ofsolitary weeping; but it was neither cunning nor malignant.
“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,”—thenher strong nature mastered her strong will, and she cried out, with atrembling wailing cry: “Oh, man! what of her?—what of her?”
She rose from her seat, and came and clutched at my arm, and looked in myeyes. 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 not daringto speak to the lone and awful woman. After a little pause, she kneltdown before the picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart, and spoke to herby all the fanciful and poetic names of the Litany.
“O Rose of Sharon! O Tower of David! O Star of the Sea! have ye 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 prayers grewwilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the borders ofmadness and blasphemy. Almost involuntarily, I spoke as if to stop her.
“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 in theflesh. No tongue ever told me; but I know she is dead. I have yearnedso to see her, and my heart’s will is fearful and strong: it would havedrawn her to me before now, if she had been a wanderer on the other sideof the world. I wonder often it has not drawn her out of the grave tocome and stand before me, and hear me tell her how I loved her. For,sir, we parted unfriends.”
I knew nothing but the dry particulars needed for my lawyer’s quest, butI could not help feeling for the desolate woman; and she must have readthe 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 on earth;but my wishes are terrible—their power goes beyond my thought—and thereis 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 recognizing the lost one under the appellation she then bore. Atlength the thought took possession of her, that it was possible that allthis time Mary might be at home at Coldholme, in the Trough of Bolland,in Lancashire, in England; and home came Bridget, in that vain hope, toher desolate hearth, and empty cottage. Here she had thought it safestto remain; if Mary was in life, it was here she would seek for hermother.
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 search ina strange and extraordinary manner. It seemed as if it were impressedupon me, that I must take up the quest where Bridget had laid it down;and this for no reason that had previously influenced me (such as myuncle’s anxiety on the subject, my own reputation as a lawyer, and soon), but from some strange power which had taken possession of my willonly that very morning, and which forced it in the direction it chose.
“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 she mayhave 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 ecstasy, 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 I mightgain 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 it wouldbe some time before I could receive an answer. So I followed my uncle’sadvice, to whom I had mentioned how wearied I felt, both in body andmind, by my will-o’-the-wisp search. He immediately told me to go toHarrogate, there to await Sir Philip’s reply. I should be near to one ofthe places connected with my search, Coldholme; not far from Sir PhilipTempest, in case he returned, and I wished to ask him any furtherquestions; and, in conclusion, my uncle bade me try to forget all aboutmy 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 and resistingthe tempestuous force. I was somewhat in the same predicament asregarded my mental state. Something resistless seemed to urge mythoughts on, through every possible course by which there was a chance ofattaining to my object. I did not see the sweeping moors when I walkedout: when I held a book in my hand, and read the words, their sense didnot penetrate to my brain. If I slept, I went on with the same ideas,always flowing in the same direction. This could not last long withouthaving a bad effect on the body. I had an illness, which, although I wasracked with pain, was a positive relief to me, as it compelled me to livein the present suffering, and not in the visionary researches I had beencontinually making before. My kind uncle came to nurse me; and after theimmediate danger was over, my life seemed to slip away in deliciouslanguor for two or three months. I did not ask—so much did I dreadfalling into the old channel of thought—whether any reply had beenreceived to my letter to Sir Philip. I turned my whole imagination rightaway from all that subject. My uncle remained with me until nighmidsummer, and then returned to his business in London; leaving meperfectly well, although not completely strong. I was to follow him in afortnight; when, as he said, “we would look over letters, and talk aboutseveral things.” I knew what this little speech alluded to, and shrankfrom the train of thought it suggested, which was so intimately connectedwith my first feelings of illness. However, I had a fortnight more toroam on those invigorating Yorkshire 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 rou
nd about, inthe farm-houses of the district. It was so early in the season, that Ihad 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, quite ina motherly way; while he consulted me about vintages and wines, andtaught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle about horses. In my walks I met otherstrangers from time to time. Even before my uncle had left me, I hadnoticed, with half-torpid curiosity, a young lady of very strikingappearance, who went about always accompanied by an elderlycompanion,—hardly a gentlewoman, but with something in her look thatprepossessed me in her favour. The younger lady always put her veil downwhen any one approached; so it had been only once or twice, when I hadcome upon her at a sudden turn in the path, that I had even had a glimpseat her face. I am not sure if it was beautiful, though in after-life Igrew to think it so. But it was at this time overshadowed by a sadnessthat never
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