The Poor Clare

by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

mistress” in all her fortunes; they had lived at St. Germains and atAntwerp, and were now come to her home in Lancashire. As soon as Bridgethad arrived there, the Squire gave her a cottage of her own, and tookmore pains in furnishing it for her than he did in anything else out ofhis own house. It was only nominally her residence. She was constantlyup at the great house; indeed, it was but a short cut across the woodsfrom her own home to the home of her nursling. Her daughter Mary, inlike manner, moved from one house to the other at her own will. Madamloved both mother and child dearly. They had great influence over her,and, through her, over her husband. Whatever Bridget or Mary willed wassure to come to pass. They were not disliked; for, though wild andpassionate, they were also generous by nature. But the other servantswere afraid of them, as being in secret the ruling spirits of thehousehold. The Squire had lost his interest in all secular things; Madamwas gentle, affectionate, and yielding. Both husband and wife weretenderly attached to each other and to their boy; but they grew more andmore to shun the trouble of decision on any point; and hence it was thatBridget could exert such despotic power. But if everyone else yielded toher “magic of a superior mind,” her daughter not unfrequently rebelled.She and her mother were too much alike to agree. There were wildquarrels between them, and wilder reconciliations. There were timeswhen, in the heat of passion, they could have stabbed each other. At allother times they both—Bridget especially—would have willingly laid downtheir lives for one another. Bridget’s love for her child lay verydeep—deeper than that daughter ever knew; or I should think she wouldnever have wearied of home as she did, and prayed her mistress to obtainfor her some situation—as waiting maid—beyond the seas, in that morecheerful continental life, among the scenes of which so many of herhappiest years had been spent. She thought, as youth thinks, that lifewould last for ever, and that two or three years were but a small portionof it to pass away from her mother, whose only child she was. Bridgetthought differently, but was too proud ever to show what she felt. Ifher child wished to leave her, why—she should go. But people saidBridget became ten years older in the course of two months at this time.She took it that Mary wanted to leave her. The truth was, that Marywanted for a time to leave the place, and to seek some change, and wouldthankfully have taken her mother with her. Indeed when Madam Starkey hadgotten her a situation with some grand lady abroad, and the time drewnear for her to go, it was Mary who clung to her mother with passionateembrace, and, with floods of tears, declared that she would never leaveher; and it was Bridget, who at last loosened her arms, and, grave andtearless herself, bade her keep her word, and go forth into the wideworld. Sobbing aloud, and looking back continually, Mary went away.Bridget was still as death, scarcely drawing her breath, or closing herstony eyes; till at last she turned back into her cottage, and heaved aponderous old settle against the door. There she sat, motionless, overthe gray ashes of her extinguished fire, deaf to Madam’s sweet voice, asshe begged leave to enter and comfort her nurse. Deaf, stony, andmotionless, she sat for more than twenty hours; till, for the third time,Madam came across the snowy path from the great house, carrying with hera young spaniel, which had been Mary’s pet up at the hall; and which hadnot ceased all night long to seek for its absent mistress, and to whineand moan after her. With tears Madam told this story, through the closeddoor—tears excited by the terrible look of anguish, so steady, soimmovable—so the same to-day as it was yesterday—on her nurse’s face.The little creature in her arms began to utter its piteous cry, as itshivered with the cold. Bridget stirred; she moved—she listened. Againthat long whine; she thought it was for her daughter; and what she haddenied to her nursling and mistress she granted to the dumb creature thatMary had cherished. She opened the door, and took the dog from Madam’sarms. Then Madam came in, and kissed and comforted the old woman, whotook but little notice of her or anything. And sending up Master Patrickto the hall for fire and food, the sweet young lady never left her nurseall that night. Next day, the Squire himself came down, carrying abeautiful foreign picture—Our Lady of the Holy Heart, the Papists callit. It is a picture of the Virgin, her heart pierced with arrows, eacharrow representing one of her great woes. That picture hung in Bridget’scottage when I first saw her; I have that picture now.

  Years went on. Mary was still abroad. Bridget was still and stern,instead of active and passionate. The little dog, Mignon, was indeed herdarling. I have heard that she talked to it continually; although, tomost people, she was so silent. The Squire and Madam treated her withthe greatest consideration, and well they might; for to them she was asdevoted and faithful as ever. Mary wrote pretty often, and seemedsatisfied with her life. But at length the letters ceased—I hardly knowwhether before or after a great and terrible sorrow came upon the houseof the Starkeys. The Squire sickened of a putrid fever; and Madam caughtit in nursing him, and died. You may be sure, Bridget let no other womantend her but herself; and in the very arms that had received her at herbirth, that sweet young woman laid her head down, and gave up her breath.The Squire recovered, in a fashion. He was never strong—he had never theheart to smile again. He fasted and prayed more than ever; and peopledid say that he tried to cut off the entail, and leave all the propertyaway to found a monastery abroad, of which he prayed that some day littleSquire Patrick might be the reverend father. But he could not do this,for the strictness of the entail and the laws against the Papists. So hecould only appoint gentlemen of his own faith as guardians to his son,with many charges about the lad’s soul, and a few about the land, and theway it was to be held while he was a minor. Of course, Bridget was notforgotten. He sent for her as he lay on his death-bed, and asked her ifshe would rather have a sum down, or have a small annuity settled uponher. She said at once she would have a sum down; for she thought of herdaughter, and how she could bequeath the money to her, whereas an annuitywould have died with her. So the Squire left her her cottage for life,and a fair sum of money. And then he died, with as ready and willing aheart as, I suppose, ever any gentleman took out of this world with him.The young Squire was carried off by his guardians, and Bridget was leftalone.

  I have said that she had not heard from Mary for some time. In her lastletter, she had told of travelling about with her mistress, who was theEnglish wife of some great foreign officer, and had spoken of her chancesof making a good marriage, without naming the gentleman’s name, keepingit rather back as a pleasant surprise to her mother; his station andfortune being, as I had afterwards reason to know, far superior toanything she had a right to expect. Then came a long silence; and Madamwas dead, and the Squire was dead; and Bridget’s heart was gnawed byanxiety, and she knew not whom to ask for news of her child. She couldnot write, and the Squire had managed her communication with herdaughter. She walked off to Hurst; and got a good priest there—one whomshe had known at Antwerp—to write for her. But no answer came. It waslike crying into the’ awful stillness of night.

  One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been accustomedto mark her goings-out and comings-in. She had never been sociable withany of them; but the sight of her had become a part of their daily lives,and slow wonder arose in their minds, as morning after morning came, andher house-door remained closed, her window dead from any glitter, orlight of fire within. At length, some one tried the door; it was locked.Two or three laid their heads together, before daring to look in throughthe blank unshuttered window. But, at last, they summoned up courage;and then saw that Bridget’s absence from their little world was not theresult of accident or death, but of premeditation. Such small articlesof furniture as could be secured from the effects of time and damp bybeing packed up, were stowed away in boxes. The picture of the Madonnawas taken down, and gone. In a word, Bridget had stolen away from herhome, and left no trace whither she was departed. I knew afterwards,that she and her little dog had wandered off on the long search for herlost daughter. She was too illiterate to have faith in letters, even hadshe had the means of writing
and sending many. But she had faith in herown strong love, and believed that her passionate instinct would guideher to her child. Besides, foreign travel was no new thing to her, andshe could speak enough of French to explain the object of her journey,and had, moreover, the advantage of being, from her faith, a welcomeobject of charitable hospitality at many a distant convent. But thecountry people round Starkey Manor-house knew nothing of all this. Theywondered what had become of her, in a torpid, lazy fashion, and then leftoff thinking of her altogether. Several years passed. Both Manor-houseand cottage were deserted. The young Squire lived far away under thedirection of his guardians. There were inroads of wool and corn into thesitting-rooms of the Hall; and there was some low talk, from time totime, among the hinds and country people whether it would not be as wellto break into old Bridget’s cottage, and save such of her goods as wereleft from the moth and rust which must be making sad