall this time Mary might be at home at Coldholme, in the Trough ofBolland, in Lancashire, in England; and home came Bridget, in that vainhope, to her desolate hearth, and empty cottage. Here she had thoughtit safest to remain; if Mary was in life, it was here she would seekfor her mother.

  I noted down one or two particulars out of Bridget's narrative that Ithought might be of use to me; for I was stimulated to further searchin a strange and extraordinary manner. It seemed as if it wereimpressed upon me, that I must take up the quest where Bridget had laidit down; and this for no reason that had previously influenced me (suchas my uncle's anxiety on the subject, my own reputation as a lawyer,and so on), but from some strange power which had taken possession ofmy will only that very morning, and which forced it in the direction itchose.

  'I will go,' said I. 'I will spare nothing in the search. Trust to me.I will learn all that can be learnt. You shall know all that money, orpains, or wit can discover. It is true she may be long dead: but shemay have left a child.'

  'A child!' she cried, as if for the first time this idea had struck hermind. 'Hear him, Blessed Virgin! he says she may have left a child. Andyou have never told me, though I have prayed so for a sign, waking orsleeping!'

  'Nay,' said I, 'I know nothing but what you tell me. You say you heardof her marriage.'

  But she caught nothing of what I said. She was praying to the Virgin ina kind of ecstacy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my verypresence.

  From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest's. The wife of the foreignofficer had been a cousin of his father's, and from him I thought Imight gain some particulars as to the existence of the Count de la Tourd'Auvergne, and where I could find him; for I knew questions _de vivevoix_ aid the flagging recollection, and I was determined to lose nochance for want of trouble. But Sir Philip had gone abroad, and itwould be some time before I could receive an answer. So I followed myuncle's advice, to whom I had mentioned how wearied I felt, both inbody and mind, by my will-o'-the-wisp search. He immediately told me togo to Harrogate, there to await Sir Philip's reply. I should be near toone of the places connected with my search, Coldholme; not far from SirPhilip Tempest, in case he returned, and I wished to ask him anyfurther questions; and, in conclusion, my uncle bade me try to forgetall about my business for a time.

  This was far easier said than done. I have seen a child on a commonblown along by a high wind, without power of standing still andresisting the tempestuous force. I was somewhat in the same predicamentas regarded my mental state. Something resistless seemed to urge mythoughts on, through every possible course by which there was a chanceof attaining to my object. I did not see the sweeping moors when Iwalked out: when I held a book in my hand, and read the words, theirsense did not penetrate to my brain. If I slept, I went on with thesame ideas, always flowing in the same direction. This could not lastlong without having a bad effect on the body. I had an illness, which,although I was racked with pain, was a positive relief to me, as itcompelled me to live in the present suffering, and not in the visionaryresearches I had been continually making before. My kind uncle came tonurse me; and after the immediate danger was over, my life seemed toslip away in delicious languor for two or three months. I did notask--so much did I dread falling into the old channel ofthought--whether any reply had been received to my letter to Sir
Philip. I turned my whole imagination right away from all that subject.My uncle remained with me until nigh summer, and then returned to hisbusiness in London; leaving me perfectly well, although not completelystrong. I was to follow him in a fortnight; when, as he said, 'we wouldlook over letters, and talk about several things.' I knew what thislittle speech alluded to, and shrank from the train of thought itsuggested, which was so intimately connected with my first feelings ofillness. However, I had a fortnight more to roam on those invigoratingYorkshire moors.

  In those days, there was one large, rambling inn at Harrogate, close tothe Medicinal Spring; but it was already becoming too small for theaccommodation of the influx of visitors, and many lodged round about,in the farm-houses of the district. It was so early in the season, thatI had the inn pretty much to myself; and, indeed, felt rather like avisitor in a private house, so intimate had the landlord and landladybecome with me during my long illness. She would chide me for being outso late on the moors, or for having been too long without food, quitein a motherly way; while he consulted me about vintages and wines, andtaught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle about horses. In my walks I metother strangers from time to time. Even before my uncle had left me, Ihad noticed, with half-torpid curiosity, a young lady of very strikingappearance, who went about always accompanied by an elderly companion,hardly a gentlewoman, but with something in her look that prepossessedme in her favour. The younger lady always put her veil down when anyone approached; so it had been only once or twice, when I had come uponher at a sudden turn in the path, that I had even had a glimpse of herface. I am not sure if it was beautiful, though in after-life I grew tothink it so. But it was at this time over-shadowed by a sadness thatnever varied: a pale, quiet, resigned look of intense suffering, thatirresistibly attracted me, not with love, but with a sense of infinitecompassion for one so young yet so hopelessly unhappy. The companionwore something of the same look: quiet, melancholy, hopeless, yetresigned. I asked my landlord who they were. He said they were calledClarke, and wished to be considered as mother and daughter; but that,for his part, he did not believe that to be their right name, or thatthere was any such relationship between them. They had been in theneighbourhood of Harrogate for some time, lodging in a remotefarm-house. The people there would tell nothing about them; saying thatthey paid handsomely, and never did any harm; so why should they bespeaking of any strange things that might happen? That, as the landlordshrewdly observed, showed there was something out of the common way: hehad heard that the elderly woman was a cousin of the farmer's wherethey lodged, and so the regard existing between relations might help tokeep them quiet.

  'What did he think, then, was the reason for their extreme seclusion?'asked I.

  'Nay, he could not tell, not he. He had heard that the young lady, forall as quiet as she seemed, played strange pranks at times.' He shookhis head when I asked him for more particulars, and refused to givethem, which made me doubt if he knew any, for he was in general atalkative and communicative man. In default of other interests, aftermy uncle left, I set myself to watch these two people. I hovered abouttheir walks, drawn towards them with a strange fascination, which wasnot diminished by their evident annoyance at so frequently meeting me.One day, I had the sudden good fortune to be at hand when they werealarmed by the attack of a bull, which, in those unenclosed grazingdistricts, was a particularly dangerous occurrence. I have other andmore important things to relate, than to tell of the accident whichgave me an opportunity of rescuing them; it is enough to say, that thisevent was the beginning of an acquaintance, reluctantly acquiesced inby them, but eagerly prosecuted by me. I can hardly tell when intensecuriosity became merged in love, but in less than ten days after myuncle's departure I was passionately enamoured of Mrs. Lucy, as herattendant called her; carefully--for this I noted well--avoiding anyaddress which appeared as if there was an equality of station betweenthem. I noticed also that Mrs. Clarke, the elderly woman, after herfirst reluctance to allow me to pay them any attentions had beenovercome, was cheered by my evident attachment to the young girl; itseemed to lighten her heavy burden of care, and she evidently favouredmy visits to the farm-house where they lodged. It was not so with Lucy.A more attractive person I never saw, in spite of her depression ofmanner, and shrinking avoidance of me. I felt sure at once, thatwhatever 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, fora moment or two, I beguiled her into talk, I could see a rareintelligence in her face, and a grave, trusting look in the soft, greyeyes that were raised for a minute to mine. I made every excuse Ipossibly 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, inhopes 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 domeabove.

  It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for somemotive which I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; butthen 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 (Iloved so dearly) I could have begged her to spare herself, even thoughthe happiness of my whole life should have been the sacrifice; for hercomplexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more hopeless, her delicateframe yet slighter. During this period I had written, I should say, tomy uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong my stay at Harrogate, notgiving any reason; but such was his tenderness towards me, that in afew days I heard from him, giving me a willing permission, and onlycharging me to take care of myself, and not use too much exertionduring the hot weather.

  One sultry evening I drew near the farm. The windows of their parlourwere open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the house, asI passed the first window (there were two windows in their littleground-floor room). I saw Lucy distinctly; but when I had knocked attheir door--the house-door stood always ajar--she was gone, and I sawonly Mrs. Clarke, turning over the work-things lying on the table, in anervous and purposeless manner. I felt by instinct that a conversationof some importance was coming on, in which I should be expected to saywhat was my object in paying these frequent visits. I was glad of theopportunity. My uncle had several times alluded to the pleasantpossibility of my bringing home a young wife, to cheer and adorn theold house in Ormond Street. He was rich, and I was to succeed him, andhad, as I knew, a fair reputation for so young a lawyer. So on my sideI saw no obstacle. It was true that Lucy was shrouded in mystery; hername (I was convinced it was not Clarke), birth, parentage, andprevious life were unknown to me. But I was sure of her goodness andsweet innocence, and although I knew that there must be somethingpainful to be told, to account for her mournful sadness, yet I waswilling 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 thesubject.

  'We have thought, sir--at least I have thought--that you know verylittle of us, nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant the intimateacquaintance 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 norudeness; but I must say straight out that I--we--think it would bebetter 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, gladof the opportunity of explaining myself. 'I come, I own, because I havelearnt 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 holdsacred, teach her to love you! If I am too late, and you love heralready, forget her,--forget these last few weeks. O! I should neverhave allowed you to come!' she went on, passionately; 'but what am I todo? We are forsaken by all, except the great God, and even He permits astrange and evil power to afflict us--what am I to do? Where is it toend?' She wrung her hands in her distress; then she turned to me: 'Goaway, sir; go away, before you learn to care any more for h
er. I ask itfor your own sake--I implore. You have been good and kind to us, and weshall always recollect you with gratitude; but go away now, and nevercome back to cross our fatal path!'

  'Indeed, madam,' said I, 'I shall do no such thing. You urge it for myown 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 lastfortnight, without acknowledging her goodness and innocence; andwithout seeing--pardon me, madam--that for some reason you are two verylonely women, in some mysterious sorrow and distress. Now, though I amnot powerful myself, yet I have friends who are so wise and kind, thatthey may be said to possess power. Tell me some particulars. Why areyou in grief--what is your secret--why are you here? I declare solemnlythat nothing you have said has daunted me in my wish to become Lucy'shusband; nor will I shrink from any difficulty that, as such anaspirant, I may have to encounter. You say you are friendless--why castaway 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. Ido not shun inquiry.'

  She shook her head again. 'You had better go away, sir. You knownothing about us.'

  'I know your names,' said I, 'and I have heard you allude to the partof the country from which you came, which I happen to know as a wildand lonely place. There are so few people living in it that, if I choseto go there, I could easily ascertain all about you; but I would ratherhear it from yourself.' You see I wanted to pique her into telling mesomething definite.

  'You do not know our true names, sir,' said she, hastily.

  'Well, I may have conjectured as much. But tell me, then, I conjureyou. Give me your reasons for distrusting my willingness to stand bywhat I have said with regard to Mistress Lucy.'

  'Oh, what can I do?' exclaimed she. 'If I am turning away a true friendas he says?--Stay!' coming to a sudden decision--'I will tell yousomething--I cannot tell you all--you would not believe it. But,perhaps, I can tell you enough to prevent your going on in yourhopeless attachment. I am not Lucy's mother.'

  'So I conjectured,' I said. 'Go on.'

  'I do not even know whether she is the legitimate or illegitimate childof her father. But he is cruelly turned against her; and her mother islong dead; and, for a terrible reason, she has no other creature tokeep constant to her but me. She--only two years ago--such a darlingand such a pride in her father's house! Why, sir, there is a mysterythat might happen in connection with her any moment; and then you wouldgo away like all the rest; and, when you next heard her name, you wouldloathe her. Others, who have loved her longer, have done so before now.My poor child, whom neither God nor man has mercy upon--or, surely, shewould die!'

  The good woman was stopped by her crying. I confess, I was a littlestunned by her last words; but only for a moment. At any rate, till Iknew definitely what was this mysterious stain upon one so simple andpure, as Lucy seemed, I would not desert her, and so I said; and shemade answer:

  'If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir, afterknowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but I am sofoolish and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain hope to finda friend in you. I cannot help trusting that, although you may nolonger feel towards her as a lover, you will have pity upon us; andperhaps, by your learning, you can tell us where to go for aid.'

  'I implore you to tell me what this mystery is,' I cried, almostmaddened by this suspense.

  'I cannot,' said she, solemnly. 'I am under a deep vow of secrecy. Ifyou are to be told, it must be by her.' She left the room, and Iremained to ponder over this strange interview. I mechanically turnedover the few books, and with eyes that saw nothing at the time,examined the tokens of Lucy's frequent presence in that room.

  When I got home at night, I remembered how all these trifles spoke of apure and tender heart and innocent life. Mistress Clarke returned; shehad been crying sadly.

  'Yes,' said she, 'it is as I feared: she loves you so much that she iswilling to run the fearful risk of telling you all herself--sheacknowledges it is but a poor chance; but your sympathy will be a balm,if you give it. To-morrow, come here at ten in the morning; and as youhope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of fear orrepugnance you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted.'

  I half smiled. 'Have no fear,' I said. It seemed too absurd to imaginemy feeling dislike to Lucy.

  'Her father loved her well,' said she, gravely, 'yet he drove her outlike some monstrous thing.'

  Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden. Itwas Lucy's voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one sideof the open casement--and as though she were suddenly stirred tomerriment--merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings orsayings of some other person. I can scarcely say why, but the soundjarred on me inexpressibly. She knew the subject of our conversation,and must have been at least aware of the state of agitation her friendwas in: she herself usually so gentle and quiet. I half rose to go tothe window, and satisfy my instinctive curiosity as to what hadprovoked this burst of ill-timed laughter; but Mrs. Clarke threw herwhole weight and power upon the hand with which she pressed and kept medown.

  'For God's sake!' she said, white and trembling all over, 'sit still;be quiet. Oh! be patient. To-morrow you will know all. Leave us, for weare all sorely afflicted. Do not seek to know more about us.'

  Again that laugh--so musical in sound, yet so discordant to my heart.She held me tight--tighter; without positive violence I could not haverisen. I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a shadowpass between the sun's warmth and me, and a strange shudder ran throughmy frame. In a minute or two she released me.

  'Go,' repeated she. 'Be warned, I ask you once more. I do not think youcan stand this knowledge that you seek. If I had had my own way, Lucyshould never have yielded, and promised to tell you all. Who knows whatmay come of it?'

  'I am firm in my wish to know all. I return at ten to-morrow morning,and then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself.'

  I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to MistressClarke's sanity.

  Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable thoughtsconnected with that strange laughter, filled my mind. I could hardlysleep. I rose early; and long before the hour I had appointed, I was onthe path over the common that led to the old farm-house where theylodged. I suppose that Lucy had passed no better a night than I; forthere she was also, slowly pacing with her even step, her eyes bentdown, her whole look most saintly and pure. She started when I cameclose to her, and grew paler as I reminded her of my appointment, andspoke with something of the impatience of obstacles that, seeing heronce more, had called up afresh in my mind. All strange and terriblehints, and giddy merriment were forgotten. My heart gave forth words offire, and my tongue uttered them. Her colour went and came, as shelistened; but, when I had ended my passionate speeches, she lifted hersoft eyes to me, and said:

  'But you know that you have something to learn about me yet. I onlywant to say this: I shall not think less of you--less well of you, Imean--if you, too, fall away from me when you know all. Stop!' saidshe, as if fearing another burst of mad words. 'Listen to me. My fatheris a man of great wealth. I never knew my mother; she must have diedwhen I was very young. When first I remember anything, I was living ina great, lonely house, with my dear and faithful Mistress Clarke. Myfather, even, was not there; he was--he is--a soldier, and his dutieslie abroad. But he came, from time to time, and every time I think heloved me more and more. He brought me rarities from foreign lands,which prove to me now how much he must have thought of me during hisabsences. I can sit down and measure the depth of his lost love now, bysuch standards as these. I never thought whether he loved me or not,then; it was so natural, that it was like the air I breathed. Yet hewas an angry man at times, even then; but never with me. He was veryreckless, too; and, once or twice, I heard a whisper among the servantsthat a doom was over him, and that he knew it, and tried to drown hisknowledge in wild activity, and eve
n sometimes, sir, in wine. So I grewup in this grand mansion, in that lonely place. Everything around meseemed at my disposal, and I think every one loved me; I am sure lovedthem. Till about two years ago--I remember it well--my father had cometo England, to us; and he seemed so proud and so pleased with me andall I had done. And one day his tongue seemed loosened with wine, andhe told me much that I had not known till then,--how dearly he hadloved my mother, yet how his wilful usage had caused her death; andthen he went on to say how he loved me better than any creature onearth, and how, some day, he hoped to take me to foreign places, forthat he could hardly bear these long absences from his only child. Thenhe seemed to change suddenly, and said, in a strange, wild way, that Iwas not to believe what he said; that there was many a thing he lovedbetter--his horse--his dog--I know not what.

  'And 'twas only the next morning that, when I came into his room to askhis blessing as was my wont, he received me with fierce and angrywords. 'Why had I,' so he asked, 'been delighting myself in such wantonmischief--dancing over the tender plants in the flower-beds, all setwith the famous Dutch bulbs he had brought from Holland?' I had neverbeen out of doors that morning, sir, and I could not conceive what hemeant, and so I said; and then he swore at me for a liar, and said Iwas of no true blood, for he had seen me doing all that mischiefhimself--with his own eyes. What could I say? He would not listen tome, and even my tears seemed only to irritate him. That day was thebeginning of my great sorrows. Not long after, he reproached me for myundue familiarity--all unbecoming a gentlewoman--with his grooms. I hadbeen in the stable-yard, laughing and talking, he said. Now, sir, I amsomething of a coward by nature, and I had always dreaded horses;besides that, my father's servants--those whom he brought with him fromforeign parts--were wild fellows, whom I had always avoided, and towhom I had never spoken, except as a lady must needs from time to timespeak to her father's people. Yet my father called me by names of whichI hardly know the meaning, but my heart told me they were such as shameany modest woman; and from that day he turned quite against me;--nay,sir, not many weeks after that, he came in with a riding-whip in hishand; and, accusing me harshly of evil doings, of which I knew no morethan you, sir, he was about to strike me, and I, all in bewilderingtears, was ready to take his stripes as great kindness compared to hisharder words, when suddenly he stopped his arm mid-way, gasped andstaggered, crying out, 'The curse--the curse!' I looked up in terror.In the great mirror opposite I saw myself, and, right behind, anotherwicked, fearful self, so like me that my soul seemed to quiver withinme, as though not knowing to which similitude of body it belonged. Myfather saw my double at the same moment, either in its dreadfulreality, whatever that might be, or in the scarcely less terriblereflection in the mirror; but what came of it at that moment I cannotsay, for I suddenly swooned away; and when I came to myself I was lyingin my bed, and my faithful Clarke sitting by me. I was in my bed fordays; and even while I lay there my double was seen by all, flittingabout the house and gardens, always about some mischievous ordetestable work. What wonder that every one shrank from me indread--that my father drove me forth at length, when the disgrace ofwhich I was the cause was past his patience to bear. Mistress Clarkecame with me; and here we try to live such a life of piety and prayeras may in time set me free from the curse.'

  All the time she had been speaking, I had been weighing her story in mymind. I had hitherto put cases of witchcraft on one side, as meresuperstitions; and my uncle and I had had many an argument, hesupporting himself by the opinion of his good friend Sir Matthew Hale.Yet this sounded like the tale of one bewitched; or was it merely theeffect of a life of extreme seclusion telling on the nerves of asensitive girl? My scepticism inclined me to the latter belief, andwhen she paused I said:

  'I fancy that some physician could have disabused your father of hisbelief in visions----'

  Just at that instant, standing as I was opposite to her in the full andperfect morning light, I saw behind her another figure--a ghastlyresemblance, complete in likeness, so far as form and feature andminutest touch of dress could go, but with a loathsome demon soullooking out of the grey eyes, that were in turns mocking andvoluptuous. My heart stood still within me; every hair rose up erect;my flesh crept with horror. I could not see the grave and tenderLucy--my eyes were fascinated by the creature beyond. I know not why,but I put out my hand to clutch it; I grasped nothing but empty air,and my whole blood curdled to ice. For a moment I could not see; thenmy sight came back, and I saw Lucy standing before me, alone, deathlypale, and, I could have fancied, almost, shrunk in size.

  'IT has been near me?' she said, as if asking a question.

  The sound seemed taken out of her voice; it was husky as the notes onan old harpsichord when the strings have ceased to vibrate. She readher answer in my face, I suppose, for I could not speak. Her look wasone of intense fear, but that died away into an aspect of most humblepatience. At length she seemed to force herself to face behind andaround her: she saw the purple moors, the blue distant hills, quiveringin the sunlight, but nothing else.

  'Will you take me home?' she said, meekly.

  I took her by the hand, and led her silently through the buddingheather--we dared not speak; for we could not tell but that the dreadcreature was listening, although unseen,--but that IT might appear andpush us asunder. I never loved her more fondly than now when--and thatwas the unspeakable misery--the idea of her was becoming soinextricably blended with the shuddering thought of IT. She seemed tounderstand what I must be feeling. She let go my hand, which she hadkept clasped until then, when we reached the garden gate, and wentforwards to meet her anxious friend, who was standing by the windowlooking for her. I could not enter the house: I needed silence,society, leisure, change--I knew not what--to shake off the sensationof that creature's presence. Yet I lingered about the garden--I hardlyknow why; I partly suppose, because I feared to encounter theresemblance again on the solitary common, where it had vanished, andpartly from a feeling of inexpressible compassion for Lucy. In a fewminutes Mistress Clarke came forth and joined me. We walked some pacesin silence.

  'You know all now,' said she, solemnly.

  'I saw IT,' said I, below my breath.

  'And you shrink from us, now,' she said, with a hopelessness whichstirred up all that was brave or good in me.

  'Not a whit,' said I. 'Human flesh shrinks from encounter with thepowers of darkness: and, for some reason unknown to me, the pure andholy Lucy is their victim.'

  'The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children,' she said.

  'Who is her father?' asked I. 'Knowing as much as I do, I may surelyknow more--know all. Tell me, I entreat you, madam, all that you canconjecture respecting this demoniac persecution of one so good.'

  'I will; but not now. I must go to Lucy now. Come this afternoon, Iwill see you alone; and oh, sir! I will trust that you may yet findsome way to help us in our sore trouble!'

  I was miserably exhausted by the swooning affright which had takenpossession of me. When I reached the inn, I staggered in like oneovercome by wine. I went to my own private room. It was some timebefore I saw that the weekly post had come in, and brought me myletters. There was one from my uncle, one from my home in Devonshire,and one, re-directed over the first address, sealed with a great coatof arms. It was from Sir Philip Tempest: my letter of inquiryrespecting Mary Fitzgerald had reached him at Liege, where it sohappened that the Count de la Tour d'Auvergne was quartered at the verytime. He remembered his wife's beautiful attendant; she had had highwords with the deceased countess, respecting her intercourse with anEnglish gentleman of good standing, who was also in the foreignservice. The countess augured evil of his intentions; while Mary, proudand vehement, asserted that he would soon marry her, and resented hermistress's warnings as an insult. The consequence was, that she hadleft Madame de la Tour d'Auvergne's service, and, as the Countbelieved, had gone to live with the Englishman; whether he had marriedher, or not, he could not say. 'But,' added Sir Philip Tempest, 'youmay easily hear what p
articulars you wish to know respecting MaryFitzgerald from the Englishman himself, if, as I suspect, he is noother than my neighbour and former acquaintance, Mr. Gisborne, ofSkipford Hall, in the West Riding. I am led to the belief that he is noother by several small particulars, none of which are in themselvesconclusive, but which, taken together, make a mass of presumptiveevidence. As far as I could make out from the Count's foreignpronunciation, Gisborne was the name of the Englishman: I know thatGisborne of Skipford was abroad and in the foreign service at thattime--he was a likely fellow enough for such an exploit, and, aboveall, certain expressions recur to my mind which he used in reference toold Bridget Fitzgerald, of Coldholme, whom he once encountered whilestaying with me at Starkey Manor-House. I remember that the meetingseemed to have produced some extraordinary effect upon his mind, asthough he had suddenly discovered some connection which she might havehad with his previous life. I beg you to let me know if I can be of anyfurther service to you. Your uncle once rendered me a good turn, and Iwill gladly repay it, so far as in me lies, to his nephew.'

  I was now apparently close on the discovery which I had striven so manymonths to attain. But success had lost its zest. I put my letters down,and seemed to forget them all in thinking of the morning I had passedthat very day. Nothing was real but the unreal presence, which had comelike an evil blast across my bodily eyes, and burnt itself down upon mybrain. Dinner came, and went away untouched. Early in the afternoon Iwalked to the farm-house. I found Mistress Clarke alone, and I was gladand relieved. She was evidently prepared to tell me all I might wish tohear.

  'You asked me for Mistress Lucy's true name; it is Gisborne,' shebegan.

  'Not Gisborne of Skipford?' I exclaimed, breathless with anticipation.

  'The same,' said she, quietly, not regarding my manner. 'Her father isa man of note; although, being a Roman Catholic, he cannot take thatrank in this country to which his station entitles him. The consequenceis that he lives much abroad--has been a soldier, I am told.'

  'And Lucy's mother?' I asked.

  She shook her head. 'I never knew her,' said she. 'Lucy was about threeyears old when I was engaged to take charge of her. Her mother wasdead.'

  'But you know her name?--you can tell if it was Mary Fitzgerald?'

  She looked astonished. 'That was her name. But, sir, how came you to beso well acquainted with it? It was a mystery to the whole household atSkipford Court. She was some beautiful young woman whom he lured awayfrom her protectors while he was abroad. I have heard said he practisedsome terrible deceit upon her, and when she came to know it, she wasneither to have nor to hold, but rushed off from his very arms, andthrew herself into a rapid stream and was drowned. It stung him deepwith remorse, but I used to think the remembrance of the mother's crueldeath made him love the child yet dearer.'

  I told her, as briefly as might be, of my researches after thedescendant and heir of the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added--somethingof my old lawyer spirit returning into me for the moment--that I had nodoubt but that we should prove Lucy to be by right possessed of largeestates in Ireland.

  No flush came over her grey face; no light into her eyes. 'And what isall the wealth in the whole world to that poor girl?' she said. 'Itwill not free her from the ghastly bewitchment which persecutes her. Asfor money, what a pitiful thing it is; it cannot touch her.'

  'No more can the Evil Creature harm her,' I said. 'Her holy naturedwells apart, and cannot be defiled or stained by all the devilish artsin the whole world.'

  'True! but it is a cruel fate to know that all shrink from her, sooneror later, as from one possessed--accursed.'

  'How came it to pass?' I asked.

  'Nay, I know not. Old rumours there are, that were bruited through thehousehold at Skipford.'

  'Tell me,' I demanded.

  'They came from servants, who would fain account for everything. Theysay that, many years ago, Mr. Gisborne killed a dog belonging to an oldwitch at Coldholme; that she cursed, with a dreadful and mysteriouscurse, the creature, whatever it might be, that he should love best;and that it struck so deeply into his heart that for years he kepthimself aloof from any temptation to love aught. But who could helploving Lucy?'

  'You never heard the witch's name?' I gasped.

  'Yes--they called her Bridget; they said he would never go near thespot again for terror of her. Yet he was a brave man!'

  'Listen,' said I, taking hold of her arm, the better to arrest her fullattention; 'if what I suspect holds true, that man stole Bridget's onlychild--the very Mary Fitzgerald who was Lucy's mother; if so, Bridgetcursed him in ignorance of the deeper wrong he had done her. To thishour she yearns after her lost child, and questions the saints whethershe be living or not. The roots of that curse lie deeper than sheknows: she unwittingly banned him for a deeper guilt than that ofkilling a dumb beast. The sins of the fathers are indeed visited uponthe children.'

  'But,' said Mistress Clarke, eagerly, 'she would never let evil rest onher own grandchild? Surely, sir, if what you say be true, there arehopes for Lucy. Let us go--go at once, and tell this fearful woman allthat you suspect, and beseech her to take off the spell she has putupon her innocent grandchild.'

  It seemed to me, indeed, that something like this was the best coursewe could pursue. But first it was necessary to ascertain more than whatmere rumour or careless hearsay could tell. My thoughts turned to myuncle--he could advise me wisely--he ought to know all. I resolved togo to him without delay; but I did not choose to tell Mistress Clarkeof all the visionary plans that flitted through my mind. I simplydeclared my intention of proceeding straight to London on Lucy'saffairs. I bade her believe that my interest on the young lady's behalfwas greater than ever, and that my whole time should be given up to hercause. I saw that Mistress Clarke distrusted me, because my mind wastoo full of thoughts for my words to flow freely. She sighed and shookher head, and said, 'Well, it is all right!' in such a tone that it wasan implied reproach. But I was firm and constant in my heart, and Itook confidence from that.

  I rode to London. I rode long days drawn out into the lovely summernights: I could not rest. I reached London. I told my uncle all, thoughin the stir of the great city the horror had faded away, and I couldhardly imagine that he would believe the account I gave him of thefearful double of Lucy which I had seen on the lonely moor-side. But myuncle had lived many years, and learnt many things; and, in the deepsecrets of family history that had been confided to him, he had heardof cases of innocent people bewitched and taken possession of by evilspirits yet more fearful than Lucy's. For, as he said, to judge fromall I told him, that resemblance had no power over her--she was toopure and good to be tainted by its evil, haunting presence. It had, inall probability, so my uncle conceived, tried to suggest wickedthoughts and to tempt to wicked actions; but she, in her saintlymaidenhood, had passed on undefiled by evil thought or deed. It couldnot touch her soul: but true, it set her apart from all sweet love orcommon human intercourse. My uncle threw himself with an energy morelike six-and-twenty than sixty into the consideration of the wholecase. He undertook the proving Lucy's descent, and volunteered to goand find out Mr. Gisborne, and obtain, firstly, the legal proofs of herdescent from the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and, secondly, to try and hearall that he could respecting the working of the curse, and whether anyand what means had been taken to exorcise that terrible appearance. Forhe told me of instances where, by prayers and long fasting, the evilpossessor had been driven forth with howling and many cries from thebody which it had come to inhabit; he spoke of those strange NewEngland cases which had happened not so long before; of Mr. Defoe, whohad written a book, wherein he had named many modes of subduingapparitions, and sending them back whence they came; and, lastly, hespoke low of dreadful ways of compelling witches to undo theirwitchcraft. But I could not endure to hear of those tortures andburnings. I said that Bridget was rather a wild and savage woman than amalignant witch; and, above all, that Lucy was of her kith and kin; andthat, in putting her to the trial, by water
or by fire, we should betorturing--it might be to the death--the ancestress of her we sought toredeem.

  My uncle thought awhile, and then said, that in this last matter I wasright--at any rate, it should not be tried, with his consent, till allother modes of remedy had failed; and he assented to my proposal that Ishould go myself and see Bridget, and tell her all.

  In accordance with this, I went down once more to the wayside inn nearColdholme. It was late at night when I arrived there; and, while Isupped, I inquired of the landlord more particulars as to Bridget'sways. Solitary and savage had been her life for many years. Wild anddespotic were her words and manner to those few people who came acrossher path. The country-folk did her imperious bidding, because theyfeared to disobey. If they pleased her, they prospered; if, on thecontrary, they neglected or traversed her behests, misfortune, small orgreat, fell on them and theirs. It was not detestation so much as anindefinable terror that she excited.

  In the morning I went to see her. She was standing on the green outsideher cottage, and received me with the sullen grandeur of a thronelessqueen. I read in her face that she recognised me, and that I was notunwelcome; but she stood silent till I had opened my errand.

  'I have news of your daughter,' said I, resolved to speak straight toall that I knew she felt of love, and not to spare her. 'She is dead!'

  The stern figure scarcely trembled, but her hand sought the support ofthe door-post.

  'I knew that she was dead,' said she, deep and low, and then was silentfor an instant. 'My tears that should have flowed for her were burnt uplong years ago. Young man, tell me about her.'

  'Not yet,' said I, having a strange power given me of confronting one,whom, nevertheless, in my secret soul I dreaded.

  'You had once a little dog,' I continued. The words called out in hermore show of emotion than the intelligence of her daughter's death. Shebroke in upon my speech:

  'I had! It was hers--the last thing I had of hers--and it was shot forwantonness! It died in my arms. The man who killed that dog rues it tothis day. For that dumb beast's blood, his best-beloved standsaccursed.'

  Her eyes distended, as if she were in a trance and saw the working ofher curse. Again I spoke:

  'O, woman!' I said, 'that best-beloved, standing accursed before men,is your dead daughter's child.'

  The life, the energy, the passion came back to the eyes with which shepierced through me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without anotherquestion or word, she threw herself on the ground with fearfulvehemence, and clutched at the innocent daisies with convulsed hands.

  'Bone of my bone! flesh of my flesh! have I cursed thee--and art thouaccursed?'

  So she moaned, as she lay prostrate in her great agony. I stood aghastat my own work. She did not hear my broken sentences; she asked nomore, but the dumb confirmation which my sad looks had given that onefact, that her curse rested on her own daughter's child. The fear grewon me lest she should die in her strife of body and soul; and thenmight not Lucy remain under the spell as long as she lived?

  Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming through the woodland path thatled to Bridget's cottage; Mistress Clarke was with her: I felt at myheart that it was she, by the balmy peace which the look of her sentover me, as she slowly advanced, a glad surprise shining out of hersoft quiet eyes. That was as her gaze met mine. As her looks fell onthe woman lying stiff, convulsed on the earth, they became full oftender pity; and she came forward to try and lift her up. Seatingherself on the turf, she took Bridget's head into her lap; and, withgentle touches, she arranged the dishevelled grey hair streaming thickand wild from beneath her mutch.

  'God help her!' murmured Lucy. 'How she suffers!'

  At her desire we sought for water; but when we returned, Bridget hadrecovered her wandering senses, and was kneeling with clasped handsbefore Lucy, gazing at that sweet sad face as though her troublednature drank in health and peace from every moment's contemplation. Afaint tinge on Lucy's pale cheeks showed me that she was aware of ourreturn; otherwise it appeared as if she was conscious of her influencefor good over the passionate and troubled woman kneeling before her,and would not willingly avert her grave and loving eyes from thatwrinkled and careworn countenance.

  Suddenly--in the twinkling of an eye--the creature appeared, there,behind Lucy; fearfully the same as to outward semblance, but kneelingexactly as Bridget knelt, and clasping her hands in jesting mimicry asBridget clasped hers in her ecstasy that was deepening into a prayer.Mistress Clarke cried out--Bridget arose slowly, her gaze fixed on thecreature beyond: drawing her breath with a hissing sound, never movingher terrible eyes, that were steady as stone, she made a dart at thephantom, and caught, as I had done, a mere handful of empty air. We sawno more of the creature--it vanished as suddenly as it came, butBridget looked slowly on, as if watching some receding form. Lucy satstill, white, trembling, drooping--I think she would have swooned if Ihad not been there to uphold her. While I was attending to her, Bridgetpassed us, without a word to any one, and, entering her cottage, shebarred herself in, and left us without.

  All our endeavours were now directed to get Lucy back to the housewhere she had tarried the night before. Mistress Clarke told me that,not hearing from me (some letter must have miscarried), she had grownimpatient and despairing, and had urged Lucy to the enterprise ofcoming to seek her grandmother; not telling her, indeed, of the dreadreputation she possessed, or how we suspected her of having sofearfully blighted that innocent girl; but, at the same time, hopingmuch from the mysterious stirring of blood, which Mistress Clarketrusted in for the removal of the curse. They had come, by a differentroute from that which I had taken, to a village inn not far fromColdholme, only the night before. This was the first interview betweenancestress and descendant.

  All through the sultry noon I wandered along the tangled wood-paths ofthe old neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a matterso complicated and mysterious. Meeting a countryman, I asked my way tothe nearest clergyman, and went, hoping to obtain some counsel fromhim. But he proved to be a coarse and common-minded man, giving no timeor attention to the intricacies of a case, but dashing out a strongopinion involving immediate action. For instance, as soon as I namedBridget Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:

  'The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist! I'd have had her ducked longsince but for that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest. He has had tothreaten honest folk about here over and over again, or they'd have hadher up before the justices for her black doings. And it's the law ofthe land that witches should be burnt! Ay, and of Scripture, too, sir!Yet you see a papist, if he's a rich squire, can overrule both law andScripture. I'd carry a fagot myself to rid the country of her!'

  Such a one could give me no help. I rather drew back what I had alreadysaid; and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him toseveral pots of beer, in the village inn, to which we had adjourned forour conference at his suggestion. I left him as soon as I could, andreturned to Coldholme, shaping my way past deserted StarkeyManor-House, and coming upon it by the back. At that side were theoblong remains of the old moat, the waters of which lay placid andmotionless under the crimson rays of the setting sun; with theforest-trees lying straight along each side, and their deep-greenfoliage mirrored to blackness in the burnished surface of the moatbelow--and the broken sun-dial at the end nearest the hall--and theheron, standing on one leg at the water's edge, lazily looking down forfish--the lonely and desolate house scarce needed the broken windows,the weeds on the door-sill, the broken shutter softly flapping to andfro in the twilight breeze, to fill up the picture of desertion anddecay. I lingered about the place until the growing darkness warned meon. And then I passed along the path, cut by the orders of the lastlady of Starkey Manor-House, that led me to Bridget's cottage. Iresolved at once to see her; and, in spite of closed doors--it might beof resolved will--she should see me. So I knocked at her door, gently,loudly, fiercely. I shook it so vehemently that at length the oldhinges gave way, and with a crash it fell inwards, leaving me suddenly
face to face with Bridget--I, red, heated, agitated with my solong-baffled efforts--she, stiff as any stone, standing right facingme, her eyes dilated with terror, her ashen lips trembling, but herbody motionless. In her hands she held her crucifix, as if by that holysymbol she sought to oppose my entrance. At sight of me, her wholeframe relaxed, and she sank back upon a chair. Some mighty tension hadgiven way. Still her eyes looked fearfully into the gloom of the outerair, made more opaque by the glimmer of the lamp inside, which she hadplaced before the picture of the Virgin.

  'Is she there?' asked Bridget, hoarsely.

  'No! Who? I am alone. You remember me.'

  'Yes,' replied she, still terror-stricken. 'But she--that creature--hasbeen looking in upon me through that window all day long. I closed itup with my shawl; and then I saw her feet below the door, as long as itwas light, and I knew she heard my very breathing--nay, worse, my veryprayers; and I could not pray, for her listening choked the words erethey rose to my lip. Tell me, who is she?--what means that double girlI saw this morning? One had a look of my dead Mary; but the othercurdled my blood, and yet it was the same!'

  She had taken hold of my arm, as if to secure herself some humancompanionship. She shook all over with the slight, never-ceasing tremorof intense terror. I told her my tale, as I have told it you, sparingnone of the details.

  How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had drivenLucy forth from her father's house--how I had disbelieved, until, withmine own eyes, I had seen another Lucy standing behind my Lucy, thesame in form and feature, but with the demon-soul looking out of theeyes. I told her all, I say, believing that she--whose curse wasworking so upon the life of her innocent grandchild--was the onlyperson who could find the remedy and the redemption. When I had done,she sat silent for many minutes.

  'You love Mary's child?' she asked.

  'I do, in spite of the fearful working of the curse--I love her. Yet Ishrink from her ever since that day on the moor-side. And men mustshrink from one so accompanied; friends and lovers must stand afar off.Oh, Bridget Fitzgerald! loosen the curse! Set her free!'

  'Where is she?'

  I eagerly caught at the idea that her presence was needed, in orderthat, by some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be reversed.

  'I will go and bring her to you,' I exclaimed. But Bridget tightenedher hold upon my arm.

  'Not so,' said she, in a low, hoarse voice. 'It would kill me to seeher again as I saw her this morning. And I must live till I have workedmy work. Leave me!' said she, suddenly, and again taking up the cross.'I defy the demon I have called up. Leave me to wrestle with it!'

  She stood up, as if in an ecstasy of inspiration, from which all fearwas banished. I lingered--why, I can hardly tell--until once more shebade me begone. As I went along the forest way, I looked back, and sawher planting the cross in the empty threshold, where the door had been.

  The next morning Lucy and I went to seek her, to bid her join herprayers with ours. The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze. Nohuman being was there: the cross remained on the threshold, but Bridgetwas gone.