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, he supportinghimself by the opinion of his good friend Sir Matthew Hale. Yet thissounded like the tale of one bewitched; or was it merely the effect of alife of extreme seclusion telling on the nerves of a sensitive girl? Myscepticism inclined me to the latter belief, and when 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 soul lookingout of the gray eyes, that were in turns mocking and voluptuous. Myheart stood still within me; every hair rose up erect; my flesh creptwith horror. I could not see the grave and tender Lucy—my eyes werefascinated by the creature beyond. I know not why, but I put out my handto clutch it; I grasped nothing but empty air, and my whole blood curdledto ice. For a moment I could not see; then my sight came back, and I sawLucy standing before me, alone, deathly pale, 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 on anold harpsichord when the strings have ceased to vibrate. She read heranswer in my face, I suppose, for I could not speak. Her look was one ofintense fear, but that died away into an aspect of most humble patience.At length she seemed to force herself to face behind and around her: shesaw the purple moors, the blue distant hills, quivering in 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 so inextricablyblended with the shuddering thought of IT. She seemed to understand whatI must be feeling. She let go my hand, which she had kept clasped untilthen, when we reached the garden gate, and went forwards to meet heranxious friend, who was standing by the window looking for her. I couldnot enter the house: I needed silence, society, leisure, change—I knewnot what—to shake off the sensation of that creature’s presence. Yet Ilingered about the garden—I hardly know why; I partly suppose, because Ifeared to encounter the resemblance again on the solitary common, whereit had vanished, and partly from a feeling of inexpressible compassionfor Lucy. In a few minutes Mistress Clarke came forth and joined me. Wewalked some paces in 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 and holyLucy 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 find someway 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 my letters.There was one from my uncle, one from my home in Devonshire, and one,re-directed over the first address, sealed with a great coat of arms, Itwas from Sir Philip Tempest: my letter of inquiry respecting MaryFitzgerald had reached him at Liége, where it so happened that the Countde la Tour d’Auvergne was quartered at the very time. He remembered hiswife’s beautiful attendant; she had had high words with the deceasedcountess, respecting her intercourse with an English gentleman of goodstanding, who was also in the foreign service. The countess augured evilof his intentions; while Mary, proud and vehement, asserted that he wouldsoon marry her, and resented her mistress’s warnings as an insult. Theconsequence was, that she had left Madame de la Tour d’Auvergne’sservice, and, as the Count believed, had gone to live with theEnglishman; whether he had married her, or not, he could not say. “But,”added Sir Philip Tempest, “you may easily hear what particulars you wishto know respecting Mary Fitzgerald from the Englishman himself, if, as Isuspect, he is no other than my neighbour and former acquaintance, Mr.Gisborne, of Skipford Hall, in the West Riding. I am led to the beliefthat he is no other, by several small particulars, none of which are inthemselves conclusive, but which, taken together, furnish a mass ofpresumptive evidence. As far as I could make out from the Count’sforeign pronunciation, Gisborne was the name of the Englishman: I knowthat Gisborne of Skipford was abroad and in the foreign service at thattime—he was a likely fellow enough for such an exploit, and, above all,certain expressions recur to my mind which he used in reference to oldBridget Fitzgerald, of Coldholme, whom he once encountered while stayingwith me at Starkey Manor-house. I remember that the meeting seemed tohave produced some extraordinary effect upon his mind, as though he hadsuddenly discovered some connection which she might have had with hisprevious life. I beg you to let me know if I can be of any furtherservice to you. Your uncle once rendered me a good turn, and I willgladly 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,” she began.
“Not Gisborne of Skipford?” I exclaimed, breathless with anticipation.
“The same,” said she, quietly, not regarding my manner. “Her father is aman of note; although, being a Roman Catholic, he cannot take that rankin this country to which his station entitles him. The consequence isthat 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, and threwherself into a rapid stream and was drowned. It stung him deep withremorse, but I used to think the remembrance of the mother’s cruel deathmade him love the child yet dearer.”
I told her, as briefly as might be, of my researches after the descendantand heir of the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added—something of my oldlawyer spirit returning into me for the moment—that I had no doubt butthat we should prove Lucy to be by right possessed of large estates inIreland.
No flush came over her gray face; no light into her eyes. �
��And what isall the wealth in the whole world to that poor girl?” she said. “It willnot free her from the ghastly bewitchment which persecutes her. As formoney, 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, sooner orlater, 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 every thing. 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; andthat it struck so deeply into his heart that for years he kept himselfaloof from any temptation to love aught. But
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