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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poor Clare, by Elizabeth Gaskell
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: The Poor Clare
+
+Author: Elizabeth Gaskell
+
+Release Date: April 21, 2000 [eBook #2548]
+[Most recently updated: February 5, 2024]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: David Price, Audrey Emmitt and Eugenia Corbo
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POOR CLARE ***
+
+
+
+
+                              THE POOR CLARE
+
+                           by Elizabeth Gaskell
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+
+December 12th, 1747.—My life has been strangely bound up with
+extraordinary incidents, some of which occurred before I had any
+connection with the principal actors in them, or indeed, before I even
+knew of their existence.  I suppose, most old men are, like me, more
+given to looking back upon their own career with a kind of fond interest
+and affectionate remembrance, than to watching the events—though these
+may have far more interest for the multitude—immediately passing before
+their eyes.  If this should be the case with the generality of old
+people, how much more so with me! . . . If I am to enter upon that
+strange story connected with poor Lucy, I must begin a long way back.  I
+myself only came to the knowledge of her family history after I knew her;
+but, to make the tale clear to any one else, I must arrange events in the
+order in which they occurred—not that in which I became acquainted with
+them.
+
+There is a great old hall in the north-east of Lancashire, in a part they
+called the Trough of Bolland, adjoining that other district named Craven.
+Starkey Manor-house is rather like a number of rooms clustered round a
+gray, massive, old keep than a regularly-built hall.  Indeed, I suppose
+that the house only consisted of a great tower in the centre, in the days
+when the Scots made their raids terrible as far south as this; and that
+after the Stuarts came in, and there was a little more security of
+property in those parts, the Starkeys of that time added the lower
+building, which runs, two stories high, all round the base of the keep.
+There has been a grand garden laid out in my days, on the southern slope
+near the house; but when I first knew the place, the kitchen-garden at
+the farm was the only piece of cultivated ground belonging to it.  The
+deer used to come within sight of the drawing-room windows, and might
+have browsed quite close up to the house if they had not been too wild
+and shy.  Starkey Manor-house itself stood on a projection or peninsula
+of high land, jutting out from the abrupt hills that form the sides of
+the Trough of Bolland.  These hills were rocky and bleak enough towards
+their summit; lower down they were clothed with tangled copsewood and
+green depths of fern, out of which a gray giant of an ancient forest-tree
+would tower here and there, throwing up its ghastly white branches, as if
+in imprecation, to the sky.  These trees, they told me, were the remnants
+of that forest which existed in the days of the Heptarchy, and were even
+then noted as landmarks.  No wonder that their upper and more exposed
+branches were leafless, and that the dead bark had peeled away, from
+sapless old age.
+
+Not far from the house there were a few cottages, apparently, of the same
+date as the keep; probably built for some retainers of the family, who
+sought shelter—they and their families and their small flocks and
+herds—at the hands of their feudal lord.  Some of them had pretty much
+fallen to decay.  They were built in a strange fashion.  Strong beams had
+been sunk firm in the ground at the requisite distance, and their other
+ends had been fastened together, two and two, so as to form the shape of
+one of those rounded waggon-headed gipsy-tents, only very much larger.
+The spaces between were filled with mud, stones, osiers, rubbish,
+mortar—anything to keep out the weather.  The fires were made in the
+centre of these rude dwellings, a hole in the roof forming the only
+chimney.  No Highland hut or Irish cabin could be of rougher
+construction.
+
+The owner of this property, at the beginning of the present century, was
+a Mr. Patrick Byrne Starkey.  His family had kept to the old faith, and
+were stanch Roman Catholics, esteeming it even a sin to marry any one of
+Protestant descent, however willing he or she might have been to embrace
+the Romish religion.  Mr. Patrick Starkey’s father had been a follower of
+James the Second; and, during the disastrous Irish campaign of that
+monarch he had fallen in love with an Irish beauty, a Miss Byrne, as
+zealous for her religion and for the Stuarts as himself.  He had returned
+to Ireland after his escape to France, and married her, bearing her back
+to the court at St. Germains.  But some licence on the part of the
+disorderly gentlemen who surrounded King James in his exile, had insulted
+his beautiful wife, and disgusted him; so he removed from St. Germains to
+Antwerp, whence, in a few years’ time, he quietly returned to Starkey
+Manor-house—some of his Lancashire neighbours having lent their good
+offices to reconcile him to the powers that were.  He was as firm a
+Catholic as ever, and as stanch an advocate for the Stuarts and the
+divine rights of kings; but his religion almost amounted to asceticism,
+and the conduct of these with whom he had been brought in such close
+contact at St. Germains would little bear the inspection of a stern
+moralist.  So he gave his allegiance where he could not give his esteem,
+and learned to respect sincerely the upright and moral character of one
+whom he yet regarded as an usurper.  King William’s government had little
+need to fear such a one.  So he returned, as I have said, with a sobered
+heart and impoverished fortunes, to his ancestral house, which had fallen
+sadly to ruin while the owner had been a courtier, a soldier, and an
+exile.  The roads into the Trough of Bolland were little more than
+cart-ruts; indeed, the way up to the house lay along a ploughed field
+before you came to the deer-park.  Madam, as the country-folk used to
+call Mrs. Starkey, rode on a pillion behind her husband, holding on to
+him with a light hand by his leather riding-belt.  Little master (he that
+was afterwards Squire Patrick Byrne Starkey) was held on to his pony by a
+serving-man.  A woman past middle age walked, with a firm and strong
+step, by the cart that held much of the baggage; and high up on the mails
+and boxes, sat a girl of dazzling beauty, perched lightly on the topmost
+trunk, and swaying herself fearlessly to and fro, as the cart rocked and
+shook in the heavy roads of late autumn.  The girl wore the Antwerp
+faille, or black Spanish mantle over her head, and altogether her
+appearance was such that the old cottager, who described the possession
+to me many years after, said that all the country-folk took her for a
+foreigner.  Some dogs, and the boy who held them in charge, made up the
+company.  They rode silently along, looking with grave, serious eyes at
+the people, who came out of the scattered cottages to bow or curtsy to
+the real Squire, “come back at last,” and gazed after the little
+procession with gaping wonder, not deadened by the sound of the foreign
+language in which the few necessary words that passed among them were
+spoken.  One lad, called from his staring by the Squire to come and help
+about the cart, accompanied them to the Manor-house.  He said that when
+the lady had descended from her pillion, the middle-aged woman whom I
+have described as walking while the others rode, stepped quickly forward,
+and taking Madam Starkey (who was of a slight and delicate figure) in her
+arms, she lifted her over the threshold, and set her down in her
+husband’s house, at the same time uttering a passionate and outlandish
+blessing.  The Squire stood by, smiling gravely at first; but when the
+words of blessing were pronounced, he took off his fine feathered hat,
+and bent his head.  The girl with the black mantle stepped onward into
+the shadow of the dark hall, and kissed the lady’s hand; and that was all
+the lad could tell to the group that gathered round him on his return,
+eager to hear everything, and to know how much the Squire had given him
+for his services.
+
+From all I could gather, the Manor-house, at the time of the Squire’s
+return, was in the most dilapidated state.  The stout gray walls remained
+firm and entire; but the inner chambers had been used for all kinds of
+purposes.  The great withdrawing-room had been a barn; the state
+tapestry-chamber had held wool, and so on.  But, by-and-by, they were
+cleared out; and if the Squire had no money to spend on new furniture, he
+and his wife had the knack of making the best of the old.  He was no
+despicable joiner; she had a kind of grace in whatever she did, and
+imparted an air of elegant picturesqueness to whatever she touched.
+Besides, they had brought many rare things from the Continent; perhaps I
+should rather say, things that were rare in that part of
+England—carvings, and crosses, and beautiful pictures.  And then, again,
+wood was plentiful in the Trough of Bolland, and great log-fires danced
+and glittered in all the dark, old rooms, and gave a look of home and
+comfort to everything.
+
+Why do I tell you all this?  I have little to do with the Squire and
+Madame Starkey; and yet I dwell upon them, as if I were unwilling to come
+to the real people with whom my life was so strangely mixed up.  Madam
+had been nursed in Ireland by the very woman who lifted her in her arms,
+and welcomed her to her husband’s home in Lancashire.  Excepting for the
+short period of her own married life, Bridget Fitzgerald had never left
+her nursling.  Her marriage—to one above her in rank—had been unhappy.
+Her husband had died, and left her in even greater poverty than that in
+which she was when he had first met with her.  She had one child, the
+beautiful daughter who came riding on the waggon-load of furniture that
+was brought to the Manor-house.  Madame Starkey had taken her again into
+her service when she became a widow.  She and her daughter had followed
+“the mistress” in all her fortunes; they had lived at St. Germains and at
+Antwerp, and were now come to her home in Lancashire.  As soon as Bridget
+had arrived there, the Squire gave her a cottage of her own, and took
+more pains in furnishing it for her than he did in anything else out of
+his own house.  It was only nominally her residence.  She was constantly
+up at the great house; indeed, it was but a short cut across the woods
+from her own home to the home of her nursling.  Her daughter Mary, in
+like manner, moved from one house to the other at her own will.  Madam
+loved both mother and child dearly.  They had great influence over her,
+and, through her, over her husband.  Whatever Bridget or Mary willed was
+sure to come to pass.  They were not disliked; for, though wild and
+passionate, they were also generous by nature.  But the other servants
+were afraid of them, as being in secret the ruling spirits of the
+household.  The Squire had lost his interest in all secular things; Madam
+was gentle, affectionate, and yielding.  Both husband and wife were
+tenderly attached to each other and to their boy; but they grew more and
+more to shun the trouble of decision on any point; and hence it was that
+Bridget could exert such despotic power.  But if everyone else yielded to
+her “magic of a superior mind,” her daughter not unfrequently rebelled.
+She and her mother were too much alike to agree.  There were wild
+quarrels between them, and wilder reconciliations.  There were times
+when, in the heat of passion, they could have stabbed each other.  At all
+other times they both—Bridget especially—would have willingly laid down
+their lives for one another.  Bridget’s love for her child lay very
+deep—deeper than that daughter ever knew; or I should think she would
+never have wearied of home as she did, and prayed her mistress to obtain
+for her some situation—as waiting maid—beyond the seas, in that more
+cheerful continental life, among the scenes of which so many of her
+happiest years had been spent.  She thought, as youth thinks, that life
+would last for ever, and that two or three years were but a small portion
+of it to pass away from her mother, whose only child she was.  Bridget
+thought differently, but was too proud ever to show what she felt.  If
+her child wished to leave her, why—she should go.  But people said
+Bridget 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 Mary
+wanted for a time to leave the place, and to seek some change, and would
+thankfully have taken her mother with her.  Indeed when Madam Starkey had
+gotten her a situation with some grand lady abroad, and the time drew
+near for her to go, it was Mary who clung to her mother with passionate
+embrace, and, with floods of tears, declared that she would never leave
+her; and it was Bridget, who at last loosened her arms, and, grave and
+tearless herself, bade her keep her word, and go forth into the wide
+world.  Sobbing aloud, and looking back continually, Mary went away.
+Bridget was still as death, scarcely drawing her breath, or closing her
+stony eyes; till at last she turned back into her cottage, and heaved a
+ponderous old settle against the door.  There she sat, motionless, over
+the gray ashes of her extinguished fire, deaf to Madam’s sweet voice, as
+she begged leave to enter and comfort her nurse.  Deaf, stony, and
+motionless, she sat for more than twenty hours; till, for the third time,
+Madam came across the snowy path from the great house, carrying with her
+a young spaniel, which had been Mary’s pet up at the hall; and which had
+not ceased all night long to seek for its absent mistress, and to whine
+and moan after her.  With tears Madam told this story, through the closed
+door—tears excited by the terrible look of anguish, so steady, so
+immovable—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 it
+shivered with the cold.  Bridget stirred; she moved—she listened.  Again
+that long whine; she thought it was for her daughter; and what she had
+denied to her nursling and mistress she granted to the dumb creature that
+Mary had cherished.  She opened the door, and took the dog from Madam’s
+arms.  Then Madam came in, and kissed and comforted the old woman, who
+took but little notice of her or anything.  And sending up Master Patrick
+to the hall for fire and food, the sweet young lady never left her nurse
+all that night.  Next day, the Squire himself came down, carrying a
+beautiful foreign picture—Our Lady of the Holy Heart, the Papists call
+it.  It is a picture of the Virgin, her heart pierced with arrows, each
+arrow representing one of her great woes.  That picture hung in Bridget’s
+cottage 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 her
+darling.  I have heard that she talked to it continually; although, to
+most people, she was so silent.  The Squire and Madam treated her with
+the greatest consideration, and well they might; for to them she was as
+devoted and faithful as ever.  Mary wrote pretty often, and seemed
+satisfied with her life.  But at length the letters ceased—I hardly know
+whether before or after a great and terrible sorrow came upon the house
+of the Starkeys.  The Squire sickened of a putrid fever; and Madam caught
+it in nursing him, and died.  You may be sure, Bridget let no other woman
+tend her but herself; and in the very arms that had received her at her
+birth, 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 the
+heart to smile again.  He fasted and prayed more than ever; and people
+did say that he tried to cut off the entail, and leave all the property
+away to found a monastery abroad, of which he prayed that some day little
+Squire 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 he
+could 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 the
+way it was to be held while he was a minor.  Of course, Bridget was not
+forgotten.  He sent for her as he lay on his death-bed, and asked her if
+she would rather have a sum down, or have a small annuity settled upon
+her.  She said at once she would have a sum down; for she thought of her
+daughter, and how she could bequeath the money to her, whereas an annuity
+would 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 a
+heart 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 left
+alone.
+
+I have said that she had not heard from Mary for some time.  In her last
+letter, she had told of travelling about with her mistress, who was the
+English wife of some great foreign officer, and had spoken of her chances
+of making a good marriage, without naming the gentleman’s name, keeping
+it rather back as a pleasant surprise to her mother; his station and
+fortune being, as I had afterwards reason to know, far superior to
+anything she had a right to expect.  Then came a long silence; and Madam
+was dead, and the Squire was dead; and Bridget’s heart was gnawed by
+anxiety, and she knew not whom to ask for news of her child.  She could
+not write, and the Squire had managed her communication with her
+daughter.  She walked off to Hurst; and got a good priest there—one whom
+she had known at Antwerp—to write for her.  But no answer came.  It was
+like crying into the awful stillness of night.
+
+One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been accustomed
+to mark her goings-out and comings-in.  She had never been sociable with
+any 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, and
+her house-door remained closed, her window dead from any glitter, or
+light 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 through
+the blank unshuttered window.  But, at last, they summoned up courage;
+and then saw that Bridget’s absence from their little world was not the
+result of accident or death, but of premeditation.  Such small articles
+of furniture as could be secured from the effects of time and damp by
+being packed up, were stowed away in boxes.  The picture of the Madonna
+was taken down, and gone.  In a word, Bridget had stolen away from her
+home, 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 her
+lost daughter.  She was too illiterate to have faith in letters, even had
+she had the means of writing and sending many.  But she had faith in her
+own strong love, and believed that her passionate instinct would guide
+her to her child.  Besides, foreign travel was no new thing to her, and
+she could speak enough of French to explain the object of her journey,
+and had, moreover, the advantage of being, from her faith, a welcome
+object of charitable hospitality at many a distant convent.  But the
+country people round Starkey Manor-house knew nothing of all this.  They
+wondered what had become of her, in a torpid, lazy fashion, and then left
+off thinking of her altogether.  Several years passed.  Both Manor-house
+and cottage were deserted.  The young Squire lived far away under the
+direction of his guardians.  There were inroads of wool and corn into the
+sitting-rooms of the Hall; and there was some low talk, from time to
+time, among the hinds and country people whether it would not be as well
+to break into old Bridget’s cottage, and save such of her goods as were
+left from the moth and rust which must be making sad havoc.  But this
+idea was always quenched by the recollection of her strong character and
+passionate anger; and tales of her masterful spirit, and vehement force
+of will, were whispered about, till the very thought of offending her, by
+touching any article of hers, became invested with a kind of horror: it
+was believed that, dead or alive, she would not fail to avenge it.
+
+Suddenly she came home; with as little noise or note of preparation as
+she had departed.  One day some one noticed a thin, blue curl of smoke
+ascending from her chimney.  Her door stood open to the noonday sun; and,
+ere many hours had elapsed, some one had seen an old
+travel-and-sorrow-stained woman dipping her pitcher in the well; and
+said, that the dark, solemn eyes that looked up at him were more like
+Bridget Fitzgerald’s than any one else’s in this world; and yet, if it
+were she, she looked as if she had been scorched in the flames of hell,
+so brown, and scared, and fierce a creature did she seem.  By-and-by many
+saw her; and those who met her eye once cared not to be caught looking at
+her again.  She had got into the habit of perpetually talking to herself;
+nay, more, answering herself, and varying her tones according to the side
+she took at the moment.  It was no wonder that those who dared to listen
+outside her door at night believed that she held converse with some
+spirit; in short, she was unconsciously earning for herself the dreadful
+reputation of a witch.
+
+Her little dog, which had wandered half over the Continent with her, was
+her only companion; a dumb remembrancer of happier days.  Once he was
+ill; and she carried him more than three miles, to ask about his
+management from one who had been groom to the last Squire, and had then
+been noted for his skill in all diseases of animals.  Whatever this man
+did, the dog recovered; and they who heard her thanks, intermingled with
+blessings (that were rather promises of good fortune than prayers),
+looked grave at his good luck when, next year, his ewes twinned, and his
+meadow-grass was heavy and thick.
+
+Now it so happened that, about the year seventeen hundred and eleven, one
+of the guardians of the young squire, a certain Sir Philip Tempest,
+bethought him of the good shooting there must be on his ward’s property;
+and in consequence he brought down four or five gentlemen, of his
+friends, to stay for a week or two at the Hall.  From all accounts, they
+roystered and spent pretty freely.  I never heard any of their names but
+one, and that was Squire Gisborne’s.  He was hardly a middle-aged man
+then; he had been much abroad, and there, I believe, he had known Sir
+Philip Tempest, and done him some service.  He was a daring and dissolute
+fellow in those days: careless and fearless, and one who would rather be
+in a quarrel than out of it.  He had his fits of ill-temper besides, when
+he would spare neither man nor beast.  Otherwise, those who knew him
+well, used to say he had a good heart, when he was neither drunk, nor
+angry, nor in any way vexed.  He had altered much when I came to know
+him.
+
+One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but little
+success, I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had none, and was in a black
+humour accordingly.  He was coming home, having his gun loaded,
+sportsman-like, when little Mignon crossed his path, just as he turned
+out of the wood by Bridget’s cottage.  Partly for wantonness, partly to
+vent his spleen upon some living creature.  Mr. Gisborne took his gun,
+and fired—he had better have never fired gun again, than aimed that
+unlucky shot, he hit Mignon, and at the creature’s sudden cry, Bridget
+came out, and saw at a glance what had been done.  She took Mignon up in
+her arms, and looked hard at the wound; the poor dog looked at her with
+his glazing eyes, and tried to wag his tail and lick her hand, all
+covered with blood.  Mr. Gisborne spoke in a kind of sullen penitence:
+
+“You should have kept the dog out of my way—a little poaching varmint.”
+
+At this very moment, Mignon stretched out his legs, and stiffened in her
+arms—her lost Mary’s dog, who had wandered and sorrowed with her for
+years.  She walked right into Mr. Gisborne’s path, and fixed his
+unwilling, sullen look, with her dark and terrible eye.
+
+“Those never throve that did me harm,” said she.  “I’m alone in the
+world, and helpless; the more do the saints in heaven hear my prayers.
+Hear me, ye blessed ones! hear me while I ask for sorrow on this bad,
+cruel man.  He has killed the only creature that loved me—the dumb beast
+that I loved.  Bring down heavy sorrow on his head for it, O ye saints!
+He thought that I was helpless, because he saw me lonely and poor; but
+are not the armies of heaven for the like of me?”
+
+“Come, come,” said he, half remorseful, but not one whit afraid.  “Here’s
+a crown to buy thee another dog.  Take it, and leave off cursing!  I care
+none for thy threats.”
+
+“Don’t you?” said she, coming a step closer, and changing her imprecatory
+cry for a whisper which made the gamekeeper’s lad, following Mr.
+Gisborne, creep all over.  “You shall live to see the creature you love
+best, and who alone loves you—ay, a human creature, but as innocent and
+fond as my poor, dead darling—you shall see this creature, for whom death
+would be too happy, become a terror and a loathing to all, for this
+blood’s sake.  Hear me, O holy saints, who never fail them that have no
+other help!”
+
+She threw up her right hand, filled with poor Mignon’s life-drops; they
+spirted, one or two of them, on his shooting-dress,—an ominous sight to
+the follower.  But the master only laughed a little, forced, scornful
+laugh, and went on to the Hall.  Before he got there, however, he took
+out a gold piece, and bade the boy carry it to the old woman on his
+return to the village.  The lad was “afeared,” as he told me in after
+years; he came to the cottage, and hovered about, not daring to enter.
+He peeped through the window at last; and by the flickering wood-flame,
+he saw Bridget kneeling before the picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart,
+with dead Mignon lying between her and the Madonna.  She was praying
+wildly, as her outstretched arms betokened.  The lad shrunk away in
+redoubled terror; and contented himself with slipping the gold piece
+under the ill-fitting door.  The next day it was thrown out upon the
+midden; and there it lay, no one daring to touch it.
+
+Meanwhile Mr. Gisborne, half curious, half uneasy, thought to lessen his
+uncomfortable feelings by asking Sir Philip who Bridget was?  He could
+only describe her—he did not know her name.  Sir Philip was equally at a
+loss.  But an old servant of the Starkeys, who had resumed his livery at
+the Hall on this occasion—a scoundrel whom Bridget had saved from
+dismissal more than once during her palmy days—said:—
+
+“It will be the old witch, that his worship means.  She needs a ducking,
+if ever a woman did, does that Bridget Fitzgerald.”
+
+“Fitzgerald!” said both the gentlemen at once.  But Sir Philip was the
+first to continue:—
+
+“I must have no talk of ducking her, Dickon.  Why, she must be the very
+woman poor Starkey bade me have a care of; but when I came here last she
+was gone, no one knew where.  I’ll go and see her to-morrow.  But mind
+you, sirrah, if any harm comes to her, or any more talk of her being a
+witch—I’ve a pack of hounds at home, who can follow the scent of a lying
+knave as well as ever they followed a dog-fox; so take care how you talk
+about ducking a faithful old servant of your dead master’s.”
+
+“Had she ever a daughter?” asked Mr. Gisborne, after a while.
+
+“I don’t know—yes!  I’ve a notion she had; a kind of waiting woman to
+Madam Starkey.”
+
+“Please your worship,” said humbled Dickon, “Mistress Bridget had a
+daughter—one Mistress Mary—who went abroad, and has never been heard on
+since; and folk do say that has crazed her mother.”
+
+Mr. Gisborne shaded his eyes with his hand.
+
+“I could wish she had not cursed me,” he muttered.  “She may have
+power—no one else could.”  After a while, he said aloud, no one
+understanding rightly what he meant, “Tush! it is impossible!”—and called
+for claret; and he and the other gentlemen set-to to a drinking-bout.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+
+I now come to the time in which I myself was mixed up with the people
+that I have been writing about.  And to make you understand how I became
+connected with them, I must give you some little account of myself.  My
+father was the younger son of a Devonshire gentleman of moderate
+property; my eldest uncle succeeded to the estate of his forefathers, my
+second became an eminent attorney in London, and my father took orders.
+Like most poor clergymen, he had a large family; and I have no doubt was
+glad enough when my London uncle, who was a bachelor, offered to 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 from
+Gray’s Inn, and to be treated and esteemed as his son, and to labour with
+him in his office.  I was very fond of the old gentleman.  He was the
+confidential agent of many country squires, and had attained to his
+present position as much by knowledge of human nature as by knowledge of
+law; though he was learned enough in the latter.  He used to say his
+business was law, his pleasure heraldry.  From his intimate acquaintance
+with family history, and all the tragic courses of life therein involved,
+to hear him talk, at leisure times, about any coat of arms that came
+across his path was as good as a play or a romance.  Many cases of
+disputed property, dependent on a love of genealogy, were brought to him,
+as to a great authority on such points.  If the lawyer who came to
+consult him was young, he would take no fee, only give him a long lecture
+on the importance of attending to heraldry; if the lawyer was of mature
+age and good standing, he would mulct him pretty well, and abuse him to
+me afterwards as negligent of one great branch of the profession.  His
+house was in a stately new street called Ormond Street, and in it he had
+a handsome library; but all the books treated of things that were past;
+none of them planned or looked forward into the 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 of practice in which he himself
+took such delight.  I suspect I worked too hard; at any rate, in
+seventeen hundred and eighteen I was far from well, and my good uncle was
+disturbed by my ill looks.
+
+One day, he rang the bell twice into the clerk’s room at the dingy office
+in Grey’s Inn Lane.  It was the summons for me, and I went into his
+private room just as a gentleman—whom I knew well enough by sight as an
+Irish lawyer of more reputation than he deserved—was leaving.
+
+My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering.  I was
+there two or three minutes before he spoke.  Then he told me that I must
+pack up my portmanteau that very afternoon, and start that night by
+post-horse for West Chester.  I should get there, if all went well, at
+the end of five days’ time, and must then wait for a packet to cross over
+to Dublin; from thence I must proceed to a certain town named Kildoon,
+and in that neighbourhood I was to remain, making certain inquiries as to
+the existence of any descendants of the younger branch of a family to
+whom some valuable estates had descended in the female line.  The Irish
+lawyer whom I had seen was weary of the case, and would willingly have
+given up the property, without further ado, to a man who appeared to
+claim them; but on laying his tables and trees before my uncle, the
+latter had foreseen so many possible prior claimants, that the lawyer had
+begged him to undertake the management of the whole business.  In his
+youth, my uncle would have liked nothing better than going over to
+Ireland himself, and ferreting out every scrap of paper or parchment, and
+every word of tradition respecting the family.  As it was, old and gouty,
+he deputed me.
+
+Accordingly, I went to Kildoon.  I suspect I had something of my uncle’s
+delight in following up a genealogical scent, for I very soon found out,
+when on the spot, that Mr. Rooney, the Irish lawyer, would have got both
+himself and the first claimant into a terrible scrape, if he had
+pronounced his opinion that the estates ought to be given up to him.
+There were three poor Irish fellows, each nearer of kin to the last
+possessor; but, a generation before, there was a still nearer relation,
+who had never been accounted for, nor his existence ever discovered by
+the lawyers, I venture to think, till I routed him out from the memory of
+some of the old dependants of the family.  What had become of him?  I
+travelled backwards and forwards; I crossed over to France, and came back
+again with a slight clue, which ended in my discovering that, wild and
+dissipated himself, he had left one child, a son, of yet worse character
+than his father; that this same Hugh Fitzgerald had married a very
+beautiful serving-woman of the Byrnes—a person below him in hereditary
+rank, but above him in character; that he had died soon after his
+marriage, leaving one child, whether a boy or a girl I could not learn,
+and that the mother had returned to live in the family of the Byrnes.
+Now, the chief of this latter family was serving in the Duke of Berwick’s
+regiment, and it was long before I could 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, an Irishman’s hatred for an Englishman, an
+exiled Jacobite’s jealousy of one who prospered and lived tranquilly
+under the government he looked upon as an usurpation.  “Bridget
+Fitzgerald,” he said, “had been faithful to the fortunes of his
+sister—had followed her abroad, and to England when Mrs. Starkey had
+thought fit to return.  Both his sister and her husband were dead, he
+knew nothing of Bridget Fitzgerald at the present time: probably Sir
+Philip Tempest, his nephew’s guardian, might be able to give me some
+information.”  I have not given the little contemptuous terms; the way in
+which faithful service was meant to imply more than it said—all that has
+nothing to do with my story.  Sir Philip, when applied to, told me that
+he paid an annuity regularly to an old woman named Fitzgerald, living at
+Coldholme (the village near Starkey Manor-house).  Whether she had any
+descendants he could not say.
+
+One bleak March evening, I came in sight of the places described at the
+beginning of my story.  I could hardly understand the rude dialect in
+which the direction to old Bridget’s house was given.
+
+“Yo’ see yon furleets,” all run together, gave me no idea that I was to
+guide myself by the distant lights that shone in the windows of the Hall,
+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 grand tour.  However,
+at last, I reached Bridget’s cottage—a low, moss-grown place: the palings
+that had once surrounded it were broken and gone; and the underwood of
+the forest came up to the walls, and must have darkened the windows.  It
+was about seven o’clock—not late to my London notions—but, after knocking
+for some time at the door and receiving no reply, I was driven to
+conjecture that the occupant of the house was gone to bed.  So I betook
+myself to the nearest church I had seen, three miles back on the road I
+had come, sure that close to that I should find an inn of some kind; and
+early the next morning I set off back to Coldholme, by a field-path which
+my host assured me I should find a shorter 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 that covered the ground; nevertheless, I saw
+an old woman, whom I instinctively suspected to be the object of my
+search, in a sheltered covert on one side of my path.  I lingered and
+watched her.  She must have been considerably above the middle size in
+her prime, for when she raised 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 something on the ground, as, with bent head, she
+turned off from the spot where I gazed upon her, and was lost to my
+sight.  I fancy I missed my way, and made a round in spite of the
+landlord’s directions; for by the time I had reached Bridget’s cottage
+she was there, with no semblance of hurried walk or discomposure of any
+kind.  The door was slightly ajar.  I knocked, and the majestic figure
+stood before me, silently awaiting the explanation of my errand.  Her
+teeth were all gone, so the nose and chin were brought near together; the
+gray eyebrows were straight, and almost hung over her deep, cavernous
+eyes, and the thick white hair lay in silvery masses over the low, wide,
+wrinkled forehead.  For a moment, I stood uncertain how to shape my
+answer to the solemn questioning of her silence.
+
+“Your name is Bridget Fitzgerald, I believe?”
+
+She bowed her head in assent.
+
+“I have something to say to you.  May I come in?  I am unwilling to keep
+you standing.”
+
+“You cannot tire me,” she said, and at first she seemed inclined to deny
+me the shelter of her roof.  But the next moment—she had searched the
+very soul in me with her eyes during that instant—she led me in, and
+dropped the shadowing hood of her gray, draping cloak, which had
+previously hid part of the character of her countenance.  The cottage was
+rude and bare enough.  But before the picture of the Virgin, of which I
+have made mention, there stood a little cup filled with fresh primroses.
+While she paid her reverence to the Madonna, I understood why she had
+been out seeking through the clumps of green in the sheltered copse.
+Then she turned round, and bade me be seated.  The expression of her
+face, which all this time I was studying, was not bad, as the stories of
+my last night’s landlord had led me to expect; it was a wild, stern,
+fierce, indomitable countenance, seamed and scarred by agonies of
+solitary weeping; but it was neither cunning nor malignant.
+
+“My name is Bridget Fitzgerald,” said she, by way of opening our
+conversation.
+
+“And your husband was Hugh Fitzgerald, of Knock Mahon, near Kildoon, in
+Ireland?”
+
+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 could
+see; but something rose in her throat, and choked her, and until she
+could 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 nature mastered her strong will, and she cried out, with a
+trembling 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 my
+eyes.  There she read, as I suppose, my utter ignorance of what had
+become of her child; for she went blindly back to her chair, and sat
+rocking herself and softly moaning, as if I were not there; I not daring
+to speak to the lone and awful woman.  After a little pause, she knelt
+down before the picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart, and spoke to 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 ye no
+comfort for my sore heart?  Am I for ever to hope?  Grant me at least
+despair!”—and so on she went, heedless of my presence.  Her prayers grew
+wilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the borders of
+madness 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 the
+flesh.  No tongue ever told me; but I know she is dead.  I have yearned
+so to see her, and my heart’s will is fearful and strong: it would have
+drawn her to me before now, if she had been a wanderer on the other side
+of the world.  I wonder often it has not drawn her out of the grave to
+come 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, but
+I could not help feeling for the desolate woman; and she must have read
+the unusual sympathy with her wistful eyes.
+
+“Yes, sir, we did.  She never knew how I loved her; and we parted
+unfriends; and I fear me that I wished her voyage might not turn out
+well, only meaning,—O, blessed Virgin! you know I only meant that she
+should 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 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 hoped
+she might be alive.  Listen to me,” and I told her the tale I have
+already told you, giving it all in the driest manner, for I wanted to
+recall the clear sense that I felt almost sure she had possessed in her
+younger days, and by keeping up her attention to details, restrain the
+vague wildness of her grief.
+
+She listened with deep attention, putting from time to time such
+questions as convinced me I had to do with no common intelligence,
+however dimmed and shorn by solitude and mysterious sorrow.  Then she
+took up her tale; and in few brief words, told me of her wanderings
+abroad in vain search after her daughter; sometimes in the wake of
+armies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in city.  The lady, whose
+waiting-woman Mary had gone to be, had died soon after the date of her
+last letter home; her husband, the foreign officer, had been serving in
+Hungary, whither Bridget had followed him, but too late to find him.
+Vague rumours reached her that Mary had made a great marriage: and this
+sting of doubt was added,—whether the mother might not be close to her
+child under her new name, and even hearing of her every day; and yet
+never recognizing the lost one under the appellation she then bore.  At
+length the thought took possession of her, that it was possible that all
+this 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, to
+her desolate hearth, and empty cottage.  Here she had thought it safest
+to remain; if Mary was in life, it was here she would seek for her
+mother.
+
+I noted down one or two particulars out of Bridget’s narrative that I
+thought might be of use to me: for I was stimulated to further search in
+a strange and extraordinary manner.  It seemed as if it were impressed
+upon 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 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 of my will
+only 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, or
+pains, or wit can discover.  It is true she may be long dead: but she may
+have left a child.”
+
+“A child!” she cried, as if for the first time this idea had struck her
+mind.  “Hear him, Blessed Virgin! he says she may have left a child.  And
+you have never told me, though I have prayed so for a sign, waking or
+sleeping!”
+
+“Nay,” said I, “I know nothing but what you tell me.  You say you heard
+of her marriage.”
+
+But she caught nothing of what I said.  She was praying to the Virgin in
+a kind of ecstasy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my very
+presence.
+
+From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest’s.  The wife of the foreign
+officer had been a cousin of his father’s, and from him I thought I might
+gain some particulars as to the existence of the Count de la Tour
+d’Auvergne, and where I could find him; for I knew questions _de vive
+voix_ aid the flagging recollection, and I was determined to lose no
+chance for want of trouble.  But Sir Philip had gone abroad, and it would
+be some time before I could receive an answer.  So I followed my uncle’s
+advice, to whom I had mentioned how wearied I felt, both in body and
+mind, by my will-o’-the-wisp search.  He immediately told me to go to
+Harrogate, there to await Sir Philip’s reply.  I should be near to one of
+the places connected with my search, Coldholme; not far from Sir Philip
+Tempest, in case he returned, and I wished to ask him any further
+questions; and, in conclusion, my uncle bade me try to forget all about
+my business for a time.
+
+This was far easier said than done.  I have seen a child on a common
+blown along by a high wind, without power of standing still and resisting
+the tempestuous force.  I was somewhat in the same predicament as
+regarded my mental state.  Something resistless seemed to urge my
+thoughts on, through every possible course by which there was a chance of
+attaining to my object.  I did not see the sweeping moors when I walked
+out: when I held a book in my hand, and read the words, their sense did
+not 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 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 it compelled me to live
+in the present suffering, and not in the visionary researches I had been
+continually making before.  My kind uncle came to nurse me; and after the
+immediate danger was over, my life seemed to slip away in delicious
+languor for two or three months.  I did not ask—so much did I dread
+falling into the old channel of thought—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
+midsummer, and then returned to his business in London; leaving me
+perfectly well, although not completely strong.  I was to follow him in a
+fortnight; when, as he said, “we would look over letters, and talk about
+several things.”  I knew what this little speech alluded to, and shrank
+from the train of thought it suggested, which was so intimately connected
+with my first feelings of illness.  However, I had a fortnight more to
+roam on those invigorating Yorkshire moors.
+
+In those days, there was one large, rambling inn, at Harrogate, close to
+the Medicinal Spring; but it was already becoming too small for the
+accommodation of the influx of visitors, and many lodged round about, in
+the farm-houses of the district.  It was so early in the season, that I
+had the inn pretty much to myself; and, indeed, felt rather like a
+visitor in a private house, so intimate had the landlord and landlady
+become with me during my long illness.  She would chide me for being out
+so late on the moors, or for having been too long without food, quite in
+a motherly way; while he consulted me about vintages and wines, and
+taught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle about horses.  In my walks I met other
+strangers from time to time.  Even before my uncle had left me, I had
+noticed, with half-torpid curiosity, a young lady of very striking
+appearance, who went about always accompanied by an elderly
+companion,—hardly a gentlewoman, but with something in her look that
+prepossessed me in her favour.  The younger lady always put her veil down
+when any one approached; so it had been only once or twice, when I had
+come upon her at a sudden turn in the path, that I had even had a glimpse
+at her face.  I am not sure if it was beautiful, though in after-life I
+grew to think it so.  But it was at this time overshadowed by a sadness
+that never varied: a pale, quiet, resigned look of intense suffering,
+that irresistibly attracted me,—not with love, but with a sense of
+infinite compassion for one so young yet so hopelessly unhappy.  The
+companion wore something of the same look: quiet melancholy, hopeless,
+yet resigned.  I asked my landlord who they were.  He said they were
+called Clarke, 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
+that there was any such relationship between them.  They had been in the
+neighbourhood of Harrogate for some time, lodging in a remote farm-house.
+The people there would tell nothing about them; saying that they paid
+handsomely, and never did any harm; so why should they be speaking of any
+strange things that might happen?  That, as the landlord shrewdly
+observed, showed there was something out of the common way he had heard
+that the elderly woman was a cousin of the farmer’s where they lodged,
+and so the regard existing between relations might help to keep 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, for
+all as quiet as she seemed, played strange pranks at times.”  He shook
+his head when I asked him for more particulars, and refused to give them,
+which made me doubt if he knew any, for he was in general a talkative and
+communicative man.  In default of other interests, after my uncle left, I
+set myself to watch these two people.  I hovered about their walks drawn
+towards them with a strange fascination, which was not diminished by
+their evident annoyance at so frequently meeting me.  One day, I had the
+sudden good fortune to be at hand when they were alarmed by the attack of
+a bull, which, in those unenclosed grazing districts, was a particularly
+dangerous occurrence.  I have other and more important things to relate,
+than to tell of the accident which gave me an opportunity of rescuing
+them, it is enough to say, that this event was the beginning of an
+acquaintance, reluctantly acquiesced in by them, but eagerly prosecuted
+by me.  I can hardly tell when intense curiosity became merged in love,
+but in less than ten days after my uncle’s departure I was passionately
+enamoured of Mistress Lucy, as her attendant called her; carefully—for
+this I noted well—avoiding any address which appeared as if there was an
+equality of station between them.  I noticed also that Mrs. Clarke, the
+elderly woman, after her first reluctance to allow me to pay them any
+attentions had been overcome, was cheered by my evident attachment to the
+young girl; it seemed to lighten her heavy burden of care, and she
+evidently favoured my visits to the farmhouse where they lodged.  It was
+not so with Lucy.  A more attractive person I never saw, in spite of her
+depression of manner, and shrinking avoidance of me.  I felt sure at
+once, that whatever 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, for a moment or two, I beguiled her into talk, I could see a rare
+intelligence in her face, and a grave, trusting look in the soft, gray
+eyes that were raised for a minute to mine.  I made every excuse I
+possibly 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, in hopes
+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 dome above.
+
+It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some motive
+which I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but then 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 (I loved so
+dearly) I could have begged her to spare herself, even though the
+happiness of my whole life should have been the sacrifice; for her
+complexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more hopeless, her delicate
+frame yet slighter.  During this period I had written, I should say, to
+my uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong my stay at Harrogate, not
+giving any reason; but such was his tenderness towards me, that in a few
+days I heard from him, giving me a willing permission, and only charging
+me to take care of myself, and not use too much exertion during the hot
+weather.
+
+One sultry evening I drew near the farm.  The windows of their parlour
+were open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the house, as I
+passed the first window (there were two windows in their little
+ground-floor room).  I saw Lucy distinctly; but when I had knocked at
+their door—the house-door stood always ajar—she was gone, and I saw only
+Mrs. Clarke, turning over the work-things lying on the table, in a
+nervous and purposeless manner.  I felt by instinct that a conversation
+of some importance was coming on, in which I should be expected to say
+what was my object in paying these frequent visits.  I was glad of the
+opportunity.  My uncle had several times alluded to the pleasant
+possibility of my bringing home a young wife, to cheer and adorn the old
+house in Ormond Street.  He was rich, and I was to succeed him, and had,
+as I knew, a fair reputation for so young a lawyer.  So on my side I saw
+no obstacle.  It was true that Lucy was shrouded in mystery; her name (I
+was convinced it was not Clarke), birth, parentage, and previous life
+were unknown to me.  But I was sure of her goodness and sweet innocence,
+and although I knew that there must be something painful to be told, to
+account for her mournful sadness, yet I was willing 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 the
+subject.
+
+“We have thought, sir—at least I have thought—that you knew very little
+of us, nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant the intimate
+acquaintance 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 no
+rudeness; but I must say straight out that I—we—think it would be better
+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, glad of
+the opportunity of explaining myself.  “I come, I own, because I have
+learnt 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 hold sacred,
+teach her to love you!  If I am too late, and you love her already,
+forget her,—forget these last few weeks.  O!  I should never have allowed
+you to come!” she went on passionately; “but what am I to do?  We are
+forsaken by all, except the great God, and even He permits a strange and
+evil power to afflict us—what am I to do!  Where is it to end?” She wrung
+her hands in her distress; then she turned to me: “Go away, sir! go away,
+before you learn to care any more for her.  I ask it for your own sake—I
+implore!  You have been good and kind to us, and we shall always
+recollect you with gratitude; but go away now, and never come back to
+cross our fatal path!”
+
+“Indeed, madam,” said I, “I shall do no such thing.  You urge it for my
+own 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 last
+fortnight, without acknowledging her goodness and innocence; and without
+seeing—pardon me, madam—that for some reason you are two very lonely
+women, in some mysterious sorrow and distress.  Now, though I am not
+powerful myself, yet I have friends who are so wise and kind that they
+may be said to possess power.  Tell me some particulars.  Why are you in
+grief—what is your secret—why are you here?  I declare solemnly that
+nothing you have said has daunted me in my wish to become Lucy’s husband;
+nor will I shrink from any difficulty that, as such an aspirant, I may
+have to encounter.  You say you are friendless—why cast away 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.  I do not shun
+inquiry.”
+
+She shook her head again.  “You had better go away, sir.  You know
+nothing about us.”
+
+“I know your names,” said I, “and I have heard you allude to the part of
+the country from which you came, which I happen to know as a wild and
+lonely place.  There are so few people living in it that, if I chose to
+go there, I could easily ascertain all about you; but I would rather hear
+it from yourself.”  You see I wanted to pique her into telling me
+something definite.
+
+“You do not know our true names, sir,” said she, hastily.
+
+“Well, I may have conjectured as much.  But tell me, then, I conjure you.
+Give me your reasons for distrusting my willingness to stand by what I
+have said with regard to Mistress Lucy.”
+
+“Oh, what can I do?” exclaimed she.  “If I am turning away a true friend,
+as he says?—Stay!” coming to a sudden decision—“I will tell you
+something—I cannot tell you all—you would not believe it.  But, perhaps,
+I can tell you enough to prevent your going on in your hopeless
+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 child
+of her father.  But he is cruelly turned against her; and her mother is
+long dead; and for a terrible reason, she has no other creature to keep
+constant to her but me.  She—only two years ago—such a darling and such a
+pride in her father’s house!  Why, sir, there is a mystery that might
+happen in connection with her any moment; and then you would go away like
+all the rest; and, when you next heard her name, you would loathe 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, she would
+die!”
+
+The good woman was stopped by her crying.  I confess, I was a little
+stunned by her last words; but only for a moment.  At any rate, till I
+knew definitely what was this mysterious stain upon one so simple and
+pure, as Lucy seemed, I would not desert her, and so I said; and she made
+me answer:—
+
+“If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir, after
+knowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but I am so
+foolish and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain hope to find a
+friend in you.  I cannot help trusting that, although you may no longer
+feel toward her as a lover, you will have pity upon us; and perhaps, by
+your learning you can tell us where to go for aid.”
+
+“I implore you to tell me what this mystery is,” I cried, almost maddened
+by this suspense.
+
+“I cannot,” said she, solemnly.  “I am under a deep vow of secrecy.  If
+you are to be told, it must be by her.”  She left the room, and I
+remained to ponder over this strange interview.  I mechanically turned
+over 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 a
+pure and tender heart and innocent life.  Mistress Clarke returned; she
+had been crying sadly.
+
+“Yes,” said she, “it is as I feared: she loves you so much that she is
+willing to run the fearful risk of telling you all herself—she
+acknowledges 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 you
+hope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of fear or
+repugnance you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted.”
+
+I half smiled.  “Have no fear,” I said.  It seemed too absurd to imagine
+my feeling dislike to Lucy.
+
+“Her father loved her well,” said she, gravely, “yet he drove her out
+like some monstrous thing.”
+
+Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden.  It
+was Lucy’s voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one side of
+the open casement—and as though she were suddenly stirred to
+merriment—merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings or sayings
+of some other person.  I can scarcely say why, but the sound jarred on me
+inexpressibly.  She knew the subject of our conversation, and must have
+been at least aware of the state of agitation her friend was in; she
+herself usually so gentle and quiet.  I half rose to go to the window,
+and satisfy my instinctive curiosity as to what had provoked this burst
+of, ill-timed laughter; but Mrs. Clarke threw her whole weight and power
+upon the hand with which she pressed and kept me down.
+
+“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 we
+are 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 have risen.
+I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a shadow pass
+between the sun’s warmth and me, and a strange shudder ran through my
+frame.  In a minute or two she released me.
+
+“Go,” repeated she.  “Be warned, I ask you once more.  I do not think you
+can stand this knowledge that you seek.  If I had had my own way, Lucy
+should never have yielded, and promised to tell you all.  Who knows what
+may 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 Mistress
+Clarke’s sanity.
+
+Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable thoughts
+connected with that strange laughter, filled my mind.  I could hardly
+sleep.  I rose early; and long before the hour I had appointed, I was on
+the path over the common that led to the old farm-house where they
+lodged.  I suppose that Lucy had passed no better a night than I; for
+there she was also, slowly pacing with her even step, her eyes bent down,
+her whole look most saintly and pure.  She started when I came close to
+her, and grew paler as I reminded her of my appointment, and spoke with
+something of the impatience of obstacles that, seeing her once more, had
+called up afresh in my mind.  All strange and terrible hints, and giddy
+merriment were forgotten.  My heart gave forth words of fire, and my
+tongue uttered them.  Her colour went and came, as she listened; but,
+when I had ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me,
+and said—
+
+“But you know that you have something to learn about me yet.  I only want
+to say this: I shall not think less of you—less well of you, I mean—if
+you, too, fall away from me when you know all.  Stop!” said she, as if
+fearing another burst of mad words.  “Listen to me.  My father is a man
+of great wealth.  I never knew my mother; she must have died when I was
+very young.  When first I remember anything, I was living in a great,
+lonely house, with my dear and faithful Mistress Clarke.  My father,
+even, was not there; he was—he is—a soldier, and his duties lie aboard.
+But he came from time to time, and every time I think he loved 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 his absences.  I can sit
+down and measure the depth of his lost love now, by such 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 he was an angry man at
+times, even then; but never with me.  He was very reckless, too; and,
+once or twice, I heard a whisper among the servants that a doom was over
+him, and that he knew it, and tried to drown his knowledge in wild
+activity, and even sometimes, sir, in wine.  So I grew up in this grand
+mansion, in that lonely place.  Everything around me seemed at my
+disposal, and I think every one loved me; I am sure I loved them.  Till
+about two years ago—I remember it well—my father had come to England, to
+us; and he seemed so proud and so pleased with me and all I had done.
+And one day his tongue seemed loosened with wine, and he told me much
+that I had not known till then,—how dearly he had loved my mother, yet
+how his wilful usage had caused her death; and then he went on to say how
+he loved me better than any creature on earth, and how, some day, he
+hoped to take me to foreign places, for that he could hardly bear these
+long absences from his only child.  Then he seemed to change suddenly,
+and said, in a strange, wild way, that I was not to believe what he said;
+that there was many a thing he loved better—his horse—his dog—I know not
+what.
+
+“And ’twas only the next morning that, when I came into his room to ask
+his blessing as was my wont, he received me with fierce and angry words.
+‘Why had I,’ so he asked, ‘been delighting myself in such wanton
+mischief—dancing over the tender plants in the flower-beds, all set with
+the famous Dutch bulbs he had brought from Holland?’ I had never been out
+of doors that morning, sir, and I could not conceive what he meant, and
+so I said; and then he swore at me for a liar, and said I was of no true
+blood, for he had seen me doing all that mischief himself—with his own
+eyes.  What could I say?  He would not listen to me, and even my tears
+seemed only to irritate him.  That day was the beginning of my great
+sorrows.  Not long after, he reproached me for my undue familiarity—all
+unbecoming a gentlewoman—with his grooms.  I had been in the stable-yard,
+laughing and talking, he said.  Now, sir, I am something of a coward by
+nature, and I had always dreaded horses; be-sides that, my father’s
+servants—those whom he brought with him from foreign parts—were wild
+fellows, whom I had always avoided, and to whom I had never spoken,
+except as a lady must needs from time to time speak to her father’s
+people.  Yet my father called me by names of which I hardly know the
+meaning, but my heart told me they were such as shame any 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 his hand; and, accusing me
+harshly of evil doings, of which I knew no more than you, sir, he was
+about to strike me, and I, all in bewildering tears, was ready to take
+his stripes as great kindness compared to his harder words, when suddenly
+he stopped his arm mid-way, gasped and staggered, crying out, ‘The
+curse—the curse!’  I looked up in terror.  In the great mirror opposite I
+saw myself, and right behind, another wicked, fearful self, so like me
+that my soul seemed to quiver within me, as though not knowing to which
+similitude of body it belonged.  My father saw my double at the same
+moment, either in its dreadful reality, whatever that might be, or in the
+scarcely less terrible reflection in the mirror; but what came of it at
+that moment I cannot say, for I suddenly swooned away; and when I came to
+myself I was lying in my bed, and my faithful Clarke sitting by me.  I
+was in my bed for days; and even while I lay there my double was seen by
+all, flitting about the house and gardens, always about some mischievous
+or detestable work.  What wonder that every one shrank from me in
+dread—that my father drove me forth at length, when the disgrace of which
+I was the cause was past his patience to bear.  Mistress Clarke came with
+me; and here we try to live such a life of piety and prayer as may in
+time set me free from the curse.”
+
+All the time she had been speaking, I had been weighing her story in my
+mind.  I had hitherto put cases of witchcraft on one side, as mere
+superstitions; and my uncle and I had had many an argument, he supporting
+himself by the opinion of his good friend Sir Matthew Hale.  Yet this
+sounded like the tale of one bewitched; or was it merely the effect of a
+life of extreme seclusion telling on the nerves of a sensitive girl?  My
+scepticism inclined me to the latter belief, and when she paused I said:
+
+“I fancy that some physician could have disabused your father of his
+belief in visions—”
+
+Just at that instant, standing as I was opposite to her in the full and
+perfect morning light, I saw behind her another figure—a ghastly
+resemblance, complete in likeness, so far as form and feature and
+minutest touch of dress could go, but with a loathsome demon soul looking
+out of the gray eyes, that were in turns mocking and voluptuous.  My
+heart stood still within me; every hair rose up erect; my flesh crept
+with horror.  I could not see the grave and tender Lucy—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; then my sight came back, and I saw
+Lucy 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 an
+old harpsichord when the strings have ceased to vibrate.  She read her
+answer in my face, I suppose, for I could not speak.  Her look was one of
+intense 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: she
+saw 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 budding
+heather—we dared not speak; for we could not tell but that the dread
+creature was listening, although unseen,—but that IT might appear and
+push us asunder.  I never loved her more fondly than now when—and that
+was the unspeakable misery—the idea of her was becoming so inextricably
+blended with the shuddering thought of IT.  She seemed to understand what
+I must be feeling.  She let go my hand, which she had kept clasped until
+then, when we reached the garden gate, and went forwards to meet her
+anxious friend, who was standing by the window looking for her.  I could
+not enter the house: I needed silence, society, leisure, change—I knew
+not what—to shake off the sensation of that creature’s presence.  Yet I
+lingered about the garden—I hardly know why; I partly suppose, because I
+feared to encounter the resemblance again on the solitary common, where
+it had vanished, and partly from a feeling of inexpressible compassion
+for Lucy.  In a few minutes Mistress Clarke came forth and joined me.  We
+walked 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 which
+stirred up all that was brave or good in me.
+
+“Not a whit,” said I.  “Human flesh shrinks from encounter with the
+powers of darkness: and, for some reason unknown to me, the pure and holy
+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 surely
+know more—know all.  Tell me, I entreat you, madam, all that you can
+conjecture respecting this demoniac persecution of one so good.”
+
+“I will; but not now.  I must go to Lucy now.  Come this afternoon, I
+will see you alone; and oh, sir!  I will trust that you may yet find some
+way to help us in our sore trouble!”
+
+I was miserably exhausted by the swooning affright which had taken
+possession of me.  When I reached the inn, I staggered in like one
+overcome by wine.  I went to my own private room.  It was some time
+before 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, It
+was from Sir Philip Tempest: my letter of inquiry respecting Mary
+Fitzgerald had reached him at Liége, where it so happened that the Count
+de la Tour d’Auvergne was quartered at the very time.  He remembered his
+wife’s beautiful attendant; she had had high words with the deceased
+countess, respecting her intercourse with an English gentleman of good
+standing, who was also in the foreign service.  The countess augured evil
+of his intentions; while Mary, proud and vehement, asserted that he would
+soon marry her, and resented her mistress’s warnings as an insult.  The
+consequence was, that she had left Madame de la Tour d’Auvergne’s
+service, and, as the Count believed, had gone to live with the
+Englishman; whether he had married her, or not, he could not say.  “But,”
+added Sir Philip Tempest, “you may easily hear what particulars you wish
+to know respecting Mary Fitzgerald from the Englishman himself, if, as I
+suspect, he is no other than my neighbour and former acquaintance, Mr.
+Gisborne, of Skipford Hall, in the West Riding.  I am led to the belief
+that he is no other, by several small particulars, none of which are in
+themselves conclusive, but which, taken together, furnish a mass of
+presumptive evidence.  As far as I could make out from the Count’s
+foreign pronunciation, Gisborne was the name of the Englishman: I know
+that Gisborne of Skipford was abroad and in the foreign service at that
+time—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 old
+Bridget Fitzgerald, of Coldholme, whom he once encountered while staying
+with me at Starkey Manor-house.  I remember that the meeting seemed to
+have produced some extraordinary effect upon his mind, as though he had
+suddenly discovered some connection which she might have had with his
+previous life.  I beg you to let me know if I can be of any further
+service to you.  Your uncle once rendered me a good turn, and I will
+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 many
+months 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 passed
+that very day.  Nothing was real but the unreal presence, which had come
+like an evil blast across my bodily eyes, and burnt itself down upon my
+brain.  Dinner came, and went away untouched.  Early in the afternoon I
+walked to the farm-house.  I found Mistress Clarke alone, and I was glad
+and relieved.  She was evidently prepared to tell me all I might wish to
+hear.
+
+“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 a
+man of note; although, being a Roman Catholic, he cannot take that rank
+in this country to which his station entitles him.  The consequence is
+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 three
+years old when I was engaged to take charge of her.  Her mother was
+dead.”
+
+“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 be
+so well acquainted with it?  It was a mystery to the whole household at
+Skipford Court.  She was some beautiful young woman whom he lured away
+from her protectors while he was abroad.  I have heard said he practised
+some terrible deceit upon her, and when she came to know it, she was
+neither to have nor to hold, but rushed off from his very arms, and threw
+herself into a rapid stream and was drowned.  It stung him deep with
+remorse, but I used to think the remembrance of the mother’s cruel death
+made him love the child yet dearer.”
+
+I told her, as briefly as might be, of my researches after the descendant
+and heir of the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added—something of my old
+lawyer spirit returning into me for the moment—that I had no doubt but
+that we should prove Lucy to be by right possessed of large estates in
+Ireland.
+
+No flush came over her gray face; no light into her eyes.  “And what is
+all the wealth in the whole world to that poor girl?” she said.  “It will
+not free her from the ghastly bewitchment which persecutes her.  As for
+money, what a pitiful thing it is! it cannot touch her.”
+
+“No more can the Evil Creature harm her,” I said.  “Her holy nature
+dwells apart, and cannot be defiled or stained by all the devilish arts
+in the whole world.”
+
+“True! but it is a cruel fate to know that all shrink from her, sooner or
+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 the
+household at Skipford.”
+
+“Tell me,” I demanded.
+
+“They came from servants, who would fain account for every thing.  They
+say that, many years ago, Mr. Gisborne killed a dog belonging to an old
+witch at Coldholme; that she cursed, with a dreadful and mysterious
+curse, the creature, whatever it might be, that he should love best; and
+that it struck so deeply into his heart that for years he kept himself
+aloof from any temptation to love aught.  But who could help loving
+Lucy?”
+
+“You never heard the witch’s name?” I gasped.
+
+“Yes—they called her Bridget: they said he would never go near the spot
+again for terror of her.  Yet he was a brave man!”
+
+“Listen,” said I, taking hold of her arm, the better to arrest her full
+attention: “if what I suspect holds true, that man stole Bridget’s only
+child—the very Mary Fitzgerald who was Lucy’s mother; if so, Bridget
+cursed him in ignorance of the deeper wrong he had done her.  To this
+hour she yearns after her lost child, and questions the saints whether
+she be living or not.  The roots of that curse lie deeper than she knows:
+she unwittingly banned him for a deeper guilt than that of killing a dumb
+beast.  The sins of the fathers are indeed visited upon the children.”
+
+“But,” said Mistress Clarke, eagerly, “she would never let evil rest on
+her own grandchild?  Surely, sir, if what you say be true, there are
+hopes for Lucy.  Let us go—go at once, and tell this fearful woman all
+that you suspect, and beseech her to take off the spell she has put upon
+her innocent grandchild.”
+
+It seemed to me, indeed, that something like this was the best course we
+could pursue.  But first it was necessary to ascertain more than what
+mere rumour or careless hearsay could tell.  My thoughts turned to my
+uncle—he could advise me wisely—he ought to know all.  I resolved to go
+to him without delay; but I did not choose to tell Mistress Clarke of all
+the visionary plans that flitted through my mind.  I simply declared my
+intention of proceeding straight to London on Lucy’s affairs.  I bade her
+believe that my interest on the young lady’s behalf was greater than
+ever, and that my whole time should be given up to her cause.  I saw that
+Mistress Clarke distrusted me, because my mind was too full of thoughts
+for my words to flow freely.  She sighed and shook her head, and said,
+“Well, it is all right!” in such a tone that it was an implied reproach.
+But I was firm and constant in my heart, and I took confidence from that.
+
+I rode to London.  I rode long days drawn out into the lovely summer
+nights: I could not rest.  I reached London.  I told my uncle all, though
+in the stir of the great city the horror had faded away, and I could
+hardly imagine that he would believe the account I gave him of the
+fearful double of Lucy which I had seen on the lonely moor-side.  But my
+uncle had lived many years, and learnt many things; and, in the deep
+secrets of family history that had been confided to him, he had heard of
+cases of innocent people bewitched and taken possession of by evil
+spirits yet more fearful than Lucy’s.  For, as he said, to judge from all
+I told him, that resemblance had no power over her—she was too pure and
+good to be tainted by its evil, haunting presence.  It had, in all
+probability, so my uncle conceived, tried to suggest wicked thoughts and
+to tempt to wicked actions but she, in her saintly maidenhood, had passed
+on undefiled by evil thought or deed.  It could not touch her soul: but
+true, it set her apart from all sweet love or common human intercourse.
+My uncle threw himself with an energy more like six-and-twenty than sixty
+into the consideration of the whole case.  He undertook the proving
+Lucy’s descent, and volunteered to go and find out Mr. Gisborne, and
+obtain, firstly, the legal proofs of her descent from the Fitzgeralds of
+Kildoon, and, secondly, to try and hear all that he could respecting the
+working of the curse, and whether any and what means had been taken to
+exorcise that terrible appearance.  For he told me of instances where, by
+prayers and long fasting, the evil possessor had been driven forth with
+howling and many cries from the body which it had come to inhabit; he
+spoke of those strange New England cases which had happened not so long
+before; of Mr. Defoe, who had written a book, wherein he had named many
+modes of subduing apparitions, and sending them back whence they came;
+and, lastly, he spoke low of dreadful ways of compelling witches to undo
+their witchcraft.  But I could not endure to hear of those tortures and
+burnings.  I said that Bridget was rather a wild and savage woman than a
+malignant witch; and, above all, that Lucy was of her kith and kin; and
+that, in putting her to the trial, by water or by fire, we should be
+torturing—it might be to the death—the ancestress of her we sought to
+redeem.
+
+My uncle thought awhile, and then said, that in this last matter I was
+right—at any rate, it should not be tried, with his consent, till all
+other modes of remedy had failed; and he assented to my proposal that I
+should go myself and see Bridget, and tell her all.
+
+In accordance with this, I went down once more to the wayside inn near
+Coldholme.  It was late at night when I arrived there; and, while I
+supped, I inquired of the landlord more particulars as to Bridget’s ways.
+Solitary and savage had been her life for many years.  Wild and despotic
+were her words and manner to those few people who came across her path.
+The country-folk did her imperious bidding, because they feared to
+disobey.  If they pleased her, they prospered; if, on the contrary, they
+neglected or traversed her behests, misfortune, small or great, fell on
+them and theirs.  It was not detestation so much as an indefinable terror
+that she excited.
+
+In the morning I went to see her.  She was standing on the green outside
+her cottage, and received me with the sullen grandeur of a throneless
+queen.  I read in her face that she recognized me, and that I was not
+unwelcome; but she stood silent till I had opened my errand.
+
+“I have news of your daughter,” said I, resolved to speak straight to all
+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 of
+the door-post.
+
+“I knew that she was dead,” said she, deep and low, and then was silent
+for an instant.  “My tears that should have flowed for her were burnt up
+long 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 her
+more show of emotion than the intelligence of her daughter’s death.  She
+broke in upon my speech:—
+
+“I had!  It was hers—the last thing I had of hers—and it was shot for
+wantonness!  It died in my arms.  The man who killed that dog rues it to
+this day.  For that dumb beast’s blood, his best-beloved stands
+accursed.”
+
+Her eyes distended, as if she were in a trance and saw the working of her
+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 she
+pierced through me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without another
+question or word, she threw herself on the ground with fearful vehemence,
+and clutched at the innocent daisies with convulsed hands.
+
+“Bone of my bone! flesh of my flesh! have I cursed thee—and art thou
+accursed?”
+
+So she moaned, as she lay prostrate in her great agony.  I stood aghast
+at my own work.  She did not hear my broken sentences; she asked no more,
+but the dumb confirmation which my sad looks had given that one fact,
+that her curse rested on her own daughter’s child.  The fear grew on me
+lest she should die in her strife of body and soul; and then might not
+Lucy remain under the spell as long as she lived?
+
+Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming through the woodland path that led
+to Bridget’s cottage; Mistress Clarke was with her: I felt at my heart
+that it was she, by the balmy peace which the look of her sent over me,
+as she slowly advanced, a glad surprise shining out of her soft quiet
+eyes.  That was as her gaze met mine.  As her looks fell on the woman
+lying stiff, convulsed on the earth, they became full of tender pity; and
+she came forward to try and lift her up.  Seating herself on the turf,
+she took Bridget’s head into her lap; and, with gentle touches, she
+arranged the dishevelled gray hair streaming thick and 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 had
+recovered her wandering senses, and was kneeling with clasped hands
+before Lucy, gazing at that sweet sad face as though her troubled nature
+drank in health and peace from every moment’s contemplation.  A faint
+tinge on Lucy’s pale cheeks showed me that she was aware of our return;
+otherwise it appeared as if she was conscious of her influence for good
+over the passionate and troubled woman kneeling before her, and would not
+willingly avert her grave and loving eyes from that wrinkled and careworn
+countenance.
+
+Suddenly—in the twinkling of an eye—the creature appeared, there, behind
+Lucy; fearfully the same as to outward semblance, but kneeling exactly as
+Bridget knelt, and clasping her hands in jesting mimicry as Bridget
+clasped hers in her ecstasy that was deepening into a prayer.  Mistress
+Clarke cried out—Bridget arose slowly, her gaze fixed on the creature
+beyond: drawing her breath with a hissing sound, never moving her
+terrible eyes, that were steady as stone, she made a dart at the phantom,
+and caught, as I had done, a mere handful of empty air.  We saw no more
+of the creature—it vanished as suddenly as it came, but Bridget looked
+slowly on, as if watching some receding form.  Lucy sat still, white,
+trembling, drooping—I think she would have swooned if I had not been
+there to uphold her.  While I was attending to her, Bridget passed us,
+without a word to any one, and, entering her cottage, she barred herself
+in, and left us without.
+
+All our endeavours were now directed to get Lucy back to the house where
+she had tarried the night before.  Mistress Clarke told me that, not
+hearing from me (some letter must have miscarried), she had grown
+impatient and despairing, and had urged Lucy to the enterprise of coming
+to seek her grandmother; not telling her, indeed, of the dread reputation
+she possessed, or how we suspected her of having so fearfully blighted
+that innocent girl; but, at the same time, hoping much from the
+mysterious stirring of blood, which Mistress Clarke trusted in for the
+removal of the curse.  They had come, by a different route from that
+which I had taken, to a village inn not far from Coldholme, only the
+night before.  This was the first interview between ancestress and
+descendant.
+
+All through the sultry noon I wandered along the tangled brush-wood of
+the old neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a matter
+so complicated and mysterious.  Meeting a countryman, I asked my way to
+the nearest clergyman, and went, hoping to obtain some counsel from him.
+But he proved to be a coarse and common-minded man, giving no time or
+attention to the intricacies of a case, but dashing out a strong opinion
+involving immediate action.  For instance, as soon as I named Bridget
+Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:—
+
+“The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist!  I’d have had her ducked long
+since but for that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest.  He has had to
+threaten honest folk about here over and over again, or they’d have had
+her up before the justices for her black doings.  And it’s the law of the
+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 and
+Scripture.  I’d carry a faggot myself to rid the country of her!”
+
+Such a one could give me no help.  I rather drew back what I had already
+said; and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him to several
+pots of beer, in the village inn, to which we had adjourned for our
+conference at his suggestion.  I left him as soon as I could, and
+returned to Coldholme, shaping my way past deserted Starkey Manor-house,
+and coming upon it by the back.  At that side were the oblong remains of
+the old moat, the waters of which lay placid and motionless under the
+crimson rays of the setting sun; with the forest-trees lying straight
+along each side, and their deep-green foliage mirrored to blackness in
+the burnished surface of the moat below—and the broken sun-dial at the
+end nearest the hall—and the heron, standing on one leg at the water’s
+edge, lazily looking down for fish—the lonely and desolate house scarce
+needed the broken windows, the weeds on the door-sill, the broken shutter
+softly flapping to and fro in the twilight breeze, to fill up the picture
+of desertion and decay.  I lingered about the place until the growing
+darkness warned me on.  And then I passed along the path, cut by the
+orders of the last lady of Starkey Manor-House, that led me to Bridget’s
+cottage.  I resolved at once to see her; and, in spite of closed doors—it
+might be of resolved will—she should see me.  So I knocked at her door,
+gently, loudly, fiercely.  I shook it so vehemently that a length the old
+hinges gave way, and with a crash it fell inwards, leaving me suddenly
+face to face with Bridget—I, red, heated, agitated with my so long
+baffled efforts—she, stiff as any stone, standing right facing me, her
+eyes dilated with terror, her ashen lips trembling, but her body
+motionless.  In her hands she held her crucifix, as if by that holy
+symbol she sought to oppose my entrance.  At sight of me, her whole frame
+relaxed, and she sank back upon a chair.  Some mighty tension had given
+way.  Still her eyes looked fearfully into the gloom of the outer air,
+made more opaque by the glimmer of the lamp inside, which she had placed
+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—has
+been looking in upon me through that window all day long.  I closed it up
+with my shawl; and then I saw her feet below the door, as long as it was
+light, and I knew she heard my very breathing—nay, worse, my very
+prayers; and I could not pray, for her listening choked the words ere
+they rose to my lips.  Tell me, who is she?—what means that double girl I
+saw this morning?  One had a look of my dead Mary; but the other curdled
+my blood, and yet it was the same!”
+
+She had taken hold of my arm, as if to secure herself some human
+companionship.  She shook all over with the slight, never-ceasing tremor
+of intense terror.  I told her my tale as I have told it you, sparing
+none of the details.
+
+How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had driven Lucy
+forth from her father’s house—how I had disbelieved, until, with mine own
+eyes, I had seen another Lucy standing behind my Lucy, the same in form
+and feature, but with the demon-soul looking out of the eyes.  I told her
+all, I say, believing that she—whose curse was working so upon the life
+of her innocent grandchild—was the only person 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 I
+shrink from her ever since that day on the moor-side.  And men must
+shrink 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 order that,
+by some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be reversed.
+
+“I will go and bring her to you,” I exclaimed.  Bridget tightened her
+hold upon my arm.
+
+“Not so,” said she, in a low, hoarse voice.  “It would kill me to see her
+again as I saw her this morning.  And I must live till I have worked my
+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 fear was
+banished.  I lingered—why I can hardly tell—until once more she bade me
+begone.  As I went along the forest way, I looked back, and saw her
+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 her prayers
+with ours.  The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze.  No human being
+was there: the cross remained on the threshold, but Bridget was gone.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+
+What was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself.  As for
+Lucy, she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon her.  Her
+gentleness and piety, under the pressure of so horrible a life, seemed
+over-passive to me.  She never complained.  Mrs. Clarke complained more
+than ever.  As for me, I was more in love with the real Lucy than ever;
+but I shrunk from the false similitude with an intensity proportioned to
+my love.  I found out by instinct that Mrs. Clarke had occasional
+temptations to leave Lucy.  The good lady’s nerves were shaken, and, from
+what she said, I could almost have concluded that the object of the
+Double was to drive away from Lucy this last, and almost earliest friend.
+At times, I could scarcely bear to own it, but I myself felt inclined to
+turn recreant; and I would accuse Lucy of being too patient—too resigned.
+One after another, she won the little children of Coldholme.  (Mrs.
+Clarke and she had resolved to stay there, for was it not as good a place
+as any other, to such as they? and did not all our faint hopes rest on
+Bridget—never seen or heard of now, but still we trusted to come back, or
+give some token?)  So, as I say, one after another, the little children
+came about my Lucy, won by her soft tones, and her gentle smiles, and
+kind actions.  Alas! one after another they fell away, and shrunk from
+her path with blanching terror; and we too surely guessed the reason why.
+It was the last drop.  I could bear it no longer.  I resolved no more to
+linger around the spot, but to go back to my uncle, and among the learned
+divines of the city of London, seek for some power whereby to annul the
+curse.
+
+My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite testimonials relating
+to Lucy’s descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and from Mr.
+Gisborne.  The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he was again
+serving in the Austrian army), a letter alternately passionately
+self-reproachful and stoically repellant.  It was evident that when he
+thought of Mary—her short life—how he had wronged her, and of her violent
+death, he could hardly find words severe enough for his own conduct; and
+from this point of view, the curse that Bridget had laid upon him and
+his, was regarded by him as a prophetic doom, to the utterance of which
+she was moved by a Higher Power, working for the fulfilment of a deeper
+vengeance than for the death of the poor dog.  But then, again, when he
+came to speak of his daughter, the repugnance which the conduct of the
+demoniac creature had produced in his mind, was but ill-disguised under a
+show of profound indifference as to Lucy’s fate.  One almost felt as if
+he would have been as content to put her out of existence, as he would
+have been to destroy some disgusting reptile that had invaded his chamber
+or his couch.
+
+The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy’s; and that was all—was nothing.
+
+My uncle and I sat in the gloom of a London November evening, in our
+house in Ormond Street.  I was out of health, and felt as if I were in an
+inextricable coil of misery.  Lucy and I wrote to each other, but that
+was little; and we dared not see each other for dread of the fearful
+Third, who had more than once taken her place at our meetings.  My uncle
+had, on the day I speak of, bidden prayers to be put up on the ensuing
+Sabbath in many a church and meeting-house in London, for one grievously
+tormented by an evil spirit.  He had faith in prayers—I had none; I was
+fast losing faith in all things.  So we sat, he trying to interest me in
+the old talk of other days, I oppressed by one thought—when our old
+servant, Anthony, opened the door, and, without speaking, showed in a
+very gentlemanly and prepossessing man, who had something remarkable
+about his dress, betraying his profession to be that of the Roman
+Catholic priesthood.  He glanced at my uncle first, then at me.  It was
+to me he bowed.
+
+“I did not give my name,” said he, “because you would hardly have
+recognised it; unless, sir, when, in the north, you heard of Father
+Bernard, the chaplain at Stoney Hurst?”
+
+I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I had
+utterly forgotten it; so I professed myself a complete stranger to him;
+while my ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as much as it
+was in his nature to hate anything, placed a chair for the visitor, and
+bade Anthony bring glasses, and a fresh jug of claret.
+
+Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful ease and pleasant
+acknowledgement which belongs to a man of the world.  Then he turned to
+scan me with his keen glance.  After some alight conversation, entered
+into on his part, I am certain, with an intention of discovering on what
+terms of confidence I stood with my uncle, he paused, and said gravely—
+
+“I am sent here with a message to you, sir, from a woman to whom you have
+shown kindness, and who is one of my penitents, in Antwerp—one Bridget
+Fitzgerald.”
+
+“Bridget Fitzgerald!” exclaimed I.  “In Antwerp?  Tell me, sir, all that
+you can about her.”
+
+“There is much to be said,” he replied.  “But may I inquire if this
+gentleman—if your uncle is acquainted with the particulars of which you
+and I stand informed?”
+
+“All that I know, he knows,” said I, eagerly laying my hand on my uncle’s
+arm, as he made a motion as if to quit the room.
+
+“Then I have to speak before two gentlemen who, however they may differ
+from me in faith, are yet fully impressed with the fact that there are
+evil powers going about continually to take cognizance of our evil
+thoughts: and, if their Master gives them power, to bring them into overt
+action.  Such is my theory of the nature of that sin, which I dare not
+disbelieve—as some sceptics would have us do—the sin of witchcraft.  Of
+this deadly sin, you and I are aware, Bridget Fitzgerald has been guilty.
+Since you saw her last, many prayers have been offered in our churches,
+many masses sung, many penances undergone, in order that, if God and the
+holy saints so willed it, her sin might be blotted out.  But it has not
+been so willed.”
+
+“Explain to me,” said I, “who you are, and how you come connected with
+Bridget.  Why is she at Antwerp?  I pray you, sir, tell me more.  If I am
+impatient, excuse me; I am ill and feverish, and in consequence
+bewildered.”
+
+There was something to me inexpressibly soothing in the tone of voice
+with which he began to narrate, as it were from the beginning, his
+acquaintance with Bridget.
+
+“I had known Mr. and Mrs. Starkey during their residence abroad, and so
+it fell out naturally that, when I came as chaplain to the Sherburnes at
+Stoney Hurst, our acquaintance was renewed; and thus I became the
+confessor of the whole family, isolated as they were from the offices of
+the Church, Sherburne being their nearest neighbour who professed the
+true faith.  Of course, you are aware that facts revealed in confession
+are sealed as in the grave; but I learnt enough of Bridget’s character to
+be convinced that I had to do with no common woman; one powerful for good
+as for evil.  I believe that I was able to give her spiritual assistance
+from time to time, and that she looked upon me as a servant of that Holy
+Church, which has such wonderful power of moving men’s hearts, and
+relieving them of the burden of their sins.  I have known her cross the
+moors on the wildest nights of storm, to confess and be absolved; and
+then she would return, calmed and subdued, to her daily work about her
+mistress, no one witting where she had been during the hours that most
+passed in sleep upon their beds.  After her daughter’s departure—after
+Mary’s mysterious disappearance—I had to impose many a long penance, in
+order to wash away the sin of impatient repining that was fast leading
+her into the deeper guilt of blasphemy.  She set out on that long journey
+of which you have possibly heard—that fruitless journey in search of
+Mary—and during her absence, my superiors ordered my return to my former
+duties at Antwerp, and for many years I heard no more of Bridget.
+
+“Not many months ago, as I was passing homewards in the evening, along
+one of the streets near St. Jacques, leading into the Meer Straet, I saw
+a woman sitting crouched up under the shrine of the Holy Mother of
+Sorrows.  Her hood was drawn over her head, so that the shadow caused by
+the light of the lamp above fell deep over her face; her hands were
+clasped round her knees.  It was evident that she was some one in
+hopeless trouble, and as such it was my duty to stop and speak.  I
+naturally addressed her first in Flemish, believing her to be one of the
+lower class of inhabitants.  She shook her head, but did not look up.
+Then I tried French, and she replied in that language, but speaking it so
+indifferently, that I was sure she was either English or Irish, and
+consequently spoke to her in my own native tongue.  She recognized my
+voice; and, starting up, caught at my robes, dragging me before the
+blessed shrine, and throwing herself down, and forcing me, as much by her
+evident desire as by her action, to kneel beside her, she exclaimed:
+
+“‘O Holy Virgin! you will never hearken to me again, but hear him; for
+you know him of old, that he does your bidding, and strives to heal
+broken hearts.  Hear him!’
+
+“She turned to me.
+
+“‘She will hear you, if you will only pray.  She never hears _me_: she
+and all the saints in heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the Evil One
+carries them off, as he carried that first away.  O, Father Bernard, pray
+for me!’
+
+“I prayed for one in sore distress, of what nature I could not say; but
+the Holy Virgin would know.  Bridget held me fast, gasping with eagerness
+at the sound of my words.  When I had ended, I rose, and, making the sign
+of the Cross over her, I was going to bless her in the name of the Holy
+Church, when she shrank away like some terrified creature, and said—
+
+“‘I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven.’
+
+“‘Arise, my daughter,’ said I, ‘and come with me.’  And I led the way
+into one of the confessionals of St. Jaques.
+
+“She knelt; I listened.  No words came.  The evil powers had stricken her
+dumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when she
+approached confession.
+
+“She was too poor to pay for the necessary forms of exorcism; and
+hitherto those priests to whom she had addressed herself were either so
+ignorant of the meaning of her broken French, or her Irish-English, or
+else esteemed her to be one crazed—as, indeed, her wild and excited
+manner might easily have led any one to think—that they had neglected the
+sole means of loosening her tongue, so that she might confess her deadly
+sin, and, after due penance, obtain absolution.  But I knew Bridget of
+old, and felt that she was a penitent sent to me.  I went through those
+holy offices appointed by our Church for the relief of such a case.  I
+was the more bound to do this, as I found that she had come to Antwerp
+for the sole purpose of discovering me, and making confession to me.  Of
+the nature of that fearful confession I am forbidden to speak.  Much of
+it you know; possibly all.
+
+“It now remains for her to free herself from mortal guilt, and to set
+others free from the consequences thereof.  No prayers, no masses, will
+ever do it, although they may strengthen her with that strength by which
+alone acts of deepest love and purest self-devotion may be performed.
+Her words of passion, and cries for revenge—her unholy prayers could
+never reach the ears of the holy saints!  Other powers intercepted them,
+and wrought so that the curses thrown up to heaven have fallen on her own
+flesh and blood; and so, through her very strength of love, have brused
+and crushed her heart.  Henceforward her former self must be buried,—yea,
+buried quick, if need be,—but never more to make sign, or utter cry on
+earth!  She has become a Poor Clare, in order that, by perpetual penance
+and constant service of others, she may at length so act as to obtain
+final absolution and rest for her soul.  Until then, the innocent must
+suffer.  It is to plead for the innocent that I come to you; not in the
+name of the witch, Bridget Fitzgerald, but of the penitent and servant of
+all men, the Poor Clare, Sister Magdalen.”
+
+“Sir,” said I, “I listen to your request with respect; only I may tell
+you it is not needed to urge me to do all that I can on behalf of one,
+love for whom is part of my very life.  If for a time I have absented
+myself from her, it is to think and work for her redemption.  I, a member
+of the English Church—my uncle, a Puritan—pray morning and night for her
+by name: the congregations of London, on the next Sabbath, will pray for
+one unknown, that she may be set free from the Powers of Darkness.
+Moreover, I must tell you, sir, that those evil ones touch not the great
+calm of her soul.  She lives her own pure and loving life, unharmed and
+untainted, though all men fall off from her.  I would I could have her
+faith!”
+
+My uncle now spoke.
+
+“Nephew,” said he, “it seems to me that this gentleman, although
+professing what I consider an erroneous creed, has touched upon the right
+point in exhorting Bridget to acts of love and mercy, whereby to wipe out
+her sin of hate and vengeance.  Let us strive after our fashion, by
+almsgiving and visiting of the needy and fatherless, to make our prayers
+acceptable.  Meanwhile, I myself will go down into the north, and take
+charge of the maiden.  I am too old to be daunted by man or demon.  I
+will bring her to this house as to a home; and let the Double come if it
+will!  A company of godly divines shall give it the meeting, and we will
+try issue.”
+
+The kindly, brave old man!  But Father Bernard sat on musing.
+
+“All hate,” said he, “cannot be quenched in her heart; all Christian
+forgiveness cannot have entered into her soul, or the demon would have
+lost its power.  You said, I think, that her grandchild was still
+tormented?”
+
+“Still tormented!”  I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress Clarke’s last
+letter.
+
+He rose to go.  We afterwards heard that the occasion of his
+coming to London was a secret political mission on behalf of the
+Jacobites.  Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man.
+
+Months and months passed away without any change.  Lucy entreated my
+uncle to leave her where she was,—dreading, as I learnt, lest if she
+came, with her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me,
+that my love could not stand the repeated shocks to which I should be
+doomed.  And this she thought from no distrust of the strength of my
+affection, but from a kind of pitying sympathy for the terror to the
+nerves which she clearly observed that the demoniac visitation caused in
+all.
+
+I was restless and miserable.  I devoted myself to good works; but I
+performed them from no spirit of love, but solely from the hope of reward
+and payment, and so the reward was never granted.  At length, I asked my
+uncle’s leave to travel; and I went forth, a wanderer, with no distincter
+end than that of many another wanderer—to get away from myself.  A
+strange impulse led me to Antwerp, in spite of the wars and commotions
+then raging in the Low Countries—or rather, perhaps, the very craving to
+become interested in something external, led me into the thick of the
+struggle then going on with the Austrians.  The cities of Flanders were
+all full at that time of civil disturbances and rebellions, only kept
+down by force, and the presence of an Austrian garrison in every place.
+
+I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry for Father Bernard.  He was away
+in the country for a day or two.  Then I asked my way to the Convent of
+Poor Clares; but, being healthy and prosperous, I could only see the dim,
+pent-up, gray walls, shut closely in by narrow streets, in the lowest
+part of the town.  My landlord told me, that had I been stricken by some
+loathsome disease, or in desperate case of any kind, the Poor Clares
+would have taken me, and tended me.  He spoke of them as an order of
+mercy of the strictest kind, dressing scantily in the coarsest materials,
+going barefoot, living on what the inhabitants of Antwerp chose to
+bestow, and sharing even those fragments and crumbs with the poor and
+helpless that swarmed all around; receiving no letters or communication
+with the outer world; utterly dead to everything but the alleviation of
+suffering.  He smiled at my inquiring whether I could get speech of one
+of them; and told me that they were even forbidden to speak for the
+purposes of begging their daily food; while yet they lived, and fed
+others upon what was given in charity.
+
+“But,” exclaimed I, “supposing all men forgot them!  Would they quietly
+lie down and die, without making sign of their extremity?”
+
+“If such were the rule the Poor Clares would willingly do it; but their
+founder appointed a remedy for such extreme cases as you suggest.  They
+have a bell—’tis but a small one, as I have heard, and has yet never been
+rung in the memory of man: when the Poor Clares have been without food
+for twenty-four hours, they may ring this bell, and then trust to our
+good people of Antwerp for rushing to the rescue of the Poor Clares, who
+have taken such blessed care of us in all our straits.”
+
+It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did not
+say what I thought.  I rather turned the conversation, by asking my
+landlord if he knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain Sister
+Magdalen.
+
+“Yes,” said he, rather under his breath, “news will creep out, even from
+a convent of Poor Clares.  Sister Magdalen is either a great sinner or a
+great saint.  She does more, as I have heard, than all the other nuns put
+together; yet, when last month they would fain have made her
+mother-superior, she begged rather that they would place her below all
+the rest, and make her the meanest servant of all.”
+
+“You never saw her?” asked I.
+
+“Never,” he replied.
+
+I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in Antwerp.
+The political state of things became worse than ever, increased to its
+height by the scarcity of food consequent on many deficient harvests.  I
+saw groups of fierce, squalid men, at every corner of the street, glaring
+out with wolfish eyes at my sleek skin and handsome clothes.
+
+At last Father Bernard returned.  We had a long conversation, in which he
+told me that, curiously enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy’s father, was serving
+in one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at Antwerp.  I asked
+Father Bernard if he would make us acquainted; which he consented to do.
+But, a day or two afterwards, he told me that, on hearing my name, Mr.
+Gisborne had declined responding to any advances on my part, saying he
+had adjured his country, and hated his countrymen.
+
+Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his daughter
+Lucy.  Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of making his
+acquaintance.  Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of the hidden
+fermentation, for some coming evil, working among the “blouses” of
+Antwerp, and he would fain have had me depart from out the city; but I
+rather craved the excitement of danger, and stubbornly refused to leave.
+
+One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to an
+Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral.
+
+“That is Mr. Gisborne,” said he, as soon as the gentleman was past.
+
+I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer.  He carried
+himself in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and from
+his years might have had some excuse for a slight stoop.  As I looked at
+the man, he turned round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face.  Deeply
+lined, sallow, and scathed was that countenance; scarred by passion as
+well as by the fortunes of war.  ’Twas but a moment our eyes met.  We
+each turned round, and went on our separate way.
+
+But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the thorough
+appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on it, made but an
+incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of his countenance.
+Because he was Lucy’s father, I sought instinctively to meet him
+everywhere.  At last he must have become aware of my pertinacity, for he
+gave me a haughty scowl whenever I passed him.  In one of these
+encounters, however, I chanced to be of some service to him.  He was
+turning the corner of a street, and came suddenly on one of the groups of
+discontented Flemings of whom I have spoken.  Some words were exchanged,
+when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a slight but skilful cut
+drew blood from one of those who had insulted him, as he fancied, though
+I was too far off to hear the words.  They would all have fallen upon him
+had I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, then well known in Antwerp,
+of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who were perpetually patrolling the
+streets, and who came in numbers to the rescue.  I think that neither Mr.
+Gisborne nor the mutinous group of plebeians owed me much gratitude for
+my interference.  He had planted himself against a wall, in a skilful
+attitude of fence, ready with his bright glancing rapier to do battle
+with all the heavy, fierce, unarmed men, some six or seven in number.
+But when his own soldiers came up, he sheathed his sword; and, giving
+some careless word of command, sent them away again, and continued his
+saunter all alone down the street, the workmen snarling in his rear, and
+more than half-inclined to fall on me for my cry for rescue.  I cared not
+if they did, my life seemed so dreary a burden just then; and, perhaps,
+it was this daring loitering among them that prevented their attacking
+me.  Instead, they suffered me to fall into conversation with them; and I
+heard some of their grievances.  Sore and heavy to be borne were they,
+and no wonder the sufferers were savage and desperate.
+
+The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got out
+of me the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it.  Another of
+the group heard his inquiry, and made answer—“I know the man.  He is one
+Gisborne, aide-de-camp to the General-Commandant.  I know him well.”
+
+He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and
+muttering voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excited
+their evil blood, and which they evidently wished me not to hear, I
+sauntered away and back to my lodgings.
+
+That night Antwerp was in open revolt.  The inhabitants rose in rebellion
+against their Austrian masters.  The Austrians, holding the gates of the
+city, remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel; only, from time to
+time, the boom of the great cannon swept sullenly over the town.  But if
+they expected the disturbance to die away, and spend itself in a few
+hours’ fury, they were mistaken.  In a day or two, the rioters held
+possession of the principal municipal buildings.  Then the Austrians
+poured forth in bright flaming array, calm and smiling, as they marched
+to the posts assigned, as if the fierce mob were no more to them then the
+swarms of buzzing summer flies.  Their practised manœuvres, their
+well-aimed shot, told with terrible effect; but in the place of one slain
+rioter, three sprang up of his blood to avenge his loss.  But a deadly
+foe, a ghastly ally of the Austrians, was at work.  Food, scarce and dear
+for months, was now hardly to be obtained at any price.  Desperate
+efforts were being made to bring provisions into the city, for the
+rioters had friends without.  Close to the city port, nearest to the
+Scheldt, a great struggle took place.  I was there, helping the rioters,
+whose cause I had adopted.  We had a savage encounter with the Austrians.
+Numbers fell on both sides: I saw them lie bleeding for a moment: then a
+volley of smoke obscured them; and when it cleared away, they were
+dead—trampled upon or smothered, pressed down and hidden by the
+freshly-wounded whom those last guns had brought low.  And then a
+gray-robed and grey-veiled figure came right across the flashing guns and
+stooped over some one, whose life-blood was ebbing away; sometimes it was
+to give him drink from cans which they carried slung at their sides;
+sometimes I saw the cross held above a dying man, and rapid prayers were
+being uttered, unheard by men in that hellish din and clangour, but
+listened to by One above.  I saw all this as in a dream: the reality of
+that stern time was battle and carnage.  But I knew that these gray
+figures, their bare feet all wet with blood, and their faces hidden by
+their veils, were the Poor Clares—sent forth now because dire agony was
+abroad and imminent danger at hand.  Therefore, they left their
+cloistered shelter, and came into that thick and evil mêlée.
+
+Close to me—driven past me by the struggle of many fighters—came the
+Antwerp burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon his face; and in an
+instant more, he was thrown by the press upon the Austrian officer
+Gisborne, and ere either had recovered the shock, the burgess had
+recognized his opponent.
+
+“Ha! the Englishman Gisborne!” he cried, and threw himself upon him with
+redoubled fury.  He had struck him hard—the Englishman was down; when out
+of the smoke came a dark-gray figure, and threw herself right under the
+uplifted flashing sword.  The burgess’s arm stood arrested.  Neither
+Austrians nor Anversois willingly harmed the Poor Clares.
+
+“Leave him to me!” said a low stern voice.  “He is mine enemy—mine for
+many years.”
+
+Those words were the last I heard.  I myself was struck down by a bullet.
+I remember nothing more for days.  When I came to myself, I was at the
+extremity of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit my strength.
+My landlord sat watching me.  He, too, looked pinched and shrunken; he
+had heard of my wounded state, and sought me out.  Yes! the struggle
+still continued, but the famine was sore: and some, he had heard, had
+died for lack of food.  The tears stood in his eyes as he spoke.  But
+soon he shook off his weakness, and his natural cheerfulness returned.
+Father Bernard had been to see me—no one else.  (Who should, indeed?)
+Father Bernard would come back that afternoon—he had promised.  But
+Father Bernard never came, although I was up and dressed, and looking
+eagerly for him.
+
+My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself: of what it was
+composed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and with every
+mouthful I seemed to gain strength.  The good man sat looking at my
+evident enjoyment with a happy smile of sympathy; but, as my appetite
+became satisfied, I began to detect a certain wistfulness in his eyes, as
+if craving for the food I had so nearly devoured—for, indeed, at that
+time I was hardly aware of the extent of the famine.  Suddenly, there was
+a sound of many rushing feet past our window.  My landlord opened one of
+the sides of it, the better to learn what was going on.  Then we heard a
+faint, cracked, tinkling bell, coming shrill upon the air, clear and
+distinct from all other sounds.  “Holy Mother!” exclaimed my landlord,
+“the Poor Clares!”
+
+He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into my hands,
+bidding me follow.  Down stairs he ran, clutching at more food, as the
+women of his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a moment we were in
+the street, moving along with the great current, all tending towards the
+Convent of the Poor Clares.  And still, as if piercing our ears with its
+inarticulate cry, came the shrill tinkle of the bell.  In that strange
+crowd were old men trembling and sobbing, as they carried their little
+pittance of food; women with tears running down their cheeks, who had
+snatched up what provisions they had in the vessels in which they stood,
+so that the burden of these was in many cases much greater than that
+which they contained; children, with flushed faces, grasping tight the
+morsel of bitten cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it safe to
+the help of the Poor Clares; strong men—yea, both Anversois and
+Austrians—pressing onward with set teeth, and no word spoken; and over
+all, and through all, came that sharp tinkle—that cry for help in
+extremity.
+
+We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and piteous
+faces: they were issuing out of the convent to make way for the offerings
+of others.  “Haste, haste!” said they.  “A Poor Clare is dying!  A Poor
+Clare is dead for hunger!  God forgive us and our city!”
+
+We pressed on.  The stream bore us along where it would.  We were carried
+through refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over whose doors the
+conventual name of the occupant was written.  Thus it was that I, with
+others, was forced into Sister Magdalen’s cell.  On her couch lay
+Gisborne, pale unto death, but not dead.  By his side was a cup of water,
+and a small morsel of mouldy bread, which he had pushed out of his reach,
+and could not move to obtain.  Over against his bed were these words,
+copied in the English version “Therefore, if thine enemy hunger, feed
+him; if he thirst, give him drink.”
+
+Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like some
+famished wild animal.  For now it was no longer the sharp tinkle, but
+that one solemn toll, which in all Christian countries tells of the
+passing of the spirit out of earthly life into eternity; and again a
+murmur gathered and grew, as of many people speaking with awed breath, “A
+Poor Clare is dying! a Poor Clare is dead!”
+
+Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried into
+the chapel belonging to the Poor Clares.  On a bier before the high
+altar, lay a woman—lay Sister Magdalen—lay Bridget Fitzgerald.  By her
+side stood Father Bernard, in his robes of office, and holding the
+crucifix on high while he pronounced the solemn absolution of the Church,
+as to one who had newly confessed herself of deadly sin.  I pushed on
+with passionate force, till I stood close to the dying woman, as she
+received extreme unction amid the breathless and awed hush of the
+multitude around.  Her eyes were glazing, her limbs were stiffening; but
+when the rite was over and finished, she raised her gaunt figure slowly
+up, and her eyes brightened to a strange intensity of joy, as, with the
+gesture of her finger and the trance-like gleam of her eye, she seemed
+like one who watched the disappearance of some loathed and fearful
+creature.
+
+“She is freed from the curse!” said she, as she fell back dead.
+
+
+
+
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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poor Clare, by Elizabeth Gaskell
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: The Poor Clare
+
+Author: Elizabeth Gaskell
+
+Release Date: April 21, 2000 [eBook #2548]
+[Most recently updated: February 5, 2024]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: David Price, Audrey Emmitt and Eugenia Corbo
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POOR CLARE ***
+
+
+
+
+                              THE POOR CLARE
+
+                           by Elizabeth Gaskell
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+
+December 12th, 1747.—My life has been strangely bound up with
+extraordinary incidents, some of which occurred before I had any
+connection with the principal actors in them, or indeed, before I even
+knew of their existence.  I suppose, most old men are, like me, more
+given to looking back upon their own career with a kind of fond interest
+and affectionate remembrance, than to watching the events—though these
+may have far more interest for the multitude—immediately passing before
+their eyes.  If this should be the case with the generality of old
+people, how much more so with me! . . . If I am to enter upon that
+strange story connected with poor Lucy, I must begin a long way back.  I
+myself only came to the knowledge of her family history after I knew her;
+but, to make the tale clear to any one else, I must arrange events in the
+order in which they occurred—not that in which I became acquainted with
+them.
+
+There is a great old hall in the north-east of Lancashire, in a part they
+called the Trough of Bolland, adjoining that other district named Craven.
+Starkey Manor-house is rather like a number of rooms clustered round a
+gray, massive, old keep than a regularly-built hall.  Indeed, I suppose
+that the house only consisted of a great tower in the centre, in the days
+when the Scots made their raids terrible as far south as this; and that
+after the Stuarts came in, and there was a little more security of
+property in those parts, the Starkeys of that time added the lower
+building, which runs, two stories high, all round the base of the keep.
+There has been a grand garden laid out in my days, on the southern slope
+near the house; but when I first knew the place, the kitchen-garden at
+the farm was the only piece of cultivated ground belonging to it.  The
+deer used to come within sight of the drawing-room windows, and might
+have browsed quite close up to the house if they had not been too wild
+and shy.  Starkey Manor-house itself stood on a projection or peninsula
+of high land, jutting out from the abrupt hills that form the sides of
+the Trough of Bolland.  These hills were rocky and bleak enough towards
+their summit; lower down they were clothed with tangled copsewood and
+green depths of fern, out of which a gray giant of an ancient forest-tree
+would tower here and there, throwing up its ghastly white branches, as if
+in imprecation, to the sky.  These trees, they told me, were the remnants
+of that forest which existed in the days of the Heptarchy, and were even
+then noted as landmarks.  No wonder that their upper and more exposed
+branches were leafless, and that the dead bark had peeled away, from
+sapless old age.
+
+Not far from the house there were a few cottages, apparently, of the same
+date as the keep; probably built for some retainers of the family, who
+sought shelter—they and their families and their small flocks and
+herds—at the hands of their feudal lord.  Some of them had pretty much
+fallen to decay.  They were built in a strange fashion.  Strong beams had
+been sunk firm in the ground at the requisite distance, and their other
+ends had been fastened together, two and two, so as to form the shape of
+one of those rounded waggon-headed gipsy-tents, only very much larger.
+The spaces between were filled with mud, stones, osiers, rubbish,
+mortar—anything to keep out the weather.  The fires were made in the
+centre of these rude dwellings, a hole in the roof forming the only
+chimney.  No Highland hut or Irish cabin could be of rougher
+construction.
+
+The owner of this property, at the beginning of the present century, was
+a Mr. Patrick Byrne Starkey.  His family had kept to the old faith, and
+were stanch Roman Catholics, esteeming it even a sin to marry any one of
+Protestant descent, however willing he or she might have been to embrace
+the Romish religion.  Mr. Patrick Starkey’s father had been a follower of
+James the Second; and, during the disastrous Irish campaign of that
+monarch he had fallen in love with an Irish beauty, a Miss Byrne, as
+zealous for her religion and for the Stuarts as himself.  He had returned
+to Ireland after his escape to France, and married her, bearing her back
+to the court at St. Germains.  But some licence on the part of the
+disorderly gentlemen who surrounded King James in his exile, had insulted
+his beautiful wife, and disgusted him; so he removed from St. Germains to
+Antwerp, whence, in a few years’ time, he quietly returned to Starkey
+Manor-house—some of his Lancashire neighbours having lent their good
+offices to reconcile him to the powers that were.  He was as firm a
+Catholic as ever, and as stanch an advocate for the Stuarts and the
+divine rights of kings; but his religion almost amounted to asceticism,
+and the conduct of these with whom he had been brought in such close
+contact at St. Germains would little bear the inspection of a stern
+moralist.  So he gave his allegiance where he could not give his esteem,
+and learned to respect sincerely the upright and moral character of one
+whom he yet regarded as an usurper.  King William’s government had little
+need to fear such a one.  So he returned, as I have said, with a sobered
+heart and impoverished fortunes, to his ancestral house, which had fallen
+sadly to ruin while the owner had been a courtier, a soldier, and an
+exile.  The roads into the Trough of Bolland were little more than
+cart-ruts; indeed, the way up to the house lay along a ploughed field
+before you came to the deer-park.  Madam, as the country-folk used to
+call Mrs. Starkey, rode on a pillion behind her husband, holding on to
+him with a light hand by his leather riding-belt.  Little master (he that
+was afterwards Squire Patrick Byrne Starkey) was held on to his pony by a
+serving-man.  A woman past middle age walked, with a firm and strong
+step, by the cart that held much of the baggage; and high up on the mails
+and boxes, sat a girl of dazzling beauty, perched lightly on the topmost
+trunk, and swaying herself fearlessly to and fro, as the cart rocked and
+shook in the heavy roads of late autumn.  The girl wore the Antwerp
+faille, or black Spanish mantle over her head, and altogether her
+appearance was such that the old cottager, who described the possession
+to me many years after, said that all the country-folk took her for a
+foreigner.  Some dogs, and the boy who held them in charge, made up the
+company.  They rode silently along, looking with grave, serious eyes at
+the people, who came out of the scattered cottages to bow or curtsy to
+the real Squire, “come back at last,” and gazed after the little
+procession with gaping wonder, not deadened by the sound of the foreign
+language in which the few necessary words that passed among them were
+spoken.  One lad, called from his staring by the Squire to come and help
+about the cart, accompanied them to the Manor-house.  He said that when
+the lady had descended from her pillion, the middle-aged woman whom I
+have described as walking while the others rode, stepped quickly forward,
+and taking Madam Starkey (who was of a slight and delicate figure) in her
+arms, she lifted her over the threshold, and set her down in her
+husband’s house, at the same time uttering a passionate and outlandish
+blessing.  The Squire stood by, smiling gravely at first; but when the
+words of blessing were pronounced, he took off his fine feathered hat,
+and bent his head.  The girl with the black mantle stepped onward into
+the shadow of the dark hall, and kissed the lady’s hand; and that was all
+the lad could tell to the group that gathered round him on his return,
+eager to hear everything, and to know how much the Squire had given him
+for his services.
+
+From all I could gather, the Manor-house, at the time of the Squire’s
+return, was in the most dilapidated state.  The stout gray walls remained
+firm and entire; but the inner chambers had been used for all kinds of
+purposes.  The great withdrawing-room had been a barn; the state
+tapestry-chamber had held wool, and so on.  But, by-and-by, they were
+cleared out; and if the Squire had no money to spend on new furniture, he
+and his wife had the knack of making the best of the old.  He was no
+despicable joiner; she had a kind of grace in whatever she did, and
+imparted an air of elegant picturesqueness to whatever she touched.
+Besides, they had brought many rare things from the Continent; perhaps I
+should rather say, things that were rare in that part of
+England—carvings, and crosses, and beautiful pictures.  And then, again,
+wood was plentiful in the Trough of Bolland, and great log-fires danced
+and glittered in all the dark, old rooms, and gave a look of home and
+comfort to everything.
+
+Why do I tell you all this?  I have little to do with the Squire and
+Madame Starkey; and yet I dwell upon them, as if I were unwilling to come
+to the real people with whom my life was so strangely mixed up.  Madam
+had been nursed in Ireland by the very woman who lifted her in her arms,
+and welcomed her to her husband’s home in Lancashire.  Excepting for the
+short period of her own married life, Bridget Fitzgerald had never left
+her nursling.  Her marriage—to one above her in rank—had been unhappy.
+Her husband had died, and left her in even greater poverty than that in
+which she was when he had first met with her.  She had one child, the
+beautiful daughter who came riding on the waggon-load of furniture that
+was brought to the Manor-house.  Madame Starkey had taken her again into
+her service when she became a widow.  She and her daughter had followed
+“the mistress” in all her fortunes; they had lived at St. Germains and at
+Antwerp, and were now come to her home in Lancashire.  As soon as Bridget
+had arrived there, the Squire gave her a cottage of her own, and took
+more pains in furnishing it for her than he did in anything else out of
+his own house.  It was only nominally her residence.  She was constantly
+up at the great house; indeed, it was but a short cut across the woods
+from her own home to the home of her nursling.  Her daughter Mary, in
+like manner, moved from one house to the other at her own will.  Madam
+loved both mother and child dearly.  They had great influence over her,
+and, through her, over her husband.  Whatever Bridget or Mary willed was
+sure to come to pass.  They were not disliked; for, though wild and
+passionate, they were also generous by nature.  But the other servants
+were afraid of them, as being in secret the ruling spirits of the
+household.  The Squire had lost his interest in all secular things; Madam
+was gentle, affectionate, and yielding.  Both husband and wife were
+tenderly attached to each other and to their boy; but they grew more and
+more to shun the trouble of decision on any point; and hence it was that
+Bridget could exert such despotic power.  But if everyone else yielded to
+her “magic of a superior mind,” her daughter not unfrequently rebelled.
+She and her mother were too much alike to agree.  There were wild
+quarrels between them, and wilder reconciliations.  There were times
+when, in the heat of passion, they could have stabbed each other.  At all
+other times they both—Bridget especially—would have willingly laid down
+their lives for one another.  Bridget’s love for her child lay very
+deep—deeper than that daughter ever knew; or I should think she would
+never have wearied of home as she did, and prayed her mistress to obtain
+for her some situation—as waiting maid—beyond the seas, in that more
+cheerful continental life, among the scenes of which so many of her
+happiest years had been spent.  She thought, as youth thinks, that life
+would last for ever, and that two or three years were but a small portion
+of it to pass away from her mother, whose only child she was.  Bridget
+thought differently, but was too proud ever to show what she felt.  If
+her child wished to leave her, why—she should go.  But people said
+Bridget 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 Mary
+wanted for a time to leave the place, and to seek some change, and would
+thankfully have taken her mother with her.  Indeed when Madam Starkey had
+gotten her a situation with some grand lady abroad, and the time drew
+near for her to go, it was Mary who clung to her mother with passionate
+embrace, and, with floods of tears, declared that she would never leave
+her; and it was Bridget, who at last loosened her arms, and, grave and
+tearless herself, bade her keep her word, and go forth into the wide
+world.  Sobbing aloud, and looking back continually, Mary went away.
+Bridget was still as death, scarcely drawing her breath, or closing her
+stony eyes; till at last she turned back into her cottage, and heaved a
+ponderous old settle against the door.  There she sat, motionless, over
+the gray ashes of her extinguished fire, deaf to Madam’s sweet voice, as
+she begged leave to enter and comfort her nurse.  Deaf, stony, and
+motionless, she sat for more than twenty hours; till, for the third time,
+Madam came across the snowy path from the great house, carrying with her
+a young spaniel, which had been Mary’s pet up at the hall; and which had
+not ceased all night long to seek for its absent mistress, and to whine
+and moan after her.  With tears Madam told this story, through the closed
+door—tears excited by the terrible look of anguish, so steady, so
+immovable—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 it
+shivered with the cold.  Bridget stirred; she moved—she listened.  Again
+that long whine; she thought it was for her daughter; and what she had
+denied to her nursling and mistress she granted to the dumb creature that
+Mary had cherished.  She opened the door, and took the dog from Madam’s
+arms.  Then Madam came in, and kissed and comforted the old woman, who
+took but little notice of her or anything.  And sending up Master Patrick
+to the hall for fire and food, the sweet young lady never left her nurse
+all that night.  Next day, the Squire himself came down, carrying a
+beautiful foreign picture—Our Lady of the Holy Heart, the Papists call
+it.  It is a picture of the Virgin, her heart pierced with arrows, each
+arrow representing one of her great woes.  That picture hung in Bridget’s
+cottage 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 her
+darling.  I have heard that she talked to it continually; although, to
+most people, she was so silent.  The Squire and Madam treated her with
+the greatest consideration, and well they might; for to them she was as
+devoted and faithful as ever.  Mary wrote pretty often, and seemed
+satisfied with her life.  But at length the letters ceased—I hardly know
+whether before or after a great and terrible sorrow came upon the house
+of the Starkeys.  The Squire sickened of a putrid fever; and Madam caught
+it in nursing him, and died.  You may be sure, Bridget let no other woman
+tend her but herself; and in the very arms that had received her at her
+birth, 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 the
+heart to smile again.  He fasted and prayed more than ever; and people
+did say that he tried to cut off the entail, and leave all the property
+away to found a monastery abroad, of which he prayed that some day little
+Squire 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 he
+could 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 the
+way it was to be held while he was a minor.  Of course, Bridget was not
+forgotten.  He sent for her as he lay on his death-bed, and asked her if
+she would rather have a sum down, or have a small annuity settled upon
+her.  She said at once she would have a sum down; for she thought of her
+daughter, and how she could bequeath the money to her, whereas an annuity
+would 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 a
+heart 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 left
+alone.
+
+I have said that she had not heard from Mary for some time.  In her last
+letter, she had told of travelling about with her mistress, who was the
+English wife of some great foreign officer, and had spoken of her chances
+of making a good marriage, without naming the gentleman’s name, keeping
+it rather back as a pleasant surprise to her mother; his station and
+fortune being, as I had afterwards reason to know, far superior to
+anything she had a right to expect.  Then came a long silence; and Madam
+was dead, and the Squire was dead; and Bridget’s heart was gnawed by
+anxiety, and she knew not whom to ask for news of her child.  She could
+not write, and the Squire had managed her communication with her
+daughter.  She walked off to Hurst; and got a good priest there—one whom
+she had known at Antwerp—to write for her.  But no answer came.  It was
+like crying into the awful stillness of night.
+
+One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been accustomed
+to mark her goings-out and comings-in.  She had never been sociable with
+any 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, and
+her house-door remained closed, her window dead from any glitter, or
+light 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 through
+the blank unshuttered window.  But, at last, they summoned up courage;
+and then saw that Bridget’s absence from their little world was not the
+result of accident or death, but of premeditation.  Such small articles
+of furniture as could be secured from the effects of time and damp by
+being packed up, were stowed away in boxes.  The picture of the Madonna
+was taken down, and gone.  In a word, Bridget had stolen away from her
+home, 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 her
+lost daughter.  She was too illiterate to have faith in letters, even had
+she had the means of writing and sending many.  But she had faith in her
+own strong love, and believed that her passionate instinct would guide
+her to her child.  Besides, foreign travel was no new thing to her, and
+she could speak enough of French to explain the object of her journey,
+and had, moreover, the advantage of being, from her faith, a welcome
+object of charitable hospitality at many a distant convent.  But the
+country people round Starkey Manor-house knew nothing of all this.  They
+wondered what had become of her, in a torpid, lazy fashion, and then left
+off thinking of her altogether.  Several years passed.  Both Manor-house
+and cottage were deserted.  The young Squire lived far away under the
+direction of his guardians.  There were inroads of wool and corn into the
+sitting-rooms of the Hall; and there was some low talk, from time to
+time, among the hinds and country people whether it would not be as well
+to break into old Bridget’s cottage, and save such of her goods as were
+left from the moth and rust which must be making sad havoc.  But this
+idea was always quenched by the recollection of her strong character and
+passionate anger; and tales of her masterful spirit, and vehement force
+of will, were whispered about, till the very thought of offending her, by
+touching any article of hers, became invested with a kind of horror: it
+was believed that, dead or alive, she would not fail to avenge it.
+
+Suddenly she came home; with as little noise or note of preparation as
+she had departed.  One day some one noticed a thin, blue curl of smoke
+ascending from her chimney.  Her door stood open to the noonday sun; and,
+ere many hours had elapsed, some one had seen an old
+travel-and-sorrow-stained woman dipping her pitcher in the well; and
+said, that the dark, solemn eyes that looked up at him were more like
+Bridget Fitzgerald’s than any one else’s in this world; and yet, if it
+were she, she looked as if she had been scorched in the flames of hell,
+so brown, and scared, and fierce a creature did she seem.  By-and-by many
+saw her; and those who met her eye once cared not to be caught looking at
+her again.  She had got into the habit of perpetually talking to herself;
+nay, more, answering herself, and varying her tones according to the side
+she took at the moment.  It was no wonder that those who dared to listen
+outside her door at night believed that she held converse with some
+spirit; in short, she was unconsciously earning for herself the dreadful
+reputation of a witch.
+
+Her little dog, which had wandered half over the Continent with her, was
+her only companion; a dumb remembrancer of happier days.  Once he was
+ill; and she carried him more than three miles, to ask about his
+management from one who had been groom to the last Squire, and had then
+been noted for his skill in all diseases of animals.  Whatever this man
+did, the dog recovered; and they who heard her thanks, intermingled with
+blessings (that were rather promises of good fortune than prayers),
+looked grave at his good luck when, next year, his ewes twinned, and his
+meadow-grass was heavy and thick.
+
+Now it so happened that, about the year seventeen hundred and eleven, one
+of the guardians of the young squire, a certain Sir Philip Tempest,
+bethought him of the good shooting there must be on his ward’s property;
+and in consequence he brought down four or five gentlemen, of his
+friends, to stay for a week or two at the Hall.  From all accounts, they
+roystered and spent pretty freely.  I never heard any of their names but
+one, and that was Squire Gisborne’s.  He was hardly a middle-aged man
+then; he had been much abroad, and there, I believe, he had known Sir
+Philip Tempest, and done him some service.  He was a daring and dissolute
+fellow in those days: careless and fearless, and one who would rather be
+in a quarrel than out of it.  He had his fits of ill-temper besides, when
+he would spare neither man nor beast.  Otherwise, those who knew him
+well, used to say he had a good heart, when he was neither drunk, nor
+angry, nor in any way vexed.  He had altered much when I came to know
+him.
+
+One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but little
+success, I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had none, and was in a black
+humour accordingly.  He was coming home, having his gun loaded,
+sportsman-like, when little Mignon crossed his path, just as he turned
+out of the wood by Bridget’s cottage.  Partly for wantonness, partly to
+vent his spleen upon some living creature.  Mr. Gisborne took his gun,
+and fired—he had better have never fired gun again, than aimed that
+unlucky shot, he hit Mignon, and at the creature’s sudden cry, Bridget
+came out, and saw at a glance what had been done.  She took Mignon up in
+her arms, and looked hard at the wound; the poor dog looked at her with
+his glazing eyes, and tried to wag his tail and lick her hand, all
+covered with blood.  Mr. Gisborne spoke in a kind of sullen penitence:
+
+“You should have kept the dog out of my way—a little poaching varmint.”
+
+At this very moment, Mignon stretched out his legs, and stiffened in her
+arms—her lost Mary’s dog, who had wandered and sorrowed with her for
+years.  She walked right into Mr. Gisborne’s path, and fixed his
+unwilling, sullen look, with her dark and terrible eye.
+
+“Those never throve that did me harm,” said she.  “I’m alone in the
+world, and helpless; the more do the saints in heaven hear my prayers.
+Hear me, ye blessed ones! hear me while I ask for sorrow on this bad,
+cruel man.  He has killed the only creature that loved me—the dumb beast
+that I loved.  Bring down heavy sorrow on his head for it, O ye saints!
+He thought that I was helpless, because he saw me lonely and poor; but
+are not the armies of heaven for the like of me?”
+
+“Come, come,” said he, half remorseful, but not one whit afraid.  “Here’s
+a crown to buy thee another dog.  Take it, and leave off cursing!  I care
+none for thy threats.”
+
+“Don’t you?” said she, coming a step closer, and changing her imprecatory
+cry for a whisper which made the gamekeeper’s lad, following Mr.
+Gisborne, creep all over.  “You shall live to see the creature you love
+best, and who alone loves you—ay, a human creature, but as innocent and
+fond as my poor, dead darling—you shall see this creature, for whom death
+would be too happy, become a terror and a loathing to all, for this
+blood’s sake.  Hear me, O holy saints, who never fail them that have no
+other help!”
+
+She threw up her right hand, filled with poor Mignon’s life-drops; they
+spirted, one or two of them, on his shooting-dress,—an ominous sight to
+the follower.  But the master only laughed a little, forced, scornful
+laugh, and went on to the Hall.  Before he got there, however, he took
+out a gold piece, and bade the boy carry it to the old woman on his
+return to the village.  The lad was “afeared,” as he told me in after
+years; he came to the cottage, and hovered about, not daring to enter.
+He peeped through the window at last; and by the flickering wood-flame,
+he saw Bridget kneeling before the picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart,
+with dead Mignon lying between her and the Madonna.  She was praying
+wildly, as her outstretched arms betokened.  The lad shrunk away in
+redoubled terror; and contented himself with slipping the gold piece
+under the ill-fitting door.  The next day it was thrown out upon the
+midden; and there it lay, no one daring to touch it.
+
+Meanwhile Mr. Gisborne, half curious, half uneasy, thought to lessen his
+uncomfortable feelings by asking Sir Philip who Bridget was?  He could
+only describe her—he did not know her name.  Sir Philip was equally at a
+loss.  But an old servant of the Starkeys, who had resumed his livery at
+the Hall on this occasion—a scoundrel whom Bridget had saved from
+dismissal more than once during her palmy days—said:—
+
+“It will be the old witch, that his worship means.  She needs a ducking,
+if ever a woman did, does that Bridget Fitzgerald.”
+
+“Fitzgerald!” said both the gentlemen at once.  But Sir Philip was the
+first to continue:—
+
+“I must have no talk of ducking her, Dickon.  Why, she must be the very
+woman poor Starkey bade me have a care of; but when I came here last she
+was gone, no one knew where.  I’ll go and see her to-morrow.  But mind
+you, sirrah, if any harm comes to her, or any more talk of her being a
+witch—I’ve a pack of hounds at home, who can follow the scent of a lying
+knave as well as ever they followed a dog-fox; so take care how you talk
+about ducking a faithful old servant of your dead master’s.”
+
+“Had she ever a daughter?” asked Mr. Gisborne, after a while.
+
+“I don’t know—yes!  I’ve a notion she had; a kind of waiting woman to
+Madam Starkey.”
+
+“Please your worship,” said humbled Dickon, “Mistress Bridget had a
+daughter—one Mistress Mary—who went abroad, and has never been heard on
+since; and folk do say that has crazed her mother.”
+
+Mr. Gisborne shaded his eyes with his hand.
+
+“I could wish she had not cursed me,” he muttered.  “She may have
+power—no one else could.”  After a while, he said aloud, no one
+understanding rightly what he meant, “Tush! it is impossible!”—and called
+for claret; and he and the other gentlemen set-to to a drinking-bout.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+
+I now come to the time in which I myself was mixed up with the people
+that I have been writing about.  And to make you understand how I became
+connected with them, I must give you some little account of myself.  My
+father was the younger son of a Devonshire gentleman of moderate
+property; my eldest uncle succeeded to the estate of his forefathers, my
+second became an eminent attorney in London, and my father took orders.
+Like most poor clergymen, he had a large family; and I have no doubt was
+glad enough when my London uncle, who was a bachelor, offered to 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 from
+Gray’s Inn, and to be treated and esteemed as his son, and to labour with
+him in his office.  I was very fond of the old gentleman.  He was the
+confidential agent of many country squires, and had attained to his
+present position as much by knowledge of human nature as by knowledge of
+law; though he was learned enough in the latter.  He used to say his
+business was law, his pleasure heraldry.  From his intimate acquaintance
+with family history, and all the tragic courses of life therein involved,
+to hear him talk, at leisure times, about any coat of arms that came
+across his path was as good as a play or a romance.  Many cases of
+disputed property, dependent on a love of genealogy, were brought to him,
+as to a great authority on such points.  If the lawyer who came to
+consult him was young, he would take no fee, only give him a long lecture
+on the importance of attending to heraldry; if the lawyer was of mature
+age and good standing, he would mulct him pretty well, and abuse him to
+me afterwards as negligent of one great branch of the profession.  His
+house was in a stately new street called Ormond Street, and in it he had
+a handsome library; but all the books treated of things that were past;
+none of them planned or looked forward into the 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 of practice in which he himself
+took such delight.  I suspect I worked too hard; at any rate, in
+seventeen hundred and eighteen I was far from well, and my good uncle was
+disturbed by my ill looks.
+
+One day, he rang the bell twice into the clerk’s room at the dingy office
+in Grey’s Inn Lane.  It was the summons for me, and I went into his
+private room just as a gentleman—whom I knew well enough by sight as an
+Irish lawyer of more reputation than he deserved—was leaving.
+
+My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering.  I was
+there two or three minutes before he spoke.  Then he told me that I must
+pack up my portmanteau that very afternoon, and start that night by
+post-horse for West Chester.  I should get there, if all went well, at
+the end of five days’ time, and must then wait for a packet to cross over
+to Dublin; from thence I must proceed to a certain town named Kildoon,
+and in that neighbourhood I was to remain, making certain inquiries as to
+the existence of any descendants of the younger branch of a family to
+whom some valuable estates had descended in the female line.  The Irish
+lawyer whom I had seen was weary of the case, and would willingly have
+given up the property, without further ado, to a man who appeared to
+claim them; but on laying his tables and trees before my uncle, the
+latter had foreseen so many possible prior claimants, that the lawyer had
+begged him to undertake the management of the whole business.  In his
+youth, my uncle would have liked nothing better than going over to
+Ireland himself, and ferreting out every scrap of paper or parchment, and
+every word of tradition respecting the family.  As it was, old and gouty,
+he deputed me.
+
+Accordingly, I went to Kildoon.  I suspect I had something of my uncle’s
+delight in following up a genealogical scent, for I very soon found out,
+when on the spot, that Mr. Rooney, the Irish lawyer, would have got both
+himself and the first claimant into a terrible scrape, if he had
+pronounced his opinion that the estates ought to be given up to him.
+There were three poor Irish fellows, each nearer of kin to the last
+possessor; but, a generation before, there was a still nearer relation,
+who had never been accounted for, nor his existence ever discovered by
+the lawyers, I venture to think, till I routed him out from the memory of
+some of the old dependants of the family.  What had become of him?  I
+travelled backwards and forwards; I crossed over to France, and came back
+again with a slight clue, which ended in my discovering that, wild and
+dissipated himself, he had left one child, a son, of yet worse character
+than his father; that this same Hugh Fitzgerald had married a very
+beautiful serving-woman of the Byrnes—a person below him in hereditary
+rank, but above him in character; that he had died soon after his
+marriage, leaving one child, whether a boy or a girl I could not learn,
+and that the mother had returned to live in the family of the Byrnes.
+Now, the chief of this latter family was serving in the Duke of Berwick’s
+regiment, and it was long before I could 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, an Irishman’s hatred for an Englishman, an
+exiled Jacobite’s jealousy of one who prospered and lived tranquilly
+under the government he looked upon as an usurpation.  “Bridget
+Fitzgerald,” he said, “had been faithful to the fortunes of his
+sister—had followed her abroad, and to England when Mrs. Starkey had
+thought fit to return.  Both his sister and her husband were dead, he
+knew nothing of Bridget Fitzgerald at the present time: probably Sir
+Philip Tempest, his nephew’s guardian, might be able to give me some
+information.”  I have not given the little contemptuous terms; the way in
+which faithful service was meant to imply more than it said—all that has
+nothing to do with my story.  Sir Philip, when applied to, told me that
+he paid an annuity regularly to an old woman named Fitzgerald, living at
+Coldholme (the village near Starkey Manor-house).  Whether she had any
+descendants he could not say.
+
+One bleak March evening, I came in sight of the places described at the
+beginning of my story.  I could hardly understand the rude dialect in
+which the direction to old Bridget’s house was given.
+
+“Yo’ see yon furleets,” all run together, gave me no idea that I was to
+guide myself by the distant lights that shone in the windows of the Hall,
+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 grand tour.  However,
+at last, I reached Bridget’s cottage—a low, moss-grown place: the palings
+that had once surrounded it were broken and gone; and the underwood of
+the forest came up to the walls, and must have darkened the windows.  It
+was about seven o’clock—not late to my London notions—but, after knocking
+for some time at the door and receiving no reply, I was driven to
+conjecture that the occupant of the house was gone to bed.  So I betook
+myself to the nearest church I had seen, three miles back on the road I
+had come, sure that close to that I should find an inn of some kind; and
+early the next morning I set off back to Coldholme, by a field-path which
+my host assured me I should find a shorter 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 that covered the ground; nevertheless, I saw
+an old woman, whom I instinctively suspected to be the object of my
+search, in a sheltered covert on one side of my path.  I lingered and
+watched her.  She must have been considerably above the middle size in
+her prime, for when she raised 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 something on the ground, as, with bent head, she
+turned off from the spot where I gazed upon her, and was lost to my
+sight.  I fancy I missed my way, and made a round in spite of the
+landlord’s directions; for by the time I had reached Bridget’s cottage
+she was there, with no semblance of hurried walk or discomposure of any
+kind.  The door was slightly ajar.  I knocked, and the majestic figure
+stood before me, silently awaiting the explanation of my errand.  Her
+teeth were all gone, so the nose and chin were brought near together; the
+gray eyebrows were straight, and almost hung over her deep, cavernous
+eyes, and the thick white hair lay in silvery masses over the low, wide,
+wrinkled forehead.  For a moment, I stood uncertain how to shape my
+answer to the solemn questioning of her silence.
+
+“Your name is Bridget Fitzgerald, I believe?”
+
+She bowed her head in assent.
+
+“I have something to say to you.  May I come in?  I am unwilling to keep
+you standing.”
+
+“You cannot tire me,” she said, and at first she seemed inclined to deny
+me the shelter of her roof.  But the next moment—she had searched the
+very soul in me with her eyes during that instant—she led me in, and
+dropped the shadowing hood of her gray, draping cloak, which had
+previously hid part of the character of her countenance.  The cottage was
+rude and bare enough.  But before the picture of the Virgin, of which I
+have made mention, there stood a little cup filled with fresh primroses.
+While she paid her reverence to the Madonna, I understood why she had
+been out seeking through the clumps of green in the sheltered copse.
+Then she turned round, and bade me be seated.  The expression of her
+face, which all this time I was studying, was not bad, as the stories of
+my last night’s landlord had led me to expect; it was a wild, stern,
+fierce, indomitable countenance, seamed and scarred by agonies of
+solitary weeping; but it was neither cunning nor malignant.
+
+“My name is Bridget Fitzgerald,” said she, by way of opening our
+conversation.
+
+“And your husband was Hugh Fitzgerald, of Knock Mahon, near Kildoon, in
+Ireland?”
+
+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 could
+see; but something rose in her throat, and choked her, and until she
+could 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 nature mastered her strong will, and she cried out, with a
+trembling 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 my
+eyes.  There she read, as I suppose, my utter ignorance of what had
+become of her child; for she went blindly back to her chair, and sat
+rocking herself and softly moaning, as if I were not there; I not daring
+to speak to the lone and awful woman.  After a little pause, she knelt
+down before the picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart, and spoke to 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 ye no
+comfort for my sore heart?  Am I for ever to hope?  Grant me at least
+despair!”—and so on she went, heedless of my presence.  Her prayers grew
+wilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the borders of
+madness 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 the
+flesh.  No tongue ever told me; but I know she is dead.  I have yearned
+so to see her, and my heart’s will is fearful and strong: it would have
+drawn her to me before now, if she had been a wanderer on the other side
+of the world.  I wonder often it has not drawn her out of the grave to
+come 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, but
+I could not help feeling for the desolate woman; and she must have read
+the unusual sympathy with her wistful eyes.
+
+“Yes, sir, we did.  She never knew how I loved her; and we parted
+unfriends; and I fear me that I wished her voyage might not turn out
+well, only meaning,—O, blessed Virgin! you know I only meant that she
+should 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 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 hoped
+she might be alive.  Listen to me,” and I told her the tale I have
+already told you, giving it all in the driest manner, for I wanted to
+recall the clear sense that I felt almost sure she had possessed in her
+younger days, and by keeping up her attention to details, restrain the
+vague wildness of her grief.
+
+She listened with deep attention, putting from time to time such
+questions as convinced me I had to do with no common intelligence,
+however dimmed and shorn by solitude and mysterious sorrow.  Then she
+took up her tale; and in few brief words, told me of her wanderings
+abroad in vain search after her daughter; sometimes in the wake of
+armies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in city.  The lady, whose
+waiting-woman Mary had gone to be, had died soon after the date of her
+last letter home; her husband, the foreign officer, had been serving in
+Hungary, whither Bridget had followed him, but too late to find him.
+Vague rumours reached her that Mary had made a great marriage: and this
+sting of doubt was added,—whether the mother might not be close to her
+child under her new name, and even hearing of her every day; and yet
+never recognizing the lost one under the appellation she then bore.  At
+length the thought took possession of her, that it was possible that all
+this 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, to
+her desolate hearth, and empty cottage.  Here she had thought it safest
+to remain; if Mary was in life, it was here she would seek for her
+mother.
+
+I noted down one or two particulars out of Bridget’s narrative that I
+thought might be of use to me: for I was stimulated to further search in
+a strange and extraordinary manner.  It seemed as if it were impressed
+upon 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 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 of my will
+only 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, or
+pains, or wit can discover.  It is true she may be long dead: but she may
+have left a child.”
+
+“A child!” she cried, as if for the first time this idea had struck her
+mind.  “Hear him, Blessed Virgin! he says she may have left a child.  And
+you have never told me, though I have prayed so for a sign, waking or
+sleeping!”
+
+“Nay,” said I, “I know nothing but what you tell me.  You say you heard
+of her marriage.”
+
+But she caught nothing of what I said.  She was praying to the Virgin in
+a kind of ecstasy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my very
+presence.
+
+From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest’s.  The wife of the foreign
+officer had been a cousin of his father’s, and from him I thought I might
+gain some particulars as to the existence of the Count de la Tour
+d’Auvergne, and where I could find him; for I knew questions _de vive
+voix_ aid the flagging recollection, and I was determined to lose no
+chance for want of trouble.  But Sir Philip had gone abroad, and it would
+be some time before I could receive an answer.  So I followed my uncle’s
+advice, to whom I had mentioned how wearied I felt, both in body and
+mind, by my will-o’-the-wisp search.  He immediately told me to go to
+Harrogate, there to await Sir Philip’s reply.  I should be near to one of
+the places connected with my search, Coldholme; not far from Sir Philip
+Tempest, in case he returned, and I wished to ask him any further
+questions; and, in conclusion, my uncle bade me try to forget all about
+my business for a time.
+
+This was far easier said than done.  I have seen a child on a common
+blown along by a high wind, without power of standing still and resisting
+the tempestuous force.  I was somewhat in the same predicament as
+regarded my mental state.  Something resistless seemed to urge my
+thoughts on, through every possible course by which there was a chance of
+attaining to my object.  I did not see the sweeping moors when I walked
+out: when I held a book in my hand, and read the words, their sense did
+not 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 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 it compelled me to live
+in the present suffering, and not in the visionary researches I had been
+continually making before.  My kind uncle came to nurse me; and after the
+immediate danger was over, my life seemed to slip away in delicious
+languor for two or three months.  I did not ask—so much did I dread
+falling into the old channel of thought—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
+midsummer, and then returned to his business in London; leaving me
+perfectly well, although not completely strong.  I was to follow him in a
+fortnight; when, as he said, “we would look over letters, and talk about
+several things.”  I knew what this little speech alluded to, and shrank
+from the train of thought it suggested, which was so intimately connected
+with my first feelings of illness.  However, I had a fortnight more to
+roam on those invigorating Yorkshire moors.
+
+In those days, there was one large, rambling inn, at Harrogate, close to
+the Medicinal Spring; but it was already becoming too small for the
+accommodation of the influx of visitors, and many lodged round about, in
+the farm-houses of the district.  It was so early in the season, that I
+had the inn pretty much to myself; and, indeed, felt rather like a
+visitor in a private house, so intimate had the landlord and landlady
+become with me during my long illness.  She would chide me for being out
+so late on the moors, or for having been too long without food, quite in
+a motherly way; while he consulted me about vintages and wines, and
+taught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle about horses.  In my walks I met other
+strangers from time to time.  Even before my uncle had left me, I had
+noticed, with half-torpid curiosity, a young lady of very striking
+appearance, who went about always accompanied by an elderly
+companion,—hardly a gentlewoman, but with something in her look that
+prepossessed me in her favour.  The younger lady always put her veil down
+when any one approached; so it had been only once or twice, when I had
+come upon her at a sudden turn in the path, that I had even had a glimpse
+at her face.  I am not sure if it was beautiful, though in after-life I
+grew to think it so.  But it was at this time overshadowed by a sadness
+that never varied: a pale, quiet, resigned look of intense suffering,
+that irresistibly attracted me,—not with love, but with a sense of
+infinite compassion for one so young yet so hopelessly unhappy.  The
+companion wore something of the same look: quiet melancholy, hopeless,
+yet resigned.  I asked my landlord who they were.  He said they were
+called Clarke, 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
+that there was any such relationship between them.  They had been in the
+neighbourhood of Harrogate for some time, lodging in a remote farm-house.
+The people there would tell nothing about them; saying that they paid
+handsomely, and never did any harm; so why should they be speaking of any
+strange things that might happen?  That, as the landlord shrewdly
+observed, showed there was something out of the common way he had heard
+that the elderly woman was a cousin of the farmer’s where they lodged,
+and so the regard existing between relations might help to keep 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, for
+all as quiet as she seemed, played strange pranks at times.”  He shook
+his head when I asked him for more particulars, and refused to give them,
+which made me doubt if he knew any, for he was in general a talkative and
+communicative man.  In default of other interests, after my uncle left, I
+set myself to watch these two people.  I hovered about their walks drawn
+towards them with a strange fascination, which was not diminished by
+their evident annoyance at so frequently meeting me.  One day, I had the
+sudden good fortune to be at hand when they were alarmed by the attack of
+a bull, which, in those unenclosed grazing districts, was a particularly
+dangerous occurrence.  I have other and more important things to relate,
+than to tell of the accident which gave me an opportunity of rescuing
+them, it is enough to say, that this event was the beginning of an
+acquaintance, reluctantly acquiesced in by them, but eagerly prosecuted
+by me.  I can hardly tell when intense curiosity became merged in love,
+but in less than ten days after my uncle’s departure I was passionately
+enamoured of Mistress Lucy, as her attendant called her; carefully—for
+this I noted well—avoiding any address which appeared as if there was an
+equality of station between them.  I noticed also that Mrs. Clarke, the
+elderly woman, after her first reluctance to allow me to pay them any
+attentions had been overcome, was cheered by my evident attachment to the
+young girl; it seemed to lighten her heavy burden of care, and she
+evidently favoured my visits to the farmhouse where they lodged.  It was
+not so with Lucy.  A more attractive person I never saw, in spite of her
+depression of manner, and shrinking avoidance of me.  I felt sure at
+once, that whatever 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, for a moment or two, I beguiled her into talk, I could see a rare
+intelligence in her face, and a grave, trusting look in the soft, gray
+eyes that were raised for a minute to mine.  I made every excuse I
+possibly 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, in hopes
+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 dome above.
+
+It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some motive
+which I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but then 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 (I loved so
+dearly) I could have begged her to spare herself, even though the
+happiness of my whole life should have been the sacrifice; for her
+complexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more hopeless, her delicate
+frame yet slighter.  During this period I had written, I should say, to
+my uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong my stay at Harrogate, not
+giving any reason; but such was his tenderness towards me, that in a few
+days I heard from him, giving me a willing permission, and only charging
+me to take care of myself, and not use too much exertion during the hot
+weather.
+
+One sultry evening I drew near the farm.  The windows of their parlour
+were open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the house, as I
+passed the first window (there were two windows in their little
+ground-floor room).  I saw Lucy distinctly; but when I had knocked at
+their door—the house-door stood always ajar—she was gone, and I saw only
+Mrs. Clarke, turning over the work-things lying on the table, in a
+nervous and purposeless manner.  I felt by instinct that a conversation
+of some importance was coming on, in which I should be expected to say
+what was my object in paying these frequent visits.  I was glad of the
+opportunity.  My uncle had several times alluded to the pleasant
+possibility of my bringing home a young wife, to cheer and adorn the old
+house in Ormond Street.  He was rich, and I was to succeed him, and had,
+as I knew, a fair reputation for so young a lawyer.  So on my side I saw
+no obstacle.  It was true that Lucy was shrouded in mystery; her name (I
+was convinced it was not Clarke), birth, parentage, and previous life
+were unknown to me.  But I was sure of her goodness and sweet innocence,
+and although I knew that there must be something painful to be told, to
+account for her mournful sadness, yet I was willing 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 the
+subject.
+
+“We have thought, sir—at least I have thought—that you knew very little
+of us, nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant the intimate
+acquaintance 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 no
+rudeness; but I must say straight out that I—we—think it would be better
+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, glad of
+the opportunity of explaining myself.  “I come, I own, because I have
+learnt 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 hold sacred,
+teach her to love you!  If I am too late, and you love her already,
+forget her,—forget these last few weeks.  O!  I should never have allowed
+you to come!” she went on passionately; “but what am I to do?  We are
+forsaken by all, except the great God, and even He permits a strange and
+evil power to afflict us—what am I to do!  Where is it to end?” She wrung
+her hands in her distress; then she turned to me: “Go away, sir! go away,
+before you learn to care any more for her.  I ask it for your own sake—I
+implore!  You have been good and kind to us, and we shall always
+recollect you with gratitude; but go away now, and never come back to
+cross our fatal path!”
+
+“Indeed, madam,” said I, “I shall do no such thing.  You urge it for my
+own 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 last
+fortnight, without acknowledging her goodness and innocence; and without
+seeing—pardon me, madam—that for some reason you are two very lonely
+women, in some mysterious sorrow and distress.  Now, though I am not
+powerful myself, yet I have friends who are so wise and kind that they
+may be said to possess power.  Tell me some particulars.  Why are you in
+grief—what is your secret—why are you here?  I declare solemnly that
+nothing you have said has daunted me in my wish to become Lucy’s husband;
+nor will I shrink from any difficulty that, as such an aspirant, I may
+have to encounter.  You say you are friendless—why cast away 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.  I do not shun
+inquiry.”
+
+She shook her head again.  “You had better go away, sir.  You know
+nothing about us.”
+
+“I know your names,” said I, “and I have heard you allude to the part of
+the country from which you came, which I happen to know as a wild and
+lonely place.  There are so few people living in it that, if I chose to
+go there, I could easily ascertain all about you; but I would rather hear
+it from yourself.”  You see I wanted to pique her into telling me
+something definite.
+
+“You do not know our true names, sir,” said she, hastily.
+
+“Well, I may have conjectured as much.  But tell me, then, I conjure you.
+Give me your reasons for distrusting my willingness to stand by what I
+have said with regard to Mistress Lucy.”
+
+“Oh, what can I do?” exclaimed she.  “If I am turning away a true friend,
+as he says?—Stay!” coming to a sudden decision—“I will tell you
+something—I cannot tell you all—you would not believe it.  But, perhaps,
+I can tell you enough to prevent your going on in your hopeless
+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 child
+of her father.  But he is cruelly turned against her; and her mother is
+long dead; and for a terrible reason, she has no other creature to keep
+constant to her but me.  She—only two years ago—such a darling and such a
+pride in her father’s house!  Why, sir, there is a mystery that might
+happen in connection with her any moment; and then you would go away like
+all the rest; and, when you next heard her name, you would loathe 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, she would
+die!”
+
+The good woman was stopped by her crying.  I confess, I was a little
+stunned by her last words; but only for a moment.  At any rate, till I
+knew definitely what was this mysterious stain upon one so simple and
+pure, as Lucy seemed, I would not desert her, and so I said; and she made
+me answer:—
+
+“If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir, after
+knowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but I am so
+foolish and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain hope to find a
+friend in you.  I cannot help trusting that, although you may no longer
+feel toward her as a lover, you will have pity upon us; and perhaps, by
+your learning you can tell us where to go for aid.”
+
+“I implore you to tell me what this mystery is,” I cried, almost maddened
+by this suspense.
+
+“I cannot,” said she, solemnly.  “I am under a deep vow of secrecy.  If
+you are to be told, it must be by her.”  She left the room, and I
+remained to ponder over this strange interview.  I mechanically turned
+over 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 a
+pure and tender heart and innocent life.  Mistress Clarke returned; she
+had been crying sadly.
+
+“Yes,” said she, “it is as I feared: she loves you so much that she is
+willing to run the fearful risk of telling you all herself—she
+acknowledges 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 you
+hope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of fear or
+repugnance you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted.”
+
+I half smiled.  “Have no fear,” I said.  It seemed too absurd to imagine
+my feeling dislike to Lucy.
+
+“Her father loved her well,” said she, gravely, “yet he drove her out
+like some monstrous thing.”
+
+Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden.  It
+was Lucy’s voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one side of
+the open casement—and as though she were suddenly stirred to
+merriment—merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings or sayings
+of some other person.  I can scarcely say why, but the sound jarred on me
+inexpressibly.  She knew the subject of our conversation, and must have
+been at least aware of the state of agitation her friend was in; she
+herself usually so gentle and quiet.  I half rose to go to the window,
+and satisfy my instinctive curiosity as to what had provoked this burst
+of, ill-timed laughter; but Mrs. Clarke threw her whole weight and power
+upon the hand with which she pressed and kept me down.
+
+“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 we
+are 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 have risen.
+I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a shadow pass
+between the sun’s warmth and me, and a strange shudder ran through my
+frame.  In a minute or two she released me.
+
+“Go,” repeated she.  “Be warned, I ask you once more.  I do not think you
+can stand this knowledge that you seek.  If I had had my own way, Lucy
+should never have yielded, and promised to tell you all.  Who knows what
+may 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 Mistress
+Clarke’s sanity.
+
+Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable thoughts
+connected with that strange laughter, filled my mind.  I could hardly
+sleep.  I rose early; and long before the hour I had appointed, I was on
+the path over the common that led to the old farm-house where they
+lodged.  I suppose that Lucy had passed no better a night than I; for
+there she was also, slowly pacing with her even step, her eyes bent down,
+her whole look most saintly and pure.  She started when I came close to
+her, and grew paler as I reminded her of my appointment, and spoke with
+something of the impatience of obstacles that, seeing her once more, had
+called up afresh in my mind.  All strange and terrible hints, and giddy
+merriment were forgotten.  My heart gave forth words of fire, and my
+tongue uttered them.  Her colour went and came, as she listened; but,
+when I had ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me,
+and said—
+
+“But you know that you have something to learn about me yet.  I only want
+to say this: I shall not think less of you—less well of you, I mean—if
+you, too, fall away from me when you know all.  Stop!” said she, as if
+fearing another burst of mad words.  “Listen to me.  My father is a man
+of great wealth.  I never knew my mother; she must have died when I was
+very young.  When first I remember anything, I was living in a great,
+lonely house, with my dear and faithful Mistress Clarke.  My father,
+even, was not there; he was—he is—a soldier, and his duties lie aboard.
+But he came from time to time, and every time I think he loved 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 his absences.  I can sit
+down and measure the depth of his lost love now, by such 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 he was an angry man at
+times, even then; but never with me.  He was very reckless, too; and,
+once or twice, I heard a whisper among the servants that a doom was over
+him, and that he knew it, and tried to drown his knowledge in wild
+activity, and even sometimes, sir, in wine.  So I grew up in this grand
+mansion, in that lonely place.  Everything around me seemed at my
+disposal, and I think every one loved me; I am sure I loved them.  Till
+about two years ago—I remember it well—my father had come to England, to
+us; and he seemed so proud and so pleased with me and all I had done.
+And one day his tongue seemed loosened with wine, and he told me much
+that I had not known till then,—how dearly he had loved my mother, yet
+how his wilful usage had caused her death; and then he went on to say how
+he loved me better than any creature on earth, and how, some day, he
+hoped to take me to foreign places, for that he could hardly bear these
+long absences from his only child.  Then he seemed to change suddenly,
+and said, in a strange, wild way, that I was not to believe what he said;
+that there was many a thing he loved better—his horse—his dog—I know not
+what.
+
+“And ’twas only the next morning that, when I came into his room to ask
+his blessing as was my wont, he received me with fierce and angry words.
+‘Why had I,’ so he asked, ‘been delighting myself in such wanton
+mischief—dancing over the tender plants in the flower-beds, all set with
+the famous Dutch bulbs he had brought from Holland?’ I had never been out
+of doors that morning, sir, and I could not conceive what he meant, and
+so I said; and then he swore at me for a liar, and said I was of no true
+blood, for he had seen me doing all that mischief himself—with his own
+eyes.  What could I say?  He would not listen to me, and even my tears
+seemed only to irritate him.  That day was the beginning of my great
+sorrows.  Not long after, he reproached me for my undue familiarity—all
+unbecoming a gentlewoman—with his grooms.  I had been in the stable-yard,
+laughing and talking, he said.  Now, sir, I am something of a coward by
+nature, and I had always dreaded horses; be-sides that, my father’s
+servants—those whom he brought with him from foreign parts—were wild
+fellows, whom I had always avoided, and to whom I had never spoken,
+except as a lady must needs from time to time speak to her father’s
+people.  Yet my father called me by names of which I hardly know the
+meaning, but my heart told me they were such as shame any 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 his hand; and, accusing me
+harshly of evil doings, of which I knew no more than you, sir, he was
+about to strike me, and I, all in bewildering tears, was ready to take
+his stripes as great kindness compared to his harder words, when suddenly
+he stopped his arm mid-way, gasped and staggered, crying out, ‘The
+curse—the curse!’  I looked up in terror.  In the great mirror opposite I
+saw myself, and right behind, another wicked, fearful self, so like me
+that my soul seemed to quiver within me, as though not knowing to which
+similitude of body it belonged.  My father saw my double at the same
+moment, either in its dreadful reality, whatever that might be, or in the
+scarcely less terrible reflection in the mirror; but what came of it at
+that moment I cannot say, for I suddenly swooned away; and when I came to
+myself I was lying in my bed, and my faithful Clarke sitting by me.  I
+was in my bed for days; and even while I lay there my double was seen by
+all, flitting about the house and gardens, always about some mischievous
+or detestable work.  What wonder that every one shrank from me in
+dread—that my father drove me forth at length, when the disgrace of which
+I was the cause was past his patience to bear.  Mistress Clarke came with
+me; and here we try to live such a life of piety and prayer as may in
+time set me free from the curse.”
+
+All the time she had been speaking, I had been weighing her story in my
+mind.  I had hitherto put cases of witchcraft on one side, as mere
+superstitions; and my uncle and I had had many an argument, he supporting
+himself by the opinion of his good friend Sir Matthew Hale.  Yet this
+sounded like the tale of one bewitched; or was it merely the effect of a
+life of extreme seclusion telling on the nerves of a sensitive girl?  My
+scepticism inclined me to the latter belief, and when she paused I said:
+
+“I fancy that some physician could have disabused your father of his
+belief in visions—”
+
+Just at that instant, standing as I was opposite to her in the full and
+perfect morning light, I saw behind her another figure—a ghastly
+resemblance, complete in likeness, so far as form and feature and
+minutest touch of dress could go, but with a loathsome demon soul looking
+out of the gray eyes, that were in turns mocking and voluptuous.  My
+heart stood still within me; every hair rose up erect; my flesh crept
+with horror.  I could not see the grave and tender Lucy—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; then my sight came back, and I saw
+Lucy 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 an
+old harpsichord when the strings have ceased to vibrate.  She read her
+answer in my face, I suppose, for I could not speak.  Her look was one of
+intense 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: she
+saw 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 budding
+heather—we dared not speak; for we could not tell but that the dread
+creature was listening, although unseen,—but that IT might appear and
+push us asunder.  I never loved her more fondly than now when—and that
+was the unspeakable misery—the idea of her was becoming so inextricably
+blended with the shuddering thought of IT.  She seemed to understand what
+I must be feeling.  She let go my hand, which she had kept clasped until
+then, when we reached the garden gate, and went forwards to meet her
+anxious friend, who was standing by the window looking for her.  I could
+not enter the house: I needed silence, society, leisure, change—I knew
+not what—to shake off the sensation of that creature’s presence.  Yet I
+lingered about the garden—I hardly know why; I partly suppose, because I
+feared to encounter the resemblance again on the solitary common, where
+it had vanished, and partly from a feeling of inexpressible compassion
+for Lucy.  In a few minutes Mistress Clarke came forth and joined me.  We
+walked 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 which
+stirred up all that was brave or good in me.
+
+“Not a whit,” said I.  “Human flesh shrinks from encounter with the
+powers of darkness: and, for some reason unknown to me, the pure and holy
+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 surely
+know more—know all.  Tell me, I entreat you, madam, all that you can
+conjecture respecting this demoniac persecution of one so good.”
+
+“I will; but not now.  I must go to Lucy now.  Come this afternoon, I
+will see you alone; and oh, sir!  I will trust that you may yet find some
+way to help us in our sore trouble!”
+
+I was miserably exhausted by the swooning affright which had taken
+possession of me.  When I reached the inn, I staggered in like one
+overcome by wine.  I went to my own private room.  It was some time
+before 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, It
+was from Sir Philip Tempest: my letter of inquiry respecting Mary
+Fitzgerald had reached him at Liége, where it so happened that the Count
+de la Tour d’Auvergne was quartered at the very time.  He remembered his
+wife’s beautiful attendant; she had had high words with the deceased
+countess, respecting her intercourse with an English gentleman of good
+standing, who was also in the foreign service.  The countess augured evil
+of his intentions; while Mary, proud and vehement, asserted that he would
+soon marry her, and resented her mistress’s warnings as an insult.  The
+consequence was, that she had left Madame de la Tour d’Auvergne’s
+service, and, as the Count believed, had gone to live with the
+Englishman; whether he had married her, or not, he could not say.  “But,”
+added Sir Philip Tempest, “you may easily hear what particulars you wish
+to know respecting Mary Fitzgerald from the Englishman himself, if, as I
+suspect, he is no other than my neighbour and former acquaintance, Mr.
+Gisborne, of Skipford Hall, in the West Riding.  I am led to the belief
+that he is no other, by several small particulars, none of which are in
+themselves conclusive, but which, taken together, furnish a mass of
+presumptive evidence.  As far as I could make out from the Count’s
+foreign pronunciation, Gisborne was the name of the Englishman: I know
+that Gisborne of Skipford was abroad and in the foreign service at that
+time—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 old
+Bridget Fitzgerald, of Coldholme, whom he once encountered while staying
+with me at Starkey Manor-house.  I remember that the meeting seemed to
+have produced some extraordinary effect upon his mind, as though he had
+suddenly discovered some connection which she might have had with his
+previous life.  I beg you to let me know if I can be of any further
+service to you.  Your uncle once rendered me a good turn, and I will
+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 many
+months 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 passed
+that very day.  Nothing was real but the unreal presence, which had come
+like an evil blast across my bodily eyes, and burnt itself down upon my
+brain.  Dinner came, and went away untouched.  Early in the afternoon I
+walked to the farm-house.  I found Mistress Clarke alone, and I was glad
+and relieved.  She was evidently prepared to tell me all I might wish to
+hear.
+
+“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 a
+man of note; although, being a Roman Catholic, he cannot take that rank
+in this country to which his station entitles him.  The consequence is
+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 three
+years old when I was engaged to take charge of her.  Her mother was
+dead.”
+
+“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 be
+so well acquainted with it?  It was a mystery to the whole household at
+Skipford Court.  She was some beautiful young woman whom he lured away
+from her protectors while he was abroad.  I have heard said he practised
+some terrible deceit upon her, and when she came to know it, she was
+neither to have nor to hold, but rushed off from his very arms, and threw
+herself into a rapid stream and was drowned.  It stung him deep with
+remorse, but I used to think the remembrance of the mother’s cruel death
+made him love the child yet dearer.”
+
+I told her, as briefly as might be, of my researches after the descendant
+and heir of the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added—something of my old
+lawyer spirit returning into me for the moment—that I had no doubt but
+that we should prove Lucy to be by right possessed of large estates in
+Ireland.
+
+No flush came over her gray face; no light into her eyes.  “And what is
+all the wealth in the whole world to that poor girl?” she said.  “It will
+not free her from the ghastly bewitchment which persecutes her.  As for
+money, what a pitiful thing it is! it cannot touch her.”
+
+“No more can the Evil Creature harm her,” I said.  “Her holy nature
+dwells apart, and cannot be defiled or stained by all the devilish arts
+in the whole world.”
+
+“True! but it is a cruel fate to know that all shrink from her, sooner or
+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 the
+household at Skipford.”
+
+“Tell me,” I demanded.
+
+“They came from servants, who would fain account for every thing.  They
+say that, many years ago, Mr. Gisborne killed a dog belonging to an old
+witch at Coldholme; that she cursed, with a dreadful and mysterious
+curse, the creature, whatever it might be, that he should love best; and
+that it struck so deeply into his heart that for years he kept himself
+aloof from any temptation to love aught.  But who could help loving
+Lucy?”
+
+“You never heard the witch’s name?” I gasped.
+
+“Yes—they called her Bridget: they said he would never go near the spot
+again for terror of her.  Yet he was a brave man!”
+
+“Listen,” said I, taking hold of her arm, the better to arrest her full
+attention: “if what I suspect holds true, that man stole Bridget’s only
+child—the very Mary Fitzgerald who was Lucy’s mother; if so, Bridget
+cursed him in ignorance of the deeper wrong he had done her.  To this
+hour she yearns after her lost child, and questions the saints whether
+she be living or not.  The roots of that curse lie deeper than she knows:
+she unwittingly banned him for a deeper guilt than that of killing a dumb
+beast.  The sins of the fathers are indeed visited upon the children.”
+
+“But,” said Mistress Clarke, eagerly, “she would never let evil rest on
+her own grandchild?  Surely, sir, if what you say be true, there are
+hopes for Lucy.  Let us go—go at once, and tell this fearful woman all
+that you suspect, and beseech her to take off the spell she has put upon
+her innocent grandchild.”
+
+It seemed to me, indeed, that something like this was the best course we
+could pursue.  But first it was necessary to ascertain more than what
+mere rumour or careless hearsay could tell.  My thoughts turned to my
+uncle—he could advise me wisely—he ought to know all.  I resolved to go
+to him without delay; but I did not choose to tell Mistress Clarke of all
+the visionary plans that flitted through my mind.  I simply declared my
+intention of proceeding straight to London on Lucy’s affairs.  I bade her
+believe that my interest on the young lady’s behalf was greater than
+ever, and that my whole time should be given up to her cause.  I saw that
+Mistress Clarke distrusted me, because my mind was too full of thoughts
+for my words to flow freely.  She sighed and shook her head, and said,
+“Well, it is all right!” in such a tone that it was an implied reproach.
+But I was firm and constant in my heart, and I took confidence from that.
+
+I rode to London.  I rode long days drawn out into the lovely summer
+nights: I could not rest.  I reached London.  I told my uncle all, though
+in the stir of the great city the horror had faded away, and I could
+hardly imagine that he would believe the account I gave him of the
+fearful double of Lucy which I had seen on the lonely moor-side.  But my
+uncle had lived many years, and learnt many things; and, in the deep
+secrets of family history that had been confided to him, he had heard of
+cases of innocent people bewitched and taken possession of by evil
+spirits yet more fearful than Lucy’s.  For, as he said, to judge from all
+I told him, that resemblance had no power over her—she was too pure and
+good to be tainted by its evil, haunting presence.  It had, in all
+probability, so my uncle conceived, tried to suggest wicked thoughts and
+to tempt to wicked actions but she, in her saintly maidenhood, had passed
+on undefiled by evil thought or deed.  It could not touch her soul: but
+true, it set her apart from all sweet love or common human intercourse.
+My uncle threw himself with an energy more like six-and-twenty than sixty
+into the consideration of the whole case.  He undertook the proving
+Lucy’s descent, and volunteered to go and find out Mr. Gisborne, and
+obtain, firstly, the legal proofs of her descent from the Fitzgeralds of
+Kildoon, and, secondly, to try and hear all that he could respecting the
+working of the curse, and whether any and what means had been taken to
+exorcise that terrible appearance.  For he told me of instances where, by
+prayers and long fasting, the evil possessor had been driven forth with
+howling and many cries from the body which it had come to inhabit; he
+spoke of those strange New England cases which had happened not so long
+before; of Mr. Defoe, who had written a book, wherein he had named many
+modes of subduing apparitions, and sending them back whence they came;
+and, lastly, he spoke low of dreadful ways of compelling witches to undo
+their witchcraft.  But I could not endure to hear of those tortures and
+burnings.  I said that Bridget was rather a wild and savage woman than a
+malignant witch; and, above all, that Lucy was of her kith and kin; and
+that, in putting her to the trial, by water or by fire, we should be
+torturing—it might be to the death—the ancestress of her we sought to
+redeem.
+
+My uncle thought awhile, and then said, that in this last matter I was
+right—at any rate, it should not be tried, with his consent, till all
+other modes of remedy had failed; and he assented to my proposal that I
+should go myself and see Bridget, and tell her all.
+
+In accordance with this, I went down once more to the wayside inn near
+Coldholme.  It was late at night when I arrived there; and, while I
+supped, I inquired of the landlord more particulars as to Bridget’s ways.
+Solitary and savage had been her life for many years.  Wild and despotic
+were her words and manner to those few people who came across her path.
+The country-folk did her imperious bidding, because they feared to
+disobey.  If they pleased her, they prospered; if, on the contrary, they
+neglected or traversed her behests, misfortune, small or great, fell on
+them and theirs.  It was not detestation so much as an indefinable terror
+that she excited.
+
+In the morning I went to see her.  She was standing on the green outside
+her cottage, and received me with the sullen grandeur of a throneless
+queen.  I read in her face that she recognized me, and that I was not
+unwelcome; but she stood silent till I had opened my errand.
+
+“I have news of your daughter,” said I, resolved to speak straight to all
+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 of
+the door-post.
+
+“I knew that she was dead,” said she, deep and low, and then was silent
+for an instant.  “My tears that should have flowed for her were burnt up
+long 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 her
+more show of emotion than the intelligence of her daughter’s death.  She
+broke in upon my speech:—
+
+“I had!  It was hers—the last thing I had of hers—and it was shot for
+wantonness!  It died in my arms.  The man who killed that dog rues it to
+this day.  For that dumb beast’s blood, his best-beloved stands
+accursed.”
+
+Her eyes distended, as if she were in a trance and saw the working of her
+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 she
+pierced through me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without another
+question or word, she threw herself on the ground with fearful vehemence,
+and clutched at the innocent daisies with convulsed hands.
+
+“Bone of my bone! flesh of my flesh! have I cursed thee—and art thou
+accursed?”
+
+So she moaned, as she lay prostrate in her great agony.  I stood aghast
+at my own work.  She did not hear my broken sentences; she asked no more,
+but the dumb confirmation which my sad looks had given that one fact,
+that her curse rested on her own daughter’s child.  The fear grew on me
+lest she should die in her strife of body and soul; and then might not
+Lucy remain under the spell as long as she lived?
+
+Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming through the woodland path that led
+to Bridget’s cottage; Mistress Clarke was with her: I felt at my heart
+that it was she, by the balmy peace which the look of her sent over me,
+as she slowly advanced, a glad surprise shining out of her soft quiet
+eyes.  That was as her gaze met mine.  As her looks fell on the woman
+lying stiff, convulsed on the earth, they became full of tender pity; and
+she came forward to try and lift her up.  Seating herself on the turf,
+she took Bridget’s head into her lap; and, with gentle touches, she
+arranged the dishevelled gray hair streaming thick and 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 had
+recovered her wandering senses, and was kneeling with clasped hands
+before Lucy, gazing at that sweet sad face as though her troubled nature
+drank in health and peace from every moment’s contemplation.  A faint
+tinge on Lucy’s pale cheeks showed me that she was aware of our return;
+otherwise it appeared as if she was conscious of her influence for good
+over the passionate and troubled woman kneeling before her, and would not
+willingly avert her grave and loving eyes from that wrinkled and careworn
+countenance.
+
+Suddenly—in the twinkling of an eye—the creature appeared, there, behind
+Lucy; fearfully the same as to outward semblance, but kneeling exactly as
+Bridget knelt, and clasping her hands in jesting mimicry as Bridget
+clasped hers in her ecstasy that was deepening into a prayer.  Mistress
+Clarke cried out—Bridget arose slowly, her gaze fixed on the creature
+beyond: drawing her breath with a hissing sound, never moving her
+terrible eyes, that were steady as stone, she made a dart at the phantom,
+and caught, as I had done, a mere handful of empty air.  We saw no more
+of the creature—it vanished as suddenly as it came, but Bridget looked
+slowly on, as if watching some receding form.  Lucy sat still, white,
+trembling, drooping—I think she would have swooned if I had not been
+there to uphold her.  While I was attending to her, Bridget passed us,
+without a word to any one, and, entering her cottage, she barred herself
+in, and left us without.
+
+All our endeavours were now directed to get Lucy back to the house where
+she had tarried the night before.  Mistress Clarke told me that, not
+hearing from me (some letter must have miscarried), she had grown
+impatient and despairing, and had urged Lucy to the enterprise of coming
+to seek her grandmother; not telling her, indeed, of the dread reputation
+she possessed, or how we suspected her of having so fearfully blighted
+that innocent girl; but, at the same time, hoping much from the
+mysterious stirring of blood, which Mistress Clarke trusted in for the
+removal of the curse.  They had come, by a different route from that
+which I had taken, to a village inn not far from Coldholme, only the
+night before.  This was the first interview between ancestress and
+descendant.
+
+All through the sultry noon I wandered along the tangled brush-wood of
+the old neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a matter
+so complicated and mysterious.  Meeting a countryman, I asked my way to
+the nearest clergyman, and went, hoping to obtain some counsel from him.
+But he proved to be a coarse and common-minded man, giving no time or
+attention to the intricacies of a case, but dashing out a strong opinion
+involving immediate action.  For instance, as soon as I named Bridget
+Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:—
+
+“The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist!  I’d have had her ducked long
+since but for that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest.  He has had to
+threaten honest folk about here over and over again, or they’d have had
+her up before the justices for her black doings.  And it’s the law of the
+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 and
+Scripture.  I’d carry a faggot myself to rid the country of her!”
+
+Such a one could give me no help.  I rather drew back what I had already
+said; and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him to several
+pots of beer, in the village inn, to which we had adjourned for our
+conference at his suggestion.  I left him as soon as I could, and
+returned to Coldholme, shaping my way past deserted Starkey Manor-house,
+and coming upon it by the back.  At that side were the oblong remains of
+the old moat, the waters of which lay placid and motionless under the
+crimson rays of the setting sun; with the forest-trees lying straight
+along each side, and their deep-green foliage mirrored to blackness in
+the burnished surface of the moat below—and the broken sun-dial at the
+end nearest the hall—and the heron, standing on one leg at the water’s
+edge, lazily looking down for fish—the lonely and desolate house scarce
+needed the broken windows, the weeds on the door-sill, the broken shutter
+softly flapping to and fro in the twilight breeze, to fill up the picture
+of desertion and decay.  I lingered about the place until the growing
+darkness warned me on.  And then I passed along the path, cut by the
+orders of the last lady of Starkey Manor-House, that led me to Bridget’s
+cottage.  I resolved at once to see her; and, in spite of closed doors—it
+might be of resolved will—she should see me.  So I knocked at her door,
+gently, loudly, fiercely.  I shook it so vehemently that a length the old
+hinges gave way, and with a crash it fell inwards, leaving me suddenly
+face to face with Bridget—I, red, heated, agitated with my so long
+baffled efforts—she, stiff as any stone, standing right facing me, her
+eyes dilated with terror, her ashen lips trembling, but her body
+motionless.  In her hands she held her crucifix, as if by that holy
+symbol she sought to oppose my entrance.  At sight of me, her whole frame
+relaxed, and she sank back upon a chair.  Some mighty tension had given
+way.  Still her eyes looked fearfully into the gloom of the outer air,
+made more opaque by the glimmer of the lamp inside, which she had placed
+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—has
+been looking in upon me through that window all day long.  I closed it up
+with my shawl; and then I saw her feet below the door, as long as it was
+light, and I knew she heard my very breathing—nay, worse, my very
+prayers; and I could not pray, for her listening choked the words ere
+they rose to my lips.  Tell me, who is she?—what means that double girl I
+saw this morning?  One had a look of my dead Mary; but the other curdled
+my blood, and yet it was the same!”
+
+She had taken hold of my arm, as if to secure herself some human
+companionship.  She shook all over with the slight, never-ceasing tremor
+of intense terror.  I told her my tale as I have told it you, sparing
+none of the details.
+
+How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had driven Lucy
+forth from her father’s house—how I had disbelieved, until, with mine own
+eyes, I had seen another Lucy standing behind my Lucy, the same in form
+and feature, but with the demon-soul looking out of the eyes.  I told her
+all, I say, believing that she—whose curse was working so upon the life
+of her innocent grandchild—was the only person 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 I
+shrink from her ever since that day on the moor-side.  And men must
+shrink 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 order that,
+by some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be reversed.
+
+“I will go and bring her to you,” I exclaimed.  Bridget tightened her
+hold upon my arm.
+
+“Not so,” said she, in a low, hoarse voice.  “It would kill me to see her
+again as I saw her this morning.  And I must live till I have worked my
+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 fear was
+banished.  I lingered—why I can hardly tell—until once more she bade me
+begone.  As I went along the forest way, I looked back, and saw her
+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 her prayers
+with ours.  The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze.  No human being
+was there: the cross remained on the threshold, but Bridget was gone.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+
+What was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself.  As for
+Lucy, she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon her.  Her
+gentleness and piety, under the pressure of so horrible a life, seemed
+over-passive to me.  She never complained.  Mrs. Clarke complained more
+than ever.  As for me, I was more in love with the real Lucy than ever;
+but I shrunk from the false similitude with an intensity proportioned to
+my love.  I found out by instinct that Mrs. Clarke had occasional
+temptations to leave Lucy.  The good lady’s nerves were shaken, and, from
+what she said, I could almost have concluded that the object of the
+Double was to drive away from Lucy this last, and almost earliest friend.
+At times, I could scarcely bear to own it, but I myself felt inclined to
+turn recreant; and I would accuse Lucy of being too patient—too resigned.
+One after another, she won the little children of Coldholme.  (Mrs.
+Clarke and she had resolved to stay there, for was it not as good a place
+as any other, to such as they? and did not all our faint hopes rest on
+Bridget—never seen or heard of now, but still we trusted to come back, or
+give some token?)  So, as I say, one after another, the little children
+came about my Lucy, won by her soft tones, and her gentle smiles, and
+kind actions.  Alas! one after another they fell away, and shrunk from
+her path with blanching terror; and we too surely guessed the reason why.
+It was the last drop.  I could bear it no longer.  I resolved no more to
+linger around the spot, but to go back to my uncle, and among the learned
+divines of the city of London, seek for some power whereby to annul the
+curse.
+
+My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite testimonials relating
+to Lucy’s descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and from Mr.
+Gisborne.  The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he was again
+serving in the Austrian army), a letter alternately passionately
+self-reproachful and stoically repellant.  It was evident that when he
+thought of Mary—her short life—how he had wronged her, and of her violent
+death, he could hardly find words severe enough for his own conduct; and
+from this point of view, the curse that Bridget had laid upon him and
+his, was regarded by him as a prophetic doom, to the utterance of which
+she was moved by a Higher Power, working for the fulfilment of a deeper
+vengeance than for the death of the poor dog.  But then, again, when he
+came to speak of his daughter, the repugnance which the conduct of the
+demoniac creature had produced in his mind, was but ill-disguised under a
+show of profound indifference as to Lucy’s fate.  One almost felt as if
+he would have been as content to put her out of existence, as he would
+have been to destroy some disgusting reptile that had invaded his chamber
+or his couch.
+
+The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy’s; and that was all—was nothing.
+
+My uncle and I sat in the gloom of a London November evening, in our
+house in Ormond Street.  I was out of health, and felt as if I were in an
+inextricable coil of misery.  Lucy and I wrote to each other, but that
+was little; and we dared not see each other for dread of the fearful
+Third, who had more than once taken her place at our meetings.  My uncle
+had, on the day I speak of, bidden prayers to be put up on the ensuing
+Sabbath in many a church and meeting-house in London, for one grievously
+tormented by an evil spirit.  He had faith in prayers—I had none; I was
+fast losing faith in all things.  So we sat, he trying to interest me in
+the old talk of other days, I oppressed by one thought—when our old
+servant, Anthony, opened the door, and, without speaking, showed in a
+very gentlemanly and prepossessing man, who had something remarkable
+about his dress, betraying his profession to be that of the Roman
+Catholic priesthood.  He glanced at my uncle first, then at me.  It was
+to me he bowed.
+
+“I did not give my name,” said he, “because you would hardly have
+recognised it; unless, sir, when, in the north, you heard of Father
+Bernard, the chaplain at Stoney Hurst?”
+
+I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I had
+utterly forgotten it; so I professed myself a complete stranger to him;
+while my ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as much as it
+was in his nature to hate anything, placed a chair for the visitor, and
+bade Anthony bring glasses, and a fresh jug of claret.
+
+Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful ease and pleasant
+acknowledgement which belongs to a man of the world.  Then he turned to
+scan me with his keen glance.  After some alight conversation, entered
+into on his part, I am certain, with an intention of discovering on what
+terms of confidence I stood with my uncle, he paused, and said gravely—
+
+“I am sent here with a message to you, sir, from a woman to whom you have
+shown kindness, and who is one of my penitents, in Antwerp—one Bridget
+Fitzgerald.”
+
+“Bridget Fitzgerald!” exclaimed I.  “In Antwerp?  Tell me, sir, all that
+you can about her.”
+
+“There is much to be said,” he replied.  “But may I inquire if this
+gentleman—if your uncle is acquainted with the particulars of which you
+and I stand informed?”
+
+“All that I know, he knows,” said I, eagerly laying my hand on my uncle’s
+arm, as he made a motion as if to quit the room.
+
+“Then I have to speak before two gentlemen who, however they may differ
+from me in faith, are yet fully impressed with the fact that there are
+evil powers going about continually to take cognizance of our evil
+thoughts: and, if their Master gives them power, to bring them into overt
+action.  Such is my theory of the nature of that sin, which I dare not
+disbelieve—as some sceptics would have us do—the sin of witchcraft.  Of
+this deadly sin, you and I are aware, Bridget Fitzgerald has been guilty.
+Since you saw her last, many prayers have been offered in our churches,
+many masses sung, many penances undergone, in order that, if God and the
+holy saints so willed it, her sin might be blotted out.  But it has not
+been so willed.”
+
+“Explain to me,” said I, “who you are, and how you come connected with
+Bridget.  Why is she at Antwerp?  I pray you, sir, tell me more.  If I am
+impatient, excuse me; I am ill and feverish, and in consequence
+bewildered.”
+
+There was something to me inexpressibly soothing in the tone of voice
+with which he began to narrate, as it were from the beginning, his
+acquaintance with Bridget.
+
+“I had known Mr. and Mrs. Starkey during their residence abroad, and so
+it fell out naturally that, when I came as chaplain to the Sherburnes at
+Stoney Hurst, our acquaintance was renewed; and thus I became the
+confessor of the whole family, isolated as they were from the offices of
+the Church, Sherburne being their nearest neighbour who professed the
+true faith.  Of course, you are aware that facts revealed in confession
+are sealed as in the grave; but I learnt enough of Bridget’s character to
+be convinced that I had to do with no common woman; one powerful for good
+as for evil.  I believe that I was able to give her spiritual assistance
+from time to time, and that she looked upon me as a servant of that Holy
+Church, which has such wonderful power of moving men’s hearts, and
+relieving them of the burden of their sins.  I have known her cross the
+moors on the wildest nights of storm, to confess and be absolved; and
+then she would return, calmed and subdued, to her daily work about her
+mistress, no one witting where she had been during the hours that most
+passed in sleep upon their beds.  After her daughter’s departure—after
+Mary’s mysterious disappearance—I had to impose many a long penance, in
+order to wash away the sin of impatient repining that was fast leading
+her into the deeper guilt of blasphemy.  She set out on that long journey
+of which you have possibly heard—that fruitless journey in search of
+Mary—and during her absence, my superiors ordered my return to my former
+duties at Antwerp, and for many years I heard no more of Bridget.
+
+“Not many months ago, as I was passing homewards in the evening, along
+one of the streets near St. Jacques, leading into the Meer Straet, I saw
+a woman sitting crouched up under the shrine of the Holy Mother of
+Sorrows.  Her hood was drawn over her head, so that the shadow caused by
+the light of the lamp above fell deep over her face; her hands were
+clasped round her knees.  It was evident that she was some one in
+hopeless trouble, and as such it was my duty to stop and speak.  I
+naturally addressed her first in Flemish, believing her to be one of the
+lower class of inhabitants.  She shook her head, but did not look up.
+Then I tried French, and she replied in that language, but speaking it so
+indifferently, that I was sure she was either English or Irish, and
+consequently spoke to her in my own native tongue.  She recognized my
+voice; and, starting up, caught at my robes, dragging me before the
+blessed shrine, and throwing herself down, and forcing me, as much by her
+evident desire as by her action, to kneel beside her, she exclaimed:
+
+“‘O Holy Virgin! you will never hearken to me again, but hear him; for
+you know him of old, that he does your bidding, and strives to heal
+broken hearts.  Hear him!’
+
+“She turned to me.
+
+“‘She will hear you, if you will only pray.  She never hears _me_: she
+and all the saints in heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the Evil One
+carries them off, as he carried that first away.  O, Father Bernard, pray
+for me!’
+
+“I prayed for one in sore distress, of what nature I could not say; but
+the Holy Virgin would know.  Bridget held me fast, gasping with eagerness
+at the sound of my words.  When I had ended, I rose, and, making the sign
+of the Cross over her, I was going to bless her in the name of the Holy
+Church, when she shrank away like some terrified creature, and said—
+
+“‘I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven.’
+
+“‘Arise, my daughter,’ said I, ‘and come with me.’  And I led the way
+into one of the confessionals of St. Jaques.
+
+“She knelt; I listened.  No words came.  The evil powers had stricken her
+dumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when she
+approached confession.
+
+“She was too poor to pay for the necessary forms of exorcism; and
+hitherto those priests to whom she had addressed herself were either so
+ignorant of the meaning of her broken French, or her Irish-English, or
+else esteemed her to be one crazed—as, indeed, her wild and excited
+manner might easily have led any one to think—that they had neglected the
+sole means of loosening her tongue, so that she might confess her deadly
+sin, and, after due penance, obtain absolution.  But I knew Bridget of
+old, and felt that she was a penitent sent to me.  I went through those
+holy offices appointed by our Church for the relief of such a case.  I
+was the more bound to do this, as I found that she had come to Antwerp
+for the sole purpose of discovering me, and making confession to me.  Of
+the nature of that fearful confession I am forbidden to speak.  Much of
+it you know; possibly all.
+
+“It now remains for her to free herself from mortal guilt, and to set
+others free from the consequences thereof.  No prayers, no masses, will
+ever do it, although they may strengthen her with that strength by which
+alone acts of deepest love and purest self-devotion may be performed.
+Her words of passion, and cries for revenge—her unholy prayers could
+never reach the ears of the holy saints!  Other powers intercepted them,
+and wrought so that the curses thrown up to heaven have fallen on her own
+flesh and blood; and so, through her very strength of love, have brused
+and crushed her heart.  Henceforward her former self must be buried,—yea,
+buried quick, if need be,—but never more to make sign, or utter cry on
+earth!  She has become a Poor Clare, in order that, by perpetual penance
+and constant service of others, she may at length so act as to obtain
+final absolution and rest for her soul.  Until then, the innocent must
+suffer.  It is to plead for the innocent that I come to you; not in the
+name of the witch, Bridget Fitzgerald, but of the penitent and servant of
+all men, the Poor Clare, Sister Magdalen.”
+
+“Sir,” said I, “I listen to your request with respect; only I may tell
+you it is not needed to urge me to do all that I can on behalf of one,
+love for whom is part of my very life.  If for a time I have absented
+myself from her, it is to think and work for her redemption.  I, a member
+of the English Church—my uncle, a Puritan—pray morning and night for her
+by name: the congregations of London, on the next Sabbath, will pray for
+one unknown, that she may be set free from the Powers of Darkness.
+Moreover, I must tell you, sir, that those evil ones touch not the great
+calm of her soul.  She lives her own pure and loving life, unharmed and
+untainted, though all men fall off from her.  I would I could have her
+faith!”
+
+My uncle now spoke.
+
+“Nephew,” said he, “it seems to me that this gentleman, although
+professing what I consider an erroneous creed, has touched upon the right
+point in exhorting Bridget to acts of love and mercy, whereby to wipe out
+her sin of hate and vengeance.  Let us strive after our fashion, by
+almsgiving and visiting of the needy and fatherless, to make our prayers
+acceptable.  Meanwhile, I myself will go down into the north, and take
+charge of the maiden.  I am too old to be daunted by man or demon.  I
+will bring her to this house as to a home; and let the Double come if it
+will!  A company of godly divines shall give it the meeting, and we will
+try issue.”
+
+The kindly, brave old man!  But Father Bernard sat on musing.
+
+“All hate,” said he, “cannot be quenched in her heart; all Christian
+forgiveness cannot have entered into her soul, or the demon would have
+lost its power.  You said, I think, that her grandchild was still
+tormented?”
+
+“Still tormented!”  I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress Clarke’s last
+letter.
+
+He rose to go.  We afterwards heard that the occasion of his
+coming to London was a secret political mission on behalf of the
+Jacobites.  Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man.
+
+Months and months passed away without any change.  Lucy entreated my
+uncle to leave her where she was,—dreading, as I learnt, lest if she
+came, with her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me,
+that my love could not stand the repeated shocks to which I should be
+doomed.  And this she thought from no distrust of the strength of my
+affection, but from a kind of pitying sympathy for the terror to the
+nerves which she clearly observed that the demoniac visitation caused in
+all.
+
+I was restless and miserable.  I devoted myself to good works; but I
+performed them from no spirit of love, but solely from the hope of reward
+and payment, and so the reward was never granted.  At length, I asked my
+uncle’s leave to travel; and I went forth, a wanderer, with no distincter
+end than that of many another wanderer—to get away from myself.  A
+strange impulse led me to Antwerp, in spite of the wars and commotions
+then raging in the Low Countries—or rather, perhaps, the very craving to
+become interested in something external, led me into the thick of the
+struggle then going on with the Austrians.  The cities of Flanders were
+all full at that time of civil disturbances and rebellions, only kept
+down by force, and the presence of an Austrian garrison in every place.
+
+I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry for Father Bernard.  He was away
+in the country for a day or two.  Then I asked my way to the Convent of
+Poor Clares; but, being healthy and prosperous, I could only see the dim,
+pent-up, gray walls, shut closely in by narrow streets, in the lowest
+part of the town.  My landlord told me, that had I been stricken by some
+loathsome disease, or in desperate case of any kind, the Poor Clares
+would have taken me, and tended me.  He spoke of them as an order of
+mercy of the strictest kind, dressing scantily in the coarsest materials,
+going barefoot, living on what the inhabitants of Antwerp chose to
+bestow, and sharing even those fragments and crumbs with the poor and
+helpless that swarmed all around; receiving no letters or communication
+with the outer world; utterly dead to everything but the alleviation of
+suffering.  He smiled at my inquiring whether I could get speech of one
+of them; and told me that they were even forbidden to speak for the
+purposes of begging their daily food; while yet they lived, and fed
+others upon what was given in charity.
+
+“But,” exclaimed I, “supposing all men forgot them!  Would they quietly
+lie down and die, without making sign of their extremity?”
+
+“If such were the rule the Poor Clares would willingly do it; but their
+founder appointed a remedy for such extreme cases as you suggest.  They
+have a bell—’tis but a small one, as I have heard, and has yet never been
+rung in the memory of man: when the Poor Clares have been without food
+for twenty-four hours, they may ring this bell, and then trust to our
+good people of Antwerp for rushing to the rescue of the Poor Clares, who
+have taken such blessed care of us in all our straits.”
+
+It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did not
+say what I thought.  I rather turned the conversation, by asking my
+landlord if he knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain Sister
+Magdalen.
+
+“Yes,” said he, rather under his breath, “news will creep out, even from
+a convent of Poor Clares.  Sister Magdalen is either a great sinner or a
+great saint.  She does more, as I have heard, than all the other nuns put
+together; yet, when last month they would fain have made her
+mother-superior, she begged rather that they would place her below all
+the rest, and make her the meanest servant of all.”
+
+“You never saw her?” asked I.
+
+“Never,” he replied.
+
+I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in Antwerp.
+The political state of things became worse than ever, increased to its
+height by the scarcity of food consequent on many deficient harvests.  I
+saw groups of fierce, squalid men, at every corner of the street, glaring
+out with wolfish eyes at my sleek skin and handsome clothes.
+
+At last Father Bernard returned.  We had a long conversation, in which he
+told me that, curiously enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy’s father, was serving
+in one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at Antwerp.  I asked
+Father Bernard if he would make us acquainted; which he consented to do.
+But, a day or two afterwards, he told me that, on hearing my name, Mr.
+Gisborne had declined responding to any advances on my part, saying he
+had adjured his country, and hated his countrymen.
+
+Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his daughter
+Lucy.  Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of making his
+acquaintance.  Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of the hidden
+fermentation, for some coming evil, working among the “blouses” of
+Antwerp, and he would fain have had me depart from out the city; but I
+rather craved the excitement of danger, and stubbornly refused to leave.
+
+One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to an
+Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral.
+
+“That is Mr. Gisborne,” said he, as soon as the gentleman was past.
+
+I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer.  He carried
+himself in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and from
+his years might have had some excuse for a slight stoop.  As I looked at
+the man, he turned round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face.  Deeply
+lined, sallow, and scathed was that countenance; scarred by passion as
+well as by the fortunes of war.  ’Twas but a moment our eyes met.  We
+each turned round, and went on our separate way.
+
+But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the thorough
+appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on it, made but an
+incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of his countenance.
+Because he was Lucy’s father, I sought instinctively to meet him
+everywhere.  At last he must have become aware of my pertinacity, for he
+gave me a haughty scowl whenever I passed him.  In one of these
+encounters, however, I chanced to be of some service to him.  He was
+turning the corner of a street, and came suddenly on one of the groups of
+discontented Flemings of whom I have spoken.  Some words were exchanged,
+when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a slight but skilful cut
+drew blood from one of those who had insulted him, as he fancied, though
+I was too far off to hear the words.  They would all have fallen upon him
+had I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, then well known in Antwerp,
+of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who were perpetually patrolling the
+streets, and who came in numbers to the rescue.  I think that neither Mr.
+Gisborne nor the mutinous group of plebeians owed me much gratitude for
+my interference.  He had planted himself against a wall, in a skilful
+attitude of fence, ready with his bright glancing rapier to do battle
+with all the heavy, fierce, unarmed men, some six or seven in number.
+But when his own soldiers came up, he sheathed his sword; and, giving
+some careless word of command, sent them away again, and continued his
+saunter all alone down the street, the workmen snarling in his rear, and
+more than half-inclined to fall on me for my cry for rescue.  I cared not
+if they did, my life seemed so dreary a burden just then; and, perhaps,
+it was this daring loitering among them that prevented their attacking
+me.  Instead, they suffered me to fall into conversation with them; and I
+heard some of their grievances.  Sore and heavy to be borne were they,
+and no wonder the sufferers were savage and desperate.
+
+The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got out
+of me the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it.  Another of
+the group heard his inquiry, and made answer—“I know the man.  He is one
+Gisborne, aide-de-camp to the General-Commandant.  I know him well.”
+
+He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and
+muttering voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excited
+their evil blood, and which they evidently wished me not to hear, I
+sauntered away and back to my lodgings.
+
+That night Antwerp was in open revolt.  The inhabitants rose in rebellion
+against their Austrian masters.  The Austrians, holding the gates of the
+city, remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel; only, from time to
+time, the boom of the great cannon swept sullenly over the town.  But if
+they expected the disturbance to die away, and spend itself in a few
+hours’ fury, they were mistaken.  In a day or two, the rioters held
+possession of the principal municipal buildings.  Then the Austrians
+poured forth in bright flaming array, calm and smiling, as they marched
+to the posts assigned, as if the fierce mob were no more to them then the
+swarms of buzzing summer flies.  Their practised manœuvres, their
+well-aimed shot, told with terrible effect; but in the place of one slain
+rioter, three sprang up of his blood to avenge his loss.  But a deadly
+foe, a ghastly ally of the Austrians, was at work.  Food, scarce and dear
+for months, was now hardly to be obtained at any price.  Desperate
+efforts were being made to bring provisions into the city, for the
+rioters had friends without.  Close to the city port, nearest to the
+Scheldt, a great struggle took place.  I was there, helping the rioters,
+whose cause I had adopted.  We had a savage encounter with the Austrians.
+Numbers fell on both sides: I saw them lie bleeding for a moment: then a
+volley of smoke obscured them; and when it cleared away, they were
+dead—trampled upon or smothered, pressed down and hidden by the
+freshly-wounded whom those last guns had brought low.  And then a
+gray-robed and grey-veiled figure came right across the flashing guns and
+stooped over some one, whose life-blood was ebbing away; sometimes it was
+to give him drink from cans which they carried slung at their sides;
+sometimes I saw the cross held above a dying man, and rapid prayers were
+being uttered, unheard by men in that hellish din and clangour, but
+listened to by One above.  I saw all this as in a dream: the reality of
+that stern time was battle and carnage.  But I knew that these gray
+figures, their bare feet all wet with blood, and their faces hidden by
+their veils, were the Poor Clares—sent forth now because dire agony was
+abroad and imminent danger at hand.  Therefore, they left their
+cloistered shelter, and came into that thick and evil mêlée.
+
+Close to me—driven past me by the struggle of many fighters—came the
+Antwerp burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon his face; and in an
+instant more, he was thrown by the press upon the Austrian officer
+Gisborne, and ere either had recovered the shock, the burgess had
+recognized his opponent.
+
+“Ha! the Englishman Gisborne!” he cried, and threw himself upon him with
+redoubled fury.  He had struck him hard—the Englishman was down; when out
+of the smoke came a dark-gray figure, and threw herself right under the
+uplifted flashing sword.  The burgess’s arm stood arrested.  Neither
+Austrians nor Anversois willingly harmed the Poor Clares.
+
+“Leave him to me!” said a low stern voice.  “He is mine enemy—mine for
+many years.”
+
+Those words were the last I heard.  I myself was struck down by a bullet.
+I remember nothing more for days.  When I came to myself, I was at the
+extremity of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit my strength.
+My landlord sat watching me.  He, too, looked pinched and shrunken; he
+had heard of my wounded state, and sought me out.  Yes! the struggle
+still continued, but the famine was sore: and some, he had heard, had
+died for lack of food.  The tears stood in his eyes as he spoke.  But
+soon he shook off his weakness, and his natural cheerfulness returned.
+Father Bernard had been to see me—no one else.  (Who should, indeed?)
+Father Bernard would come back that afternoon—he had promised.  But
+Father Bernard never came, although I was up and dressed, and looking
+eagerly for him.
+
+My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself: of what it was
+composed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and with every
+mouthful I seemed to gain strength.  The good man sat looking at my
+evident enjoyment with a happy smile of sympathy; but, as my appetite
+became satisfied, I began to detect a certain wistfulness in his eyes, as
+if craving for the food I had so nearly devoured—for, indeed, at that
+time I was hardly aware of the extent of the famine.  Suddenly, there was
+a sound of many rushing feet past our window.  My landlord opened one of
+the sides of it, the better to learn what was going on.  Then we heard a
+faint, cracked, tinkling bell, coming shrill upon the air, clear and
+distinct from all other sounds.  “Holy Mother!” exclaimed my landlord,
+“the Poor Clares!”
+
+He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into my hands,
+bidding me follow.  Down stairs he ran, clutching at more food, as the
+women of his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a moment we were in
+the street, moving along with the great current, all tending towards the
+Convent of the Poor Clares.  And still, as if piercing our ears with its
+inarticulate cry, came the shrill tinkle of the bell.  In that strange
+crowd were old men trembling and sobbing, as they carried their little
+pittance of food; women with tears running down their cheeks, who had
+snatched up what provisions they had in the vessels in which they stood,
+so that the burden of these was in many cases much greater than that
+which they contained; children, with flushed faces, grasping tight the
+morsel of bitten cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it safe to
+the help of the Poor Clares; strong men—yea, both Anversois and
+Austrians—pressing onward with set teeth, and no word spoken; and over
+all, and through all, came that sharp tinkle—that cry for help in
+extremity.
+
+We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and piteous
+faces: they were issuing out of the convent to make way for the offerings
+of others.  “Haste, haste!” said they.  “A Poor Clare is dying!  A Poor
+Clare is dead for hunger!  God forgive us and our city!”
+
+We pressed on.  The stream bore us along where it would.  We were carried
+through refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over whose doors the
+conventual name of the occupant was written.  Thus it was that I, with
+others, was forced into Sister Magdalen’s cell.  On her couch lay
+Gisborne, pale unto death, but not dead.  By his side was a cup of water,
+and a small morsel of mouldy bread, which he had pushed out of his reach,
+and could not move to obtain.  Over against his bed were these words,
+copied in the English version “Therefore, if thine enemy hunger, feed
+him; if he thirst, give him drink.”
+
+Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like some
+famished wild animal.  For now it was no longer the sharp tinkle, but
+that one solemn toll, which in all Christian countries tells of the
+passing of the spirit out of earthly life into eternity; and again a
+murmur gathered and grew, as of many people speaking with awed breath, “A
+Poor Clare is dying! a Poor Clare is dead!”
+
+Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried into
+the chapel belonging to the Poor Clares.  On a bier before the high
+altar, lay a woman—lay Sister Magdalen—lay Bridget Fitzgerald.  By her
+side stood Father Bernard, in his robes of office, and holding the
+crucifix on high while he pronounced the solemn absolution of the Church,
+as to one who had newly confessed herself of deadly sin.  I pushed on
+with passionate force, till I stood close to the dying woman, as she
+received extreme unction amid the breathless and awed hush of the
+multitude around.  Her eyes were glazing, her limbs were stiffening; but
+when the rite was over and finished, she raised her gaunt figure slowly
+up, and her eyes brightened to a strange intensity of joy, as, with the
+gesture of her finger and the trance-like gleam of her eye, she seemed
+like one who watched the disappearance of some loathed and fearful
+creature.
+
+“She is freed from the curse!” said she, as she fell back dead.
+
+
+
+
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+<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poor Clare, by Elizabeth Gaskell</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
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+</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Poor Clare</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Elizabeth Gaskell</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 21, 2000 [eBook #2548]<br>
+[Most recently updated: February 5, 2024]</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price, Audrey Emmitt and Eugenia Corbo</div>
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POOR CLARE ***</div>
+
+<h1>THE POOR CLARE</h1>
+
+<h2 class="no-break">by Elizabeth Gaskell</h2>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2>
+
+<p>
+December 12th, 1747.&mdash;My life has been strangely bound up with
+extraordinary incidents, some of which occurred before I had any connection
+with the principal actors in them, or indeed, before I even knew of their
+existence. I suppose, most old men are, like me, more given to looking back
+upon their own career with a kind of fond interest and affectionate
+remembrance, than to watching the events&mdash;though these may have far more
+interest for the multitude&mdash;immediately passing before their eyes. If this
+should be the case with the generality of old people, how much more so with me!
+. . . If I am to enter upon that strange story connected with poor Lucy, I must
+begin a long way back. I myself only came to the knowledge of her family
+history after I knew her; but, to make the tale clear to any one else, I must
+arrange events in the order in which they occurred&mdash;not that in which I
+became acquainted with them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There is a great old hall in the north-east of Lancashire, in a part they
+called the Trough of Bolland, adjoining that other district named Craven.
+Starkey Manor-house is rather like a number of rooms clustered round a gray,
+massive, old keep than a regularly-built hall. Indeed, I suppose that the house
+only consisted of a great tower in the centre, in the days when the Scots made
+their raids terrible as far south as this; and that after the Stuarts came in,
+and there was a little more security of property in those parts, the Starkeys
+of that time added the lower building, which runs, two stories high, all round
+the base of the keep. There has been a grand garden laid out in my days, on the
+southern slope near the house; but when I first knew the place, the
+kitchen-garden at the farm was the only piece of cultivated ground belonging to
+it. The deer used to come within sight of the drawing-room windows, and might
+have browsed quite close up to the house if they had not been too wild and shy.
+Starkey Manor-house itself stood on a projection or peninsula of high land,
+jutting out from the abrupt hills that form the sides of the Trough of Bolland.
+These hills were rocky and bleak enough towards their summit; lower down they
+were clothed with tangled copsewood and green depths of fern, out of which a
+gray giant of an ancient forest-tree would tower here and there, throwing up
+its ghastly white branches, as if in imprecation, to the sky. These trees, they
+told me, were the remnants of that forest which existed in the days of the
+Heptarchy, and were even then noted as landmarks. No wonder that their upper
+and more exposed branches were leafless, and that the dead bark had peeled
+away, from sapless old age.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Not far from the house there were a few cottages, apparently, of the same date
+as the keep; probably built for some retainers of the family, who sought
+shelter&mdash;they and their families and their small flocks and herds&mdash;at
+the hands of their feudal lord. Some of them had pretty much fallen to decay.
+They were built in a strange fashion. Strong beams had been sunk firm in the
+ground at the requisite distance, and their other ends had been fastened
+together, two and two, so as to form the shape of one of those rounded
+waggon-headed gipsy-tents, only very much larger. The spaces between were
+filled with mud, stones, osiers, rubbish, mortar&mdash;anything to keep out the
+weather. The fires were made in the centre of these rude dwellings, a hole in
+the roof forming the only chimney. No Highland hut or Irish cabin could be of
+rougher construction.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The owner of this property, at the beginning of the present century, was a Mr.
+Patrick Byrne Starkey. His family had kept to the old faith, and were stanch
+Roman Catholics, esteeming it even a sin to marry any one of Protestant
+descent, however willing he or she might have been to embrace the Romish
+religion. Mr. Patrick Starkey&rsquo;s father had been a follower of James the
+Second; and, during the disastrous Irish campaign of that monarch he had fallen
+in love with an Irish beauty, a Miss Byrne, as zealous for her religion and for
+the Stuarts as himself. He had returned to Ireland after his escape to France,
+and married her, bearing her back to the court at St. Germains. But some
+licence on the part of the disorderly gentlemen who surrounded King James in
+his exile, had insulted his beautiful wife, and disgusted him; so he removed
+from St. Germains to Antwerp, whence, in a few years&rsquo; time, he quietly
+returned to Starkey Manor-house&mdash;some of his Lancashire neighbours having
+lent their good offices to reconcile him to the powers that were. He was as
+firm a Catholic as ever, and as stanch an advocate for the Stuarts and the
+divine rights of kings; but his religion almost amounted to asceticism, and the
+conduct of these with whom he had been brought in such close contact at St.
+Germains would little bear the inspection of a stern moralist. So he gave his
+allegiance where he could not give his esteem, and learned to respect sincerely
+the upright and moral character of one whom he yet regarded as an usurper. King
+William&rsquo;s government had little need to fear such a one. So he returned,
+as I have said, with a sobered heart and impoverished fortunes, to his
+ancestral house, which had fallen sadly to ruin while the owner had been a
+courtier, a soldier, and an exile. The roads into the Trough of Bolland were
+little more than cart-ruts; indeed, the way up to the house lay along a
+ploughed field before you came to the deer-park. Madam, as the country-folk
+used to call Mrs. Starkey, rode on a pillion behind her husband, holding on to
+him with a light hand by his leather riding-belt. Little master (he that was
+afterwards Squire Patrick Byrne Starkey) was held on to his pony by a
+serving-man. A woman past middle age walked, with a firm and strong step, by
+the cart that held much of the baggage; and high up on the mails and boxes, sat
+a girl of dazzling beauty, perched lightly on the topmost trunk, and swaying
+herself fearlessly to and fro, as the cart rocked and shook in the heavy roads
+of late autumn. The girl wore the Antwerp faille, or black Spanish mantle over
+her head, and altogether her appearance was such that the old cottager, who
+described the possession to me many years after, said that all the country-folk
+took her for a foreigner. Some dogs, and the boy who held them in charge, made
+up the company. They rode silently along, looking with grave, serious eyes at
+the people, who came out of the scattered cottages to bow or curtsy to the real
+Squire, &ldquo;come back at last,&rdquo; and gazed after the little procession
+with gaping wonder, not deadened by the sound of the foreign language in which
+the few necessary words that passed among them were spoken. One lad, called
+from his staring by the Squire to come and help about the cart, accompanied
+them to the Manor-house. He said that when the lady had descended from her
+pillion, the middle-aged woman whom I have described as walking while the
+others rode, stepped quickly forward, and taking Madam Starkey (who was of a
+slight and delicate figure) in her arms, she lifted her over the threshold, and
+set her down in her husband&rsquo;s house, at the same time uttering a
+passionate and outlandish blessing. The Squire stood by, smiling gravely at
+first; but when the words of blessing were pronounced, he took off his fine
+feathered hat, and bent his head. The girl with the black mantle stepped onward
+into the shadow of the dark hall, and kissed the lady&rsquo;s hand; and that
+was all the lad could tell to the group that gathered round him on his return,
+eager to hear everything, and to know how much the Squire had given him for his
+services.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From all I could gather, the Manor-house, at the time of the Squire&rsquo;s
+return, was in the most dilapidated state. The stout gray walls remained firm
+and entire; but the inner chambers had been used for all kinds of purposes. The
+great withdrawing-room had been a barn; the state tapestry-chamber had held
+wool, and so on. But, by-and-by, they were cleared out; and if the Squire had
+no money to spend on new furniture, he and his wife had the knack of making the
+best of the old. He was no despicable joiner; she had a kind of grace in
+whatever she did, and imparted an air of elegant picturesqueness to whatever
+she touched. Besides, they had brought many rare things from the Continent;
+perhaps I should rather say, things that were rare in that part of
+England&mdash;carvings, and crosses, and beautiful pictures. And then, again,
+wood was plentiful in the Trough of Bolland, and great log-fires danced and
+glittered in all the dark, old rooms, and gave a look of home and comfort to
+everything.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Why do I tell you all this? I have little to do with the Squire and Madame
+Starkey; and yet I dwell upon them, as if I were unwilling to come to the real
+people with whom my life was so strangely mixed up. Madam had been nursed in
+Ireland by the very woman who lifted her in her arms, and welcomed her to her
+husband&rsquo;s home in Lancashire. Excepting for the short period of her own
+married life, Bridget Fitzgerald had never left her nursling. Her
+marriage&mdash;to one above her in rank&mdash;had been unhappy. Her husband had
+died, and left her in even greater poverty than that in which she was when he
+had first met with her. She had one child, the beautiful daughter who came
+riding on the waggon-load of furniture that was brought to the Manor-house.
+Madame Starkey had taken her again into her service when she became a widow.
+She and her daughter had followed &ldquo;the mistress&rdquo; in all her
+fortunes; they had lived at St. Germains and at Antwerp, and were now come to
+her home in Lancashire. As soon as Bridget had arrived there, the Squire gave
+her a cottage of her own, and took more pains in furnishing it for her than he
+did in anything else out of his own house. It was only nominally her residence.
+She was constantly up at the great house; indeed, it was but a short cut across
+the woods from her own home to the home of her nursling. Her daughter Mary, in
+like manner, moved from one house to the other at her own will. Madam loved
+both mother and child dearly. They had great influence over her, and, through
+her, over her husband. Whatever Bridget or Mary willed was sure to come to
+pass. They were not disliked; for, though wild and passionate, they were also
+generous by nature. But the other servants were afraid of them, as being in
+secret the ruling spirits of the household. The Squire had lost his interest in
+all secular things; Madam was gentle, affectionate, and yielding. Both husband
+and wife were tenderly attached to each other and to their boy; but they grew
+more and more to shun the trouble of decision on any point; and hence it was
+that Bridget could exert such despotic power. But if everyone else yielded to
+her &ldquo;magic of a superior mind,&rdquo; her daughter not unfrequently
+rebelled. She and her mother were too much alike to agree. There were wild
+quarrels between them, and wilder reconciliations. There were times when, in
+the heat of passion, they could have stabbed each other. At all other times
+they both&mdash;Bridget especially&mdash;would have willingly laid down their
+lives for one another. Bridget&rsquo;s love for her child lay very
+deep&mdash;deeper than that daughter ever knew; or I should think she would
+never have wearied of home as she did, and prayed her mistress to obtain for
+her some situation&mdash;as waiting maid&mdash;beyond the seas, in that more
+cheerful continental life, among the scenes of which so many of her happiest
+years had been spent. She thought, as youth thinks, that life would last for
+ever, and that two or three years were but a small portion of it to pass away
+from her mother, whose only child she was. Bridget thought differently, but was
+too proud ever to show what she felt. If her child wished to leave her,
+why&mdash;she should go. But people said Bridget 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 Mary wanted for a time to leave the place, and to seek some
+change, and would thankfully have taken her mother with her. Indeed when Madam
+Starkey had gotten her a situation with some grand lady abroad, and the time
+drew near for her to go, it was Mary who clung to her mother with passionate
+embrace, and, with floods of tears, declared that she would never leave her;
+and it was Bridget, who at last loosened her arms, and, grave and tearless
+herself, bade her keep her word, and go forth into the wide world. Sobbing
+aloud, and looking back continually, Mary went away. Bridget was still as
+death, scarcely drawing her breath, or closing her stony eyes; till at last she
+turned back into her cottage, and heaved a ponderous old settle against the
+door. There she sat, motionless, over the gray ashes of her extinguished fire,
+deaf to Madam&rsquo;s sweet voice, as she begged leave to enter and comfort her
+nurse. Deaf, stony, and motionless, she sat for more than twenty hours; till,
+for the third time, Madam came across the snowy path from the great house,
+carrying with her a young spaniel, which had been Mary&rsquo;s pet up at the
+hall; and which had not ceased all night long to seek for its absent mistress,
+and to whine and moan after her. With tears Madam told this story, through the
+closed door&mdash;tears excited by the terrible look of anguish, so steady, so
+immovable&mdash;so the same to-day as it was yesterday&mdash;on her
+nurse&rsquo;s face. The little creature in her arms began to utter its piteous
+cry, as it shivered with the cold. Bridget stirred; she moved&mdash;she
+listened. Again that long whine; she thought it was for her daughter; and what
+she had denied to her nursling and mistress she granted to the dumb creature
+that Mary had cherished. She opened the door, and took the dog from
+Madam&rsquo;s arms. Then Madam came in, and kissed and comforted the old woman,
+who took but little notice of her or anything. And sending up Master Patrick to
+the hall for fire and food, the sweet young lady never left her nurse all that
+night. Next day, the Squire himself came down, carrying a beautiful foreign
+picture&mdash;Our Lady of the Holy Heart, the Papists call it. It is a picture
+of the Virgin, her heart pierced with arrows, each arrow representing one of
+her great woes. That picture hung in Bridget&rsquo;s cottage when I first saw
+her; I have that picture now.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Years went on. Mary was still abroad. Bridget was still and stern, instead of
+active and passionate. The little dog, Mignon, was indeed her darling. I have
+heard that she talked to it continually; although, to most people, she was so
+silent. The Squire and Madam treated her with the greatest consideration, and
+well they might; for to them she was as devoted and faithful as ever. Mary
+wrote pretty often, and seemed satisfied with her life. But at length the
+letters ceased&mdash;I hardly know whether before or after a great and terrible
+sorrow came upon the house of the Starkeys. The Squire sickened of a putrid
+fever; and Madam caught it in nursing him, and died. You may be sure, Bridget
+let no other woman tend her but herself; and in the very arms that had received
+her at her birth, that sweet young woman laid her head down, and gave up her
+breath. The Squire recovered, in a fashion. He was never strong&mdash;he had
+never the heart to smile again. He fasted and prayed more than ever; and people
+did say that he tried to cut off the entail, and leave all the property away to
+found a monastery abroad, of which he prayed that some day little Squire
+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 he could only
+appoint gentlemen of his own faith as guardians to his son, with many charges
+about the lad&rsquo;s soul, and a few about the land, and the way it was to be
+held while he was a minor. Of course, Bridget was not forgotten. He sent for
+her as he lay on his death-bed, and asked her if she would rather have a sum
+down, or have a small annuity settled upon her. She said at once she would have
+a sum down; for she thought of her daughter, and how she could bequeath the
+money to her, whereas an annuity would 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 a heart 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 left alone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I have said that she had not heard from Mary for some time. In her last letter,
+she had told of travelling about with her mistress, who was the English wife of
+some great foreign officer, and had spoken of her chances of making a good
+marriage, without naming the gentleman&rsquo;s name, keeping it rather back as
+a pleasant surprise to her mother; his station and fortune being, as I had
+afterwards reason to know, far superior to anything she had a right to expect.
+Then came a long silence; and Madam was dead, and the Squire was dead; and
+Bridget&rsquo;s heart was gnawed by anxiety, and she knew not whom to ask for
+news of her child. She could not write, and the Squire had managed her
+communication with her daughter. She walked off to Hurst; and got a good priest
+there&mdash;one whom she had known at Antwerp&mdash;to write for her. But no
+answer came. It was like crying into the awful stillness of night.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been accustomed to mark
+her goings-out and comings-in. She had never been sociable with any 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, and her house-door
+remained closed, her window dead from any glitter, or light 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 through the blank unshuttered window. But,
+at last, they summoned up courage; and then saw that Bridget&rsquo;s absence
+from their little world was not the result of accident or death, but of
+premeditation. Such small articles of furniture as could be secured from the
+effects of time and damp by being packed up, were stowed away in boxes. The
+picture of the Madonna was taken down, and gone. In a word, Bridget had stolen
+away from her home, 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
+her lost daughter. She was too illiterate to have faith in letters, even had
+she had the means of writing and sending many. But she had faith in her own
+strong love, and believed that her passionate instinct would guide her to her
+child. Besides, foreign travel was no new thing to her, and she could speak
+enough of French to explain the object of her journey, and had, moreover, the
+advantage of being, from her faith, a welcome object of charitable hospitality
+at many a distant convent. But the country people round Starkey Manor-house
+knew nothing of all this. They wondered what had become of her, in a torpid,
+lazy fashion, and then left off thinking of her altogether. Several years
+passed. Both Manor-house and cottage were deserted. The young Squire lived far
+away under the direction of his guardians. There were inroads of wool and corn
+into the sitting-rooms of the Hall; and there was some low talk, from time to
+time, among the hinds and country people whether it would not be as well to
+break into old Bridget&rsquo;s cottage, and save such of her goods as were left
+from the moth and rust which must be making sad havoc. But this idea was always
+quenched by the recollection of her strong character and passionate anger; and
+tales of her masterful spirit, and vehement force of will, were whispered
+about, till the very thought of offending her, by touching any article of hers,
+became invested with a kind of horror: it was believed that, dead or alive, she
+would not fail to avenge it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly she came home; with as little noise or note of preparation as she had
+departed. One day some one noticed a thin, blue curl of smoke ascending from
+her chimney. Her door stood open to the noonday sun; and, ere many hours had
+elapsed, some one had seen an old travel-and-sorrow-stained woman dipping her
+pitcher in the well; and said, that the dark, solemn eyes that looked up at him
+were more like Bridget Fitzgerald&rsquo;s than any one else&rsquo;s in this
+world; and yet, if it were she, she looked as if she had been scorched in the
+flames of hell, so brown, and scared, and fierce a creature did she seem.
+By-and-by many saw her; and those who met her eye once cared not to be caught
+looking at her again. She had got into the habit of perpetually talking to
+herself; nay, more, answering herself, and varying her tones according to the
+side she took at the moment. It was no wonder that those who dared to listen
+outside her door at night believed that she held converse with some spirit; in
+short, she was unconsciously earning for herself the dreadful reputation of a
+witch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her little dog, which had wandered half over the Continent with her, was her
+only companion; a dumb remembrancer of happier days. Once he was ill; and she
+carried him more than three miles, to ask about his management from one who had
+been groom to the last Squire, and had then been noted for his skill in all
+diseases of animals. Whatever this man did, the dog recovered; and they who
+heard her thanks, intermingled with blessings (that were rather promises of
+good fortune than prayers), looked grave at his good luck when, next year, his
+ewes twinned, and his meadow-grass was heavy and thick.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now it so happened that, about the year seventeen hundred and eleven, one of
+the guardians of the young squire, a certain Sir Philip Tempest, bethought him
+of the good shooting there must be on his ward&rsquo;s property; and in
+consequence he brought down four or five gentlemen, of his friends, to stay for
+a week or two at the Hall. From all accounts, they roystered and spent pretty
+freely. I never heard any of their names but one, and that was Squire
+Gisborne&rsquo;s. He was hardly a middle-aged man then; he had been much
+abroad, and there, I believe, he had known Sir Philip Tempest, and done him
+some service. He was a daring and dissolute fellow in those days: careless and
+fearless, and one who would rather be in a quarrel than out of it. He had his
+fits of ill-temper besides, when he would spare neither man nor beast.
+Otherwise, those who knew him well, used to say he had a good heart, when he
+was neither drunk, nor angry, nor in any way vexed. He had altered much when I
+came to know him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but little success,
+I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had none, and was in a black humour
+accordingly. He was coming home, having his gun loaded, sportsman-like, when
+little Mignon crossed his path, just as he turned out of the wood by
+Bridget&rsquo;s cottage. Partly for wantonness, partly to vent his spleen upon
+some living creature. Mr. Gisborne took his gun, and fired&mdash;he had better
+have never fired gun again, than aimed that unlucky shot, he hit Mignon, and at
+the creature&rsquo;s sudden cry, Bridget came out, and saw at a glance what had
+been done. She took Mignon up in her arms, and looked hard at the wound; the
+poor dog looked at her with his glazing eyes, and tried to wag his tail and
+lick her hand, all covered with blood. Mr. Gisborne spoke in a kind of sullen
+penitence:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You should have kept the dog out of my way&mdash;a little poaching
+varmint.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At this very moment, Mignon stretched out his legs, and stiffened in her
+arms&mdash;her lost Mary&rsquo;s dog, who had wandered and sorrowed with her
+for years. She walked right into Mr. Gisborne&rsquo;s path, and fixed his
+unwilling, sullen look, with her dark and terrible eye.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Those never throve that did me harm,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
+alone in the world, and helpless; the more do the saints in heaven hear my
+prayers. Hear me, ye blessed ones! hear me while I ask for sorrow on this bad,
+cruel man. He has killed the only creature that loved me&mdash;the dumb beast
+that I loved. Bring down heavy sorrow on his head for it, O ye saints! He
+thought that I was helpless, because he saw me lonely and poor; but are not the
+armies of heaven for the like of me?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Come, come,&rdquo; said he, half remorseful, but not one whit afraid.
+&ldquo;Here&rsquo;s a crown to buy thee another dog. Take it, and leave off
+cursing! I care none for thy threats.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; said she, coming a step closer, and changing her
+imprecatory cry for a whisper which made the gamekeeper&rsquo;s lad, following
+Mr. Gisborne, creep all over. &ldquo;You shall live to see the creature you
+love best, and who alone loves you&mdash;ay, a human creature, but as innocent
+and fond as my poor, dead darling&mdash;you shall see this creature, for whom
+death would be too happy, become a terror and a loathing to all, for this
+blood&rsquo;s sake. Hear me, O holy saints, who never fail them that have no
+other help!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She threw up her right hand, filled with poor Mignon&rsquo;s life-drops; they
+spirted, one or two of them, on his shooting-dress,&mdash;an ominous sight to
+the follower. But the master only laughed a little, forced, scornful laugh, and
+went on to the Hall. Before he got there, however, he took out a gold piece,
+and bade the boy carry it to the old woman on his return to the village. The
+lad was &ldquo;afeared,&rdquo; as he told me in after years; he came to the
+cottage, and hovered about, not daring to enter. He peeped through the window
+at last; and by the flickering wood-flame, he saw Bridget kneeling before the
+picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart, with dead Mignon lying between her and
+the Madonna. She was praying wildly, as her outstretched arms betokened. The
+lad shrunk away in redoubled terror; and contented himself with slipping the
+gold piece under the ill-fitting door. The next day it was thrown out upon the
+midden; and there it lay, no one daring to touch it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meanwhile Mr. Gisborne, half curious, half uneasy, thought to lessen his
+uncomfortable feelings by asking Sir Philip who Bridget was? He could only
+describe her&mdash;he did not know her name. Sir Philip was equally at a loss.
+But an old servant of the Starkeys, who had resumed his livery at the Hall on
+this occasion&mdash;a scoundrel whom Bridget had saved from dismissal more than
+once during her palmy days&mdash;said:&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It will be the old witch, that his worship means. She needs a ducking,
+if ever a woman did, does that Bridget Fitzgerald.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Fitzgerald!&rdquo; said both the gentlemen at once. But Sir Philip was
+the first to continue:&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I must have no talk of ducking her, Dickon. Why, she must be the very
+woman poor Starkey bade me have a care of; but when I came here last she was
+gone, no one knew where. I&rsquo;ll go and see her to-morrow. But mind you,
+sirrah, if any harm comes to her, or any more talk of her being a
+witch&mdash;I&rsquo;ve a pack of hounds at home, who can follow the scent of a
+lying knave as well as ever they followed a dog-fox; so take care how you talk
+about ducking a faithful old servant of your dead master&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Had she ever a daughter?&rdquo; asked Mr. Gisborne, after a while.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know&mdash;yes! I&rsquo;ve a notion she had; a kind of
+waiting woman to Madam Starkey.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Please your worship,&rdquo; said humbled Dickon, &ldquo;Mistress Bridget
+had a daughter&mdash;one Mistress Mary&mdash;who went abroad, and has never
+been heard on since; and folk do say that has crazed her mother.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Gisborne shaded his eyes with his hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I could wish she had not cursed me,&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;She may
+have power&mdash;no one else could.&rdquo; After a while, he said aloud, no one
+understanding rightly what he meant, &ldquo;Tush! it is
+impossible!&rdquo;&mdash;and called for claret; and he and the other gentlemen
+set-to to a drinking-bout.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2>
+
+<p>
+I now come to the time in which I myself was mixed up with the people that I
+have been writing about. And to make you understand how I became connected with
+them, I must give you some little account of myself. My father was the younger
+son of a Devonshire gentleman of moderate property; my eldest uncle succeeded
+to the estate of his forefathers, my second became an eminent attorney in
+London, and my father took orders. Like most poor clergymen, he had a large
+family; and I have no doubt was glad enough when my London uncle, who was a
+bachelor, offered to take charge of me, and bring me up to be his successor in
+business.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In this way I came to live in London, in my uncle&rsquo;s house, not far from
+Gray&rsquo;s Inn, and to be treated and esteemed as his son, and to labour with
+him in his office. I was very fond of the old gentleman. He was the
+confidential agent of many country squires, and had attained to his present
+position as much by knowledge of human nature as by knowledge of law; though he
+was learned enough in the latter. He used to say his business was law, his
+pleasure heraldry. From his intimate acquaintance with family history, and all
+the tragic courses of life therein involved, to hear him talk, at leisure
+times, about any coat of arms that came across his path was as good as a play
+or a romance. Many cases of disputed property, dependent on a love of
+genealogy, were brought to him, as to a great authority on such points. If the
+lawyer who came to consult him was young, he would take no fee, only give him a
+long lecture on the importance of attending to heraldry; if the lawyer was of
+mature age and good standing, he would mulct him pretty well, and abuse him to
+me afterwards as negligent of one great branch of the profession. His house was
+in a stately new street called Ormond Street, and in it he had a handsome
+library; but all the books treated of things that were past; none of them
+planned or looked forward into the future. I worked away&mdash;partly for the
+sake of my family at home, partly because my uncle had really taught me to
+enjoy the kind of practice in which he himself took such delight. I suspect I
+worked too hard; at any rate, in seventeen hundred and eighteen I was far from
+well, and my good uncle was disturbed by my ill looks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day, he rang the bell twice into the clerk&rsquo;s room at the dingy office
+in Grey&rsquo;s Inn Lane. It was the summons for me, and I went into his
+private room just as a gentleman&mdash;whom I knew well enough by sight as an
+Irish lawyer of more reputation than he deserved&mdash;was leaving.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering. I was there two
+or three minutes before he spoke. Then he told me that I must pack up my
+portmanteau that very afternoon, and start that night by post-horse for West
+Chester. I should get there, if all went well, at the end of five days&rsquo;
+time, and must then wait for a packet to cross over to Dublin; from thence I
+must proceed to a certain town named Kildoon, and in that neighbourhood I was
+to remain, making certain inquiries as to the existence of any descendants of
+the younger branch of a family to whom some valuable estates had descended in
+the female line. The Irish lawyer whom I had seen was weary of the case, and
+would willingly have given up the property, without further ado, to a man who
+appeared to claim them; but on laying his tables and trees before my uncle, the
+latter had foreseen so many possible prior claimants, that the lawyer had
+begged him to undertake the management of the whole business. In his youth, my
+uncle would have liked nothing better than going over to Ireland himself, and
+ferreting out every scrap of paper or parchment, and every word of tradition
+respecting the family. As it was, old and gouty, he deputed me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Accordingly, I went to Kildoon. I suspect I had something of my uncle&rsquo;s
+delight in following up a genealogical scent, for I very soon found out, when
+on the spot, that Mr. Rooney, the Irish lawyer, would have got both himself and
+the first claimant into a terrible scrape, if he had pronounced his opinion
+that the estates ought to be given up to him. There were three poor Irish
+fellows, each nearer of kin to the last possessor; but, a generation before,
+there was a still nearer relation, who had never been accounted for, nor his
+existence ever discovered by the lawyers, I venture to think, till I routed him
+out from the memory of some of the old dependants of the family. What had
+become of him? I travelled backwards and forwards; I crossed over to France,
+and came back again with a slight clue, which ended in my discovering that,
+wild and dissipated himself, he had left one child, a son, of yet worse
+character than his father; that this same Hugh Fitzgerald had married a very
+beautiful serving-woman of the Byrnes&mdash;a person below him in hereditary
+rank, but above him in character; that he had died soon after his marriage,
+leaving one child, whether a boy or a girl I could not learn, and that the
+mother had returned to live in the family of the Byrnes. Now, the chief of this
+latter family was serving in the Duke of Berwick&rsquo;s regiment, and it was
+long before I could hear from him; it was more than a year before I got a
+short, haughty letter&mdash;I fancy he had a soldier&rsquo;s contempt for a
+civilian, an Irishman&rsquo;s hatred for an Englishman, an exiled
+Jacobite&rsquo;s jealousy of one who prospered and lived tranquilly under the
+government he looked upon as an usurpation. &ldquo;Bridget Fitzgerald,&rdquo;
+he said, &ldquo;had been faithful to the fortunes of his sister&mdash;had
+followed her abroad, and to England when Mrs. Starkey had thought fit to
+return. Both his sister and her husband were dead, he knew nothing of Bridget
+Fitzgerald at the present time: probably Sir Philip Tempest, his nephew&rsquo;s
+guardian, might be able to give me some information.&rdquo; I have not given
+the little contemptuous terms; the way in which faithful service was meant to
+imply more than it said&mdash;all that has nothing to do with my story. Sir
+Philip, when applied to, told me that he paid an annuity regularly to an old
+woman named Fitzgerald, living at Coldholme (the village near Starkey
+Manor-house). Whether she had any descendants he could not say.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One bleak March evening, I came in sight of the places described at the
+beginning of my story. I could hardly understand the rude dialect in which the
+direction to old Bridget&rsquo;s house was given.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yo&rsquo; see yon furleets,&rdquo; all run together, gave me no idea
+that I was to guide myself by the distant lights that shone in the windows of
+the Hall, 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 grand tour. However, at
+last, I reached Bridget&rsquo;s cottage&mdash;a low, moss-grown place: the
+palings that had once surrounded it were broken and gone; and the underwood of
+the forest came up to the walls, and must have darkened the windows. It was
+about seven o&rsquo;clock&mdash;not late to my London notions&mdash;but, after
+knocking for some time at the door and receiving no reply, I was driven to
+conjecture that the occupant of the house was gone to bed. So I betook myself
+to the nearest church I had seen, three miles back on the road I had come, sure
+that close to that I should find an inn of some kind; and early the next
+morning I set off back to Coldholme, by a field-path which my host assured me I
+should find a shorter 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 that
+covered the ground; nevertheless, I saw an old woman, whom I instinctively
+suspected to be the object of my search, in a sheltered covert on one side of
+my path. I lingered and watched her. She must have been considerably above the
+middle size in her prime, for when she raised 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 something on the ground, as, with bent head, she turned off from
+the spot where I gazed upon her, and was lost to my sight. I fancy I missed my
+way, and made a round in spite of the landlord&rsquo;s directions; for by the
+time I had reached Bridget&rsquo;s cottage she was there, with no semblance of
+hurried walk or discomposure of any kind. The door was slightly ajar. I
+knocked, and the majestic figure stood before me, silently awaiting the
+explanation of my errand. Her teeth were all gone, so the nose and chin were
+brought near together; the gray eyebrows were straight, and almost hung over
+her deep, cavernous eyes, and the thick white hair lay in silvery masses over
+the low, wide, wrinkled forehead. For a moment, I stood uncertain how to shape
+my answer to the solemn questioning of her silence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Your name is Bridget Fitzgerald, I believe?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She bowed her head in assent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have something to say to you. May I come in? I am unwilling to keep
+you standing.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You cannot tire me,&rdquo; she said, and at first she seemed inclined to
+deny me the shelter of her roof. But the next moment&mdash;she had searched the
+very soul in me with her eyes during that instant&mdash;she led me in, and
+dropped the shadowing hood of her gray, draping cloak, which had previously hid
+part of the character of her countenance. The cottage was rude and bare enough.
+But before the picture of the Virgin, of which I have made mention, there stood
+a little cup filled with fresh primroses. While she paid her reverence to the
+Madonna, I understood why she had been out seeking through the clumps of green
+in the sheltered copse. Then she turned round, and bade me be seated. The
+expression of her face, which all this time I was studying, was not bad, as the
+stories of my last night&rsquo;s landlord had led me to expect; it was a wild,
+stern, fierce, indomitable countenance, seamed and scarred by agonies of
+solitary weeping; but it was neither cunning nor malignant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My name is Bridget Fitzgerald,&rdquo; said she, by way of opening our
+conversation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And your husband was Hugh Fitzgerald, of Knock Mahon, near Kildoon, in
+Ireland?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A faint light came into the dark gloom of her eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He was.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;May I ask if you had any children by him?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The light in her eyes grew quick and red. She tried to speak, I could see; but
+something rose in her throat, and choked her, and until she could speak calmly,
+she would fain not speak at all before a stranger. In a minute or so she
+said&mdash;&ldquo;I had a daughter&mdash;one Mary Fitzgerald,&rdquo;&mdash;then
+her strong nature mastered her strong will, and she cried out, with a trembling
+wailing cry: &ldquo;Oh, man! what of her?&mdash;what of her?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She rose from her seat, and came and clutched at my arm, and looked in my eyes.
+There she read, as I suppose, my utter ignorance of what had become of her
+child; for she went blindly back to her chair, and sat rocking herself and
+softly moaning, as if I were not there; I not daring to speak to the lone and
+awful woman. After a little pause, she knelt down before the picture of Our
+Lady of the Holy Heart, and spoke to her by all the fanciful and poetic names
+of the Litany.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;O Rose of Sharon! O Tower of David! O Star of the Sea! have ye no
+comfort for my sore heart? Am I for ever to hope? Grant me at least
+despair!&rdquo;&mdash;and so on she went, heedless of my presence. Her prayers
+grew wilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the borders of
+madness and blasphemy. Almost involuntarily, I spoke as if to stop her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Have you any reason to think that your daughter is dead?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She rose from her knees, and came and stood before me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mary Fitzgerald is dead,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I shall never see her
+again in the flesh. No tongue ever told me; but I know she is dead. I have
+yearned so to see her, and my heart&rsquo;s will is fearful and strong: it
+would have drawn her to me before now, if she had been a wanderer on the other
+side of the world. I wonder often it has not drawn her out of the grave to come
+and stand before me, and hear me tell her how I loved her. For, sir, we parted
+unfriends.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I knew nothing but the dry particulars needed for my lawyer&rsquo;s quest, but
+I could not help feeling for the desolate woman; and she must have read the
+unusual sympathy with her wistful eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, sir, we did. She never knew how I loved her; and we parted
+unfriends; and I fear me that I wished her voyage might not turn out well, only
+meaning,&mdash;O, blessed Virgin! you know I only meant that she should come
+home to her mother&rsquo;s arms as to the happiest place on earth; but my
+wishes are terrible&mdash;their power goes beyond my thought&mdash;and there is
+no hope for me, if my words brought Mary harm.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;you do not know that she is dead. Even now,
+you hoped she might be alive. Listen to me,&rdquo; and I told her the tale I
+have already told you, giving it all in the driest manner, for I wanted to
+recall the clear sense that I felt almost sure she had possessed in her younger
+days, and by keeping up her attention to details, restrain the vague wildness
+of her grief.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She listened with deep attention, putting from time to time such questions as
+convinced me I had to do with no common intelligence, however dimmed and shorn
+by solitude and mysterious sorrow. Then she took up her tale; and in few brief
+words, told me of her wanderings abroad in vain search after her daughter;
+sometimes in the wake of armies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in city. The
+lady, whose waiting-woman Mary had gone to be, had died soon after the date of
+her last letter home; her husband, the foreign officer, had been serving in
+Hungary, whither Bridget had followed him, but too late to find him. Vague
+rumours reached her that Mary had made a great marriage: and this sting of
+doubt was added,&mdash;whether the mother might not be close to her child under
+her new name, and even hearing of her every day; and yet never recognizing the
+lost one under the appellation she then bore. At length the thought took
+possession of her, that it was possible that all this 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, to her desolate hearth, and empty
+cottage. Here she had thought it safest to remain; if Mary was in life, it was
+here she would seek for her mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I noted down one or two particulars out of Bridget&rsquo;s narrative that I
+thought might be of use to me: for I was stimulated to further search in a
+strange and extraordinary manner. It seemed as if it were impressed upon 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 my uncle&rsquo;s anxiety on
+the subject, my own reputation as a lawyer, and so on), but from some strange
+power which had taken possession of my will only that very morning, and which
+forced it in the direction it chose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will go,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;I will spare nothing in the search.
+Trust to me. I will learn all that can be learnt. You shall know all that
+money, or pains, or wit can discover. It is true she may be long dead: but she
+may have left a child.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A child!&rdquo; she cried, as if for the first time this idea had struck
+her mind. &ldquo;Hear him, Blessed Virgin! he says she may have left a child.
+And you have never told me, though I have prayed so for a sign, waking or
+sleeping!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I know nothing but what you tell me. You say
+you heard of her marriage.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But she caught nothing of what I said. She was praying to the Virgin in a kind
+of ecstasy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my very presence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest&rsquo;s. The wife of the foreign
+officer had been a cousin of his father&rsquo;s, and from him I thought I might
+gain some particulars as to the existence of the Count de la Tour
+d&rsquo;Auvergne, and where I could find him; for I knew questions <i>de vive
+voix</i> aid the flagging recollection, and I was determined to lose no chance
+for want of trouble. But Sir Philip had gone abroad, and it would be some time
+before I could receive an answer. So I followed my uncle&rsquo;s advice, to
+whom I had mentioned how wearied I felt, both in body and mind, by my
+will-o&rsquo;-the-wisp search. He immediately told me to go to Harrogate, there
+to await Sir Philip&rsquo;s reply. I should be near to one of the places
+connected with my search, Coldholme; not far from Sir Philip Tempest, in case
+he returned, and I wished to ask him any further questions; and, in conclusion,
+my uncle bade me try to forget all about my business for a time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This was far easier said than done. I have seen a child on a common blown along
+by a high wind, without power of standing still and resisting the tempestuous
+force. I was somewhat in the same predicament as regarded my mental state.
+Something resistless seemed to urge my thoughts on, through every possible
+course by which there was a chance of attaining to my object. I did not see the
+sweeping moors when I walked out: when I held a book in my hand, and read the
+words, their sense did not 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
+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 it compelled me to live
+in the present suffering, and not in the visionary researches I had been
+continually making before. My kind uncle came to nurse me; and after the
+immediate danger was over, my life seemed to slip away in delicious languor for
+two or three months. I did not ask&mdash;so much did I dread falling into the
+old channel of thought&mdash;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 midsummer, and then returned to his
+business in London; leaving me perfectly well, although not completely strong.
+I was to follow him in a fortnight; when, as he said, &ldquo;we would look over
+letters, and talk about several things.&rdquo; I knew what this little speech
+alluded to, and shrank from the train of thought it suggested, which was so
+intimately connected with my first feelings of illness. However, I had a
+fortnight more to roam on those invigorating Yorkshire moors.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In those days, there was one large, rambling inn, at Harrogate, close to the
+Medicinal Spring; but it was already becoming too small for the accommodation
+of the influx of visitors, and many lodged round about, in the farm-houses of
+the district. It was so early in the season, that I had the inn pretty much to
+myself; and, indeed, felt rather like a visitor in a private house, so intimate
+had the landlord and landlady become with me during my long illness. She would
+chide me for being out so late on the moors, or for having been too long
+without food, quite in a motherly way; while he consulted me about vintages and
+wines, and taught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle about horses. In my walks I met
+other strangers from time to time. Even before my uncle had left me, I had
+noticed, with half-torpid curiosity, a young lady of very striking appearance,
+who went about always accompanied by an elderly companion,&mdash;hardly a
+gentlewoman, but with something in her look that prepossessed me in her favour.
+The younger lady always put her veil down when any one approached; so it had
+been only once or twice, when I had come upon her at a sudden turn in the path,
+that I had even had a glimpse at her face. I am not sure if it was beautiful,
+though in after-life I grew to think it so. But it was at this time
+overshadowed by a sadness that never varied: a pale, quiet, resigned look of
+intense suffering, that irresistibly attracted me,&mdash;not with love, but
+with a sense of infinite compassion for one so young yet so hopelessly unhappy.
+The companion wore something of the same look: quiet melancholy, hopeless, yet
+resigned. I asked my landlord who they were. He said they were called Clarke,
+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 that there was any such
+relationship between them. They had been in the neighbourhood of Harrogate for
+some time, lodging in a remote farm-house. The people there would tell nothing
+about them; saying that they paid handsomely, and never did any harm; so why
+should they be speaking of any strange things that might happen? That, as the
+landlord shrewdly observed, showed there was something out of the common way he
+had heard that the elderly woman was a cousin of the farmer&rsquo;s where they
+lodged, and so the regard existing between relations might help to keep them
+quiet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What did he think, then, was the reason for their extreme
+seclusion?&rdquo; asked I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nay, he could not tell,&mdash;not he. He had heard that the young lady,
+for all as quiet as she seemed, played strange pranks at times.&rdquo; He shook
+his head when I asked him for more particulars, and refused to give them, which
+made me doubt if he knew any, for he was in general a talkative and
+communicative man. In default of other interests, after my uncle left, I set
+myself to watch these two people. I hovered about their walks drawn towards
+them with a strange fascination, which was not diminished by their evident
+annoyance at so frequently meeting me. One day, I had the sudden good fortune
+to be at hand when they were alarmed by the attack of a bull, which, in those
+unenclosed grazing districts, was a particularly dangerous occurrence. I have
+other and more important things to relate, than to tell of the accident which
+gave me an opportunity of rescuing them, it is enough to say, that this event
+was the beginning of an acquaintance, reluctantly acquiesced in by them, but
+eagerly prosecuted by me. I can hardly tell when intense curiosity became
+merged in love, but in less than ten days after my uncle&rsquo;s departure I
+was passionately enamoured of Mistress Lucy, as her attendant called her;
+carefully&mdash;for this I noted well&mdash;avoiding any address which appeared
+as if there was an equality of station between them. I noticed also that Mrs.
+Clarke, the elderly woman, after her first reluctance to allow me to pay them
+any attentions had been overcome, was cheered by my evident attachment to the
+young girl; it seemed to lighten her heavy burden of care, and she evidently
+favoured my visits to the farmhouse where they lodged. It was not so with Lucy.
+A more attractive person I never saw, in spite of her depression of manner, and
+shrinking avoidance of me. I felt sure at once, that whatever 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, for a moment or two, I beguiled her into talk,
+I could see a rare intelligence in her face, and a grave, trusting look in the
+soft, gray eyes that were raised for a minute to mine. I made every excuse I
+possibly could for going there. I sought wild flowers for Lucy&rsquo;s sake; I
+planned walks for Lucy&rsquo;s sake; I watched the heavens by night, in hopes
+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 dome above.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some motive which
+I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but then 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 (I loved so dearly) I could have begged
+her to spare herself, even though the happiness of my whole life should have
+been the sacrifice; for her complexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more
+hopeless, her delicate frame yet slighter. During this period I had written, I
+should say, to my uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong my stay at Harrogate,
+not giving any reason; but such was his tenderness towards me, that in a few
+days I heard from him, giving me a willing permission, and only charging me to
+take care of myself, and not use too much exertion during the hot weather.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One sultry evening I drew near the farm. The windows of their parlour were
+open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the house, as I passed the
+first window (there were two windows in their little ground-floor room). I saw
+Lucy distinctly; but when I had knocked at their door&mdash;the house-door
+stood always ajar&mdash;she was gone, and I saw only Mrs. Clarke, turning over
+the work-things lying on the table, in a nervous and purposeless manner. I felt
+by instinct that a conversation of some importance was coming on, in which I
+should be expected to say what was my object in paying these frequent visits. I
+was glad of the opportunity. My uncle had several times alluded to the pleasant
+possibility of my bringing home a young wife, to cheer and adorn the old house
+in Ormond Street. He was rich, and I was to succeed him, and had, as I knew, a
+fair reputation for so young a lawyer. So on my side I saw no obstacle. It was
+true that Lucy was shrouded in mystery; her name (I was convinced it was not
+Clarke), birth, parentage, and previous life were unknown to me. But I was sure
+of her goodness and sweet innocence, and although I knew that there must be
+something painful to be told, to account for her mournful sadness, yet I was
+willing to bear my share in her grief, whatever it might be.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Clarke began, as if it was a relief to her to plunge into the subject.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;We have thought, sir&mdash;at least I have thought&mdash;that you knew
+very little of us, nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant the intimate
+acquaintance we have fallen into. I beg your pardon, sir,&rdquo; she went on,
+nervously; &ldquo;I am but a plain kind of woman, and I mean to use no
+rudeness; but I must say straight out that I&mdash;we&mdash;think it would be
+better for you not to come so often to see us. She is very unprotected,
+and&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why should I not come to see you, dear madam?&rdquo; asked I, eagerly,
+glad of the opportunity of explaining myself. &ldquo;I come, I own, because I
+have learnt to love Mistress Lucy, and wish to teach her to love me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mistress Clarke shook her head, and sighed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t, sir&mdash;neither love her, nor, for the sake of all you
+hold sacred, teach her to love you! If I am too late, and you love her already,
+forget her,&mdash;forget these last few weeks. O! I should never have allowed
+you to come!&rdquo; she went on passionately; &ldquo;but what am I to do? We
+are forsaken by all, except the great God, and even He permits a strange and
+evil power to afflict us&mdash;what am I to do! Where is it to end?&rdquo; She
+wrung her hands in her distress; then she turned to me: &ldquo;Go away, sir! go
+away, before you learn to care any more for her. I ask it for your own
+sake&mdash;I implore! You have been good and kind to us, and we shall always
+recollect you with gratitude; but go away now, and never come back to cross our
+fatal path!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Indeed, madam,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I shall do no such thing. You urge
+it for my own sake. I have no fear, so urged&mdash;nor wish, except to hear
+more&mdash;all. I cannot have seen Mistress Lucy in all the intimacy of this
+last fortnight, without acknowledging her goodness and innocence; and without
+seeing&mdash;pardon me, madam&mdash;that for some reason you are two very
+lonely women, in some mysterious sorrow and distress. Now, though I am not
+powerful myself, yet I have friends who are so wise and kind that they may be
+said to possess power. Tell me some particulars. Why are you in
+grief&mdash;what is your secret&mdash;why are you here? I declare solemnly that
+nothing you have said has daunted me in my wish to become Lucy&rsquo;s husband;
+nor will I shrink from any difficulty that, as such an aspirant, I may have to
+encounter. You say you are friendless&mdash;why cast away 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. I do not shun inquiry.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She shook her head again. &ldquo;You had better go away, sir. You know nothing
+about us.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know your names,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;and I have heard you allude to
+the part of the country from which you came, which I happen to know as a wild
+and lonely place. There are so few people living in it that, if I chose to go
+there, I could easily ascertain all about you; but I would rather hear it from
+yourself.&rdquo; You see I wanted to pique her into telling me something
+definite.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You do not know our true names, sir,&rdquo; said she, hastily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, I may have conjectured as much. But tell me, then, I conjure you.
+Give me your reasons for distrusting my willingness to stand by what I have
+said with regard to Mistress Lucy.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, what can I do?&rdquo; exclaimed she. &ldquo;If I am turning away a
+true friend, as he says?&mdash;Stay!&rdquo; coming to a sudden
+decision&mdash;&ldquo;I will tell you something&mdash;I cannot tell you
+all&mdash;you would not believe it. But, perhaps, I can tell you enough to
+prevent your going on in your hopeless attachment. I am not Lucy&rsquo;s
+mother.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;So I conjectured,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Go on.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I do not even know whether she is the legitimate or illegitimate child
+of her father. But he is cruelly turned against her; and her mother is long
+dead; and for a terrible reason, she has no other creature to keep constant to
+her but me. She&mdash;only two years ago&mdash;such a darling and such a pride
+in her father&rsquo;s house! Why, sir, there is a mystery that might happen in
+connection with her any moment; and then you would go away like all the rest;
+and, when you next heard her name, you would loathe her. Others, who have loved
+her longer, have done so before now. My poor child! whom neither God nor man
+has mercy upon&mdash;or, surely, she would die!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The good woman was stopped by her crying. I confess, I was a little stunned by
+her last words; but only for a moment. At any rate, till I knew definitely what
+was this mysterious stain upon one so simple and pure, as Lucy seemed, I would
+not desert her, and so I said; and she made me answer:&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir, after
+knowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but I am so foolish
+and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain hope to find a friend in
+you. I cannot help trusting that, although you may no longer feel toward her as
+a lover, you will have pity upon us; and perhaps, by your learning you can tell
+us where to go for aid.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I implore you to tell me what this mystery is,&rdquo; I cried, almost
+maddened by this suspense.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I cannot,&rdquo; said she, solemnly. &ldquo;I am under a deep vow of
+secrecy. If you are to be told, it must be by her.&rdquo; She left the room,
+and I remained to ponder over this strange interview. I mechanically turned
+over the few books, and with eyes that saw nothing at the time, examined the
+tokens of Lucy&rsquo;s frequent presence in that room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I got home at night, I remembered how all these trifles spoke of a pure
+and tender heart and innocent life. Mistress Clarke returned; she had been
+crying sadly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;it is as I feared: she loves you so much
+that she is willing to run the fearful risk of telling you all
+herself&mdash;she acknowledges 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
+you hope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of fear or repugnance
+you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I half smiled. &ldquo;Have no fear,&rdquo; I said. It seemed too absurd to
+imagine my feeling dislike to Lucy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Her father loved her well,&rdquo; said she, gravely, &ldquo;yet he drove
+her out like some monstrous thing.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden. It was
+Lucy&rsquo;s voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one side of the
+open casement&mdash;and as though she were suddenly stirred to
+merriment&mdash;merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings or sayings
+of some other person. I can scarcely say why, but the sound jarred on me
+inexpressibly. She knew the subject of our conversation, and must have been at
+least aware of the state of agitation her friend was in; she herself usually so
+gentle and quiet. I half rose to go to the window, and satisfy my instinctive
+curiosity as to what had provoked this burst of, ill-timed laughter; but Mrs.
+Clarke threw her whole weight and power upon the hand with which she pressed
+and kept me down.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;For God&rsquo;s sake!&rdquo; she said, white and trembling all over,
+&ldquo;sit still; be quiet. Oh! be patient. To-morrow you will know all. Leave
+us, for we are all sorely afflicted. Do not seek to know more about us.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again that laugh&mdash;so musical in sound, yet so discordant to my heart. She
+held me tight&mdash;tighter; without positive violence I could not have risen.
+I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a shadow pass between the
+sun&rsquo;s warmth and me, and a strange shudder ran through my frame. In a
+minute or two she released me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Go,&rdquo; repeated she. &ldquo;Be warned, I ask you once more. I do not
+think you can stand this knowledge that you seek. If I had had my own way, Lucy
+should never have yielded, and promised to tell you all. Who knows what may
+come of it?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am firm in my wish to know all. I return at ten to-morrow morning, and
+then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to Mistress
+Clarke&rsquo;s sanity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable thoughts
+connected with that strange laughter, filled my mind. I could hardly sleep. I
+rose early; and long before the hour I had appointed, I was on the path over
+the common that led to the old farm-house where they lodged. I suppose that
+Lucy had passed no better a night than I; for there she was also, slowly pacing
+with her even step, her eyes bent down, her whole look most saintly and pure.
+She started when I came close to her, and grew paler as I reminded her of my
+appointment, and spoke with something of the impatience of obstacles that,
+seeing her once more, had called up afresh in my mind. All strange and terrible
+hints, and giddy merriment were forgotten. My heart gave forth words of fire,
+and my tongue uttered them. Her colour went and came, as she listened; but,
+when I had ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me, and
+said&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But you know that you have something to learn about me yet. I only want
+to say this: I shall not think less of you&mdash;less well of you, I
+mean&mdash;if you, too, fall away from me when you know all. Stop!&rdquo; said
+she, as if fearing another burst of mad words. &ldquo;Listen to me. My father
+is a man of great wealth. I never knew my mother; she must have died when I was
+very young. When first I remember anything, I was living in a great, lonely
+house, with my dear and faithful Mistress Clarke. My father, even, was not
+there; he was&mdash;he is&mdash;a soldier, and his duties lie aboard. But he
+came from time to time, and every time I think he loved 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 his absences. I can sit down and measure the depth of
+his lost love now, by such 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 he
+was an angry man at times, even then; but never with me. He was very reckless,
+too; and, once or twice, I heard a whisper among the servants that a doom was
+over him, and that he knew it, and tried to drown his knowledge in wild
+activity, and even sometimes, sir, in wine. So I grew up in this grand mansion,
+in that lonely place. Everything around me seemed at my disposal, and I think
+every one loved me; I am sure I loved them. Till about two years ago&mdash;I
+remember it well&mdash;my father had come to England, to us; and he seemed so
+proud and so pleased with me and all I had done. And one day his tongue seemed
+loosened with wine, and he told me much that I had not known till
+then,&mdash;how dearly he had loved my mother, yet how his wilful usage had
+caused her death; and then he went on to say how he loved me better than any
+creature on earth, and how, some day, he hoped to take me to foreign places,
+for that he could hardly bear these long absences from his only child. Then he
+seemed to change suddenly, and said, in a strange, wild way, that I was not to
+believe what he said; that there was many a thing he loved better&mdash;his
+horse&mdash;his dog&mdash;I know not what.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And &rsquo;twas only the next morning that, when I came into his room to
+ask his blessing as was my wont, he received me with fierce and angry words.
+&lsquo;Why had I,&rsquo; so he asked, &lsquo;been delighting myself in such
+wanton mischief&mdash;dancing over the tender plants in the flower-beds, all
+set with the famous Dutch bulbs he had brought from Holland?&rsquo; I had never
+been out of doors that morning, sir, and I could not conceive what he meant,
+and so I said; and then he swore at me for a liar, and said I was of no true
+blood, for he had seen me doing all that mischief himself&mdash;with his own
+eyes. What could I say? He would not listen to me, and even my tears seemed
+only to irritate him. That day was the beginning of my great sorrows. Not long
+after, he reproached me for my undue familiarity&mdash;all unbecoming a
+gentlewoman&mdash;with his grooms. I had been in the stable-yard, laughing and
+talking, he said. Now, sir, I am something of a coward by nature, and I had
+always dreaded horses; be-sides that, my father&rsquo;s servants&mdash;those
+whom he brought with him from foreign parts&mdash;were wild fellows, whom I had
+always avoided, and to whom I had never spoken, except as a lady must needs
+from time to time speak to her father&rsquo;s people. Yet my father called me
+by names of which I hardly know the meaning, but my heart told me they were
+such as shame any modest woman; and from that day he turned quite against
+me;&mdash;nay, sir, not many weeks after that, he came in with a riding-whip in
+his hand; and, accusing me harshly of evil doings, of which I knew no more than
+you, sir, he was about to strike me, and I, all in bewildering tears, was ready
+to take his stripes as great kindness compared to his harder words, when
+suddenly he stopped his arm mid-way, gasped and staggered, crying out,
+&lsquo;The curse&mdash;the curse!&rsquo; I looked up in terror. In the great
+mirror opposite I saw myself, and right behind, another wicked, fearful self,
+so like me that my soul seemed to quiver within me, as though not knowing to
+which similitude of body it belonged. My father saw my double at the same
+moment, either in its dreadful reality, whatever that might be, or in the
+scarcely less terrible reflection in the mirror; but what came of it at that
+moment I cannot say, for I suddenly swooned away; and when I came to myself I
+was lying in my bed, and my faithful Clarke sitting by me. I was in my bed for
+days; and even while I lay there my double was seen by all, flitting about the
+house and gardens, always about some mischievous or detestable work. What
+wonder that every one shrank from me in dread&mdash;that my father drove me
+forth at length, when the disgrace of which I was the cause was past his
+patience to bear. Mistress Clarke came with me; and here we try to live such a
+life of piety and prayer as may in time set me free from the curse.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All the time she had been speaking, I had been weighing her story in my mind. I
+had hitherto put cases of witchcraft on one side, as mere superstitions; and my
+uncle and I had had many an argument, he supporting himself by the opinion of
+his good friend Sir Matthew Hale. Yet this sounded like the tale of one
+bewitched; or was it merely the effect of a life of extreme seclusion telling
+on the nerves of a sensitive girl? My scepticism inclined me to the latter
+belief, and when she paused I said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I fancy that some physician could have disabused your father of his
+belief in visions&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Just at that instant, standing as I was opposite to her in the full and perfect
+morning light, I saw behind her another figure&mdash;a ghastly resemblance,
+complete in likeness, so far as form and feature and minutest touch of dress
+could go, but with a loathsome demon soul looking out of the gray eyes, that
+were in turns mocking and voluptuous. My heart stood still within me; every
+hair rose up erect; my flesh crept with horror. I could not see the grave and
+tender Lucy&mdash;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; then my sight came
+back, and I saw Lucy standing before me, alone, deathly pale, and, I could have
+fancied, almost, shrunk in size.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I<small>T</small> has been near me?&rdquo; she said, as if asking a
+question.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The sound seemed taken out of her voice; it was husky as the notes on an old
+harpsichord when the strings have ceased to vibrate. She read her answer in my
+face, I suppose, for I could not speak. Her look was one of intense 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: she saw the purple moors, the blue
+distant hills, quivering in the sunlight, but nothing else.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Will you take me home?&rdquo; she said, meekly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I took her by the hand, and led her silently through the budding
+heather&mdash;we dared not speak; for we could not tell but that the dread
+creature was listening, although unseen,&mdash;but that <small>IT</small> might
+appear and push us asunder. I never loved her more fondly than now
+when&mdash;and that was the unspeakable misery&mdash;the idea of her was
+becoming so inextricably blended with the shuddering thought of
+<small>IT</small>. She seemed to understand what I must be feeling. She let go
+my hand, which she had kept clasped until then, when we reached the garden
+gate, and went forwards to meet her anxious friend, who was standing by the
+window looking for her. I could not enter the house: I needed silence, society,
+leisure, change&mdash;I knew not what&mdash;to shake off the sensation of that
+creature&rsquo;s presence. Yet I lingered about the garden&mdash;I hardly know
+why; I partly suppose, because I feared to encounter the resemblance again on
+the solitary common, where it had vanished, and partly from a feeling of
+inexpressible compassion for Lucy. In a few minutes Mistress Clarke came forth
+and joined me. We walked some paces in silence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You know all now,&rdquo; said she, solemnly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I saw <small>IT</small>,&rdquo; said I, below my breath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And you shrink from us, now,&rdquo; she said, with a hopelessness which
+stirred up all that was brave or good in me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not a whit,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Human flesh shrinks from encounter
+with the powers of darkness: and, for some reason unknown to me, the pure and
+holy Lucy is their victim.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children,&rdquo; she
+said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Who is her father?&rdquo; asked I. &ldquo;Knowing as much as I do, I may
+surely know more&mdash;know all. Tell me, I entreat you, madam, all that you
+can conjecture respecting this demoniac persecution of one so good.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will; but not now. I must go to Lucy now. Come this afternoon, I will
+see you alone; and oh, sir! I will trust that you may yet find some way to help
+us in our sore trouble!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was miserably exhausted by the swooning affright which had taken possession
+of me. When I reached the inn, I staggered in like one overcome by wine. I went
+to my own private room. It was some time before 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, It was from Sir Philip Tempest: my letter of inquiry
+respecting Mary Fitzgerald had reached him at Li&eacute;ge, where it so
+happened that the Count de la Tour d&rsquo;Auvergne was quartered at the very
+time. He remembered his wife&rsquo;s beautiful attendant; she had had high
+words with the deceased countess, respecting her intercourse with an English
+gentleman of good standing, who was also in the foreign service. The countess
+augured evil of his intentions; while Mary, proud and vehement, asserted that
+he would soon marry her, and resented her mistress&rsquo;s warnings as an
+insult. The consequence was, that she had left Madame de la Tour
+d&rsquo;Auvergne&rsquo;s service, and, as the Count believed, had gone to live
+with the Englishman; whether he had married her, or not, he could not say.
+&ldquo;But,&rdquo; added Sir Philip Tempest, &ldquo;you may easily hear what
+particulars you wish to know respecting Mary Fitzgerald from the Englishman
+himself, if, as I suspect, he is no other than my neighbour and former
+acquaintance, Mr. Gisborne, of Skipford Hall, in the West Riding. I am led to
+the belief that he is no other, by several small particulars, none of which are
+in themselves conclusive, but which, taken together, furnish a mass of
+presumptive evidence. As far as I could make out from the Count&rsquo;s foreign
+pronunciation, Gisborne was the name of the Englishman: I know that Gisborne of
+Skipford was abroad and in the foreign service at that time&mdash;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 old Bridget Fitzgerald, of
+Coldholme, whom he once encountered while staying with me at Starkey
+Manor-house. I remember that the meeting seemed to have produced some
+extraordinary effect upon his mind, as though he had suddenly discovered some
+connection which she might have had with his previous life. I beg you to let me
+know if I can be of any further service to you. Your uncle once rendered me a
+good turn, and I will gladly repay it, so far as in me lies, to his
+nephew.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was now apparently close on the discovery which I had striven so many months
+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 passed that very day. Nothing
+was real but the unreal presence, which had come like an evil blast across my
+bodily eyes, and burnt itself down upon my brain. Dinner came, and went away
+untouched. Early in the afternoon I walked to the farm-house. I found Mistress
+Clarke alone, and I was glad and relieved. She was evidently prepared to tell
+me all I might wish to hear.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You asked me for Mistress Lucy&rsquo;s true name; it is Gisborne,&rdquo;
+she began.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not Gisborne of Skipford?&rdquo; I exclaimed, breathless with
+anticipation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The same,&rdquo; said she, quietly, not regarding my manner. &ldquo;Her
+father is a man of note; although, being a Roman Catholic, he cannot take that
+rank in this country to which his station entitles him. The consequence is that
+he lives much abroad&mdash;has been a soldier, I am told.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And Lucy&rsquo;s mother?&rdquo; I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She shook her head. &ldquo;I never knew her,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Lucy was
+about three years old when I was engaged to take charge of her. Her mother was
+dead.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But you know her name?&mdash;you can tell if it was Mary
+Fitzgerald?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked astonished. &ldquo;That was her name. But, sir, how came you to be
+so well acquainted with it? It was a mystery to the whole household at Skipford
+Court. She was some beautiful young woman whom he lured away from her
+protectors while he was abroad. I have heard said he practised some terrible
+deceit upon her, and when she came to know it, she was neither to have nor to
+hold, but rushed off from his very arms, and threw herself into a rapid stream
+and was drowned. It stung him deep with remorse, but I used to think the
+remembrance of the mother&rsquo;s cruel death made him love the child yet
+dearer.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I told her, as briefly as might be, of my researches after the descendant and
+heir of the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added&mdash;something of my old lawyer
+spirit returning into me for the moment&mdash;that I had no doubt but that we
+should prove Lucy to be by right possessed of large estates in Ireland.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+No flush came over her gray face; no light into her eyes. &ldquo;And what is
+all the wealth in the whole world to that poor girl?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It
+will not free her from the ghastly bewitchment which persecutes her. As for
+money, what a pitiful thing it is! it cannot touch her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No more can the Evil Creature harm her,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Her holy
+nature dwells apart, and cannot be defiled or stained by all the devilish arts
+in the whole world.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;True! but it is a cruel fate to know that all shrink from her, sooner or
+later, as from one possessed&mdash;accursed.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How came it to pass?&rdquo; I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nay, I know not. Old rumours there are, that were bruited through the
+household at Skipford.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; I demanded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They came from servants, who would fain account for every thing. They
+say that, many years ago, Mr. Gisborne killed a dog belonging to an old witch
+at Coldholme; that she cursed, with a dreadful and mysterious curse, the
+creature, whatever it might be, that he should love best; and that it struck so
+deeply into his heart that for years he kept himself aloof from any temptation
+to love aught. But who could help loving Lucy?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You never heard the witch&rsquo;s name?&rdquo; I gasped.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes&mdash;they called her Bridget: they said he would never go near the
+spot again for terror of her. Yet he was a brave man!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; said I, taking hold of her arm, the better to arrest her
+full attention: &ldquo;if what I suspect holds true, that man stole
+Bridget&rsquo;s only child&mdash;the very Mary Fitzgerald who was Lucy&rsquo;s
+mother; if so, Bridget cursed him in ignorance of the deeper wrong he had done
+her. To this hour she yearns after her lost child, and questions the saints
+whether she be living or not. The roots of that curse lie deeper than she
+knows: she unwittingly banned him for a deeper guilt than that of killing a
+dumb beast. The sins of the fathers are indeed visited upon the
+children.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But,&rdquo; said Mistress Clarke, eagerly, &ldquo;she would never let
+evil rest on her own grandchild? Surely, sir, if what you say be true, there
+are hopes for Lucy. Let us go&mdash;go at once, and tell this fearful woman all
+that you suspect, and beseech her to take off the spell she has put upon her
+innocent grandchild.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It seemed to me, indeed, that something like this was the best course we could
+pursue. But first it was necessary to ascertain more than what mere rumour or
+careless hearsay could tell. My thoughts turned to my uncle&mdash;he could
+advise me wisely&mdash;he ought to know all. I resolved to go to him without
+delay; but I did not choose to tell Mistress Clarke of all the visionary plans
+that flitted through my mind. I simply declared my intention of proceeding
+straight to London on Lucy&rsquo;s affairs. I bade her believe that my interest
+on the young lady&rsquo;s behalf was greater than ever, and that my whole time
+should be given up to her cause. I saw that Mistress Clarke distrusted me,
+because my mind was too full of thoughts for my words to flow freely. She
+sighed and shook her head, and said, &ldquo;Well, it is all right!&rdquo; in
+such a tone that it was an implied reproach. But I was firm and constant in my
+heart, and I took confidence from that.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I rode to London. I rode long days drawn out into the lovely summer nights: I
+could not rest. I reached London. I told my uncle all, though in the stir of
+the great city the horror had faded away, and I could hardly imagine that he
+would believe the account I gave him of the fearful double of Lucy which I had
+seen on the lonely moor-side. But my uncle had lived many years, and learnt
+many things; and, in the deep secrets of family history that had been confided
+to him, he had heard of cases of innocent people bewitched and taken possession
+of by evil spirits yet more fearful than Lucy&rsquo;s. For, as he said, to
+judge from all I told him, that resemblance had no power over her&mdash;she was
+too pure and good to be tainted by its evil, haunting presence. It had, in all
+probability, so my uncle conceived, tried to suggest wicked thoughts and to
+tempt to wicked actions but she, in her saintly maidenhood, had passed on
+undefiled by evil thought or deed. It could not touch her soul: but true, it
+set her apart from all sweet love or common human intercourse. My uncle threw
+himself with an energy more like six-and-twenty than sixty into the
+consideration of the whole case. He undertook the proving Lucy&rsquo;s descent,
+and volunteered to go and find out Mr. Gisborne, and obtain, firstly, the legal
+proofs of her descent from the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and, secondly, to try
+and hear all that he could respecting the working of the curse, and whether any
+and what means had been taken to exorcise that terrible appearance. For he told
+me of instances where, by prayers and long fasting, the evil possessor had been
+driven forth with howling and many cries from the body which it had come to
+inhabit; he spoke of those strange New England cases which had happened not so
+long before; of Mr. Defoe, who had written a book, wherein he had named many
+modes of subduing apparitions, and sending them back whence they came; and,
+lastly, he spoke low of dreadful ways of compelling witches to undo their
+witchcraft. But I could not endure to hear of those tortures and burnings. I
+said that Bridget was rather a wild and savage woman than a malignant witch;
+and, above all, that Lucy was of her kith and kin; and that, in putting her to
+the trial, by water or by fire, we should be torturing&mdash;it might be to the
+death&mdash;the ancestress of her we sought to redeem.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My uncle thought awhile, and then said, that in this last matter I was
+right&mdash;at any rate, it should not be tried, with his consent, till all
+other modes of remedy had failed; and he assented to my proposal that I should
+go myself and see Bridget, and tell her all.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In accordance with this, I went down once more to the wayside inn near
+Coldholme. It was late at night when I arrived there; and, while I supped, I
+inquired of the landlord more particulars as to Bridget&rsquo;s ways. Solitary
+and savage had been her life for many years. Wild and despotic were her words
+and manner to those few people who came across her path. The country-folk did
+her imperious bidding, because they feared to disobey. If they pleased her,
+they prospered; if, on the contrary, they neglected or traversed her behests,
+misfortune, small or great, fell on them and theirs. It was not detestation so
+much as an indefinable terror that she excited.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the morning I went to see her. She was standing on the green outside her
+cottage, and received me with the sullen grandeur of a throneless queen. I read
+in her face that she recognized me, and that I was not unwelcome; but she stood
+silent till I had opened my errand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have news of your daughter,&rdquo; said I, resolved to speak straight
+to all that I knew she felt of love, and not to spare her. &ldquo;She is
+dead!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The stern figure scarcely trembled, but her hand sought the support of the
+door-post.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I knew that she was dead,&rdquo; said she, deep and low, and then was
+silent for an instant. &ldquo;My tears that should have flowed for her were
+burnt up long years ago. Young man, tell me about her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not yet,&rdquo; said I, having a strange power given me of confronting
+one, whom, nevertheless, in my secret soul I dreaded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You had once a little dog,&rdquo; I continued. The words called out in
+her more show of emotion than the intelligence of her daughter&rsquo;s death.
+She broke in upon my speech:&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I had! It was hers&mdash;the last thing I had of hers&mdash;and it was
+shot for wantonness! It died in my arms. The man who killed that dog rues it to
+this day. For that dumb beast&rsquo;s blood, his best-beloved stands
+accursed.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her eyes distended, as if she were in a trance and saw the working of her
+curse. Again I spoke:&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;O, woman!&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;that best-beloved, standing accursed
+before men, is your dead daughter&rsquo;s child.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The life, the energy, the passion, came back to the eyes with which she pierced
+through me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without another question or word,
+she threw herself on the ground with fearful vehemence, and clutched at the
+innocent daisies with convulsed hands.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bone of my bone! flesh of my flesh! have I cursed thee&mdash;and art
+thou accursed?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So she moaned, as she lay prostrate in her great agony. I stood aghast at my
+own work. She did not hear my broken sentences; she asked no more, but the dumb
+confirmation which my sad looks had given that one fact, that her curse rested
+on her own daughter&rsquo;s child. The fear grew on me lest she should die in
+her strife of body and soul; and then might not Lucy remain under the spell as
+long as she lived?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming through the woodland path that led to
+Bridget&rsquo;s cottage; Mistress Clarke was with her: I felt at my heart that
+it was she, by the balmy peace which the look of her sent over me, as she
+slowly advanced, a glad surprise shining out of her soft quiet eyes. That was
+as her gaze met mine. As her looks fell on the woman lying stiff, convulsed on
+the earth, they became full of tender pity; and she came forward to try and
+lift her up. Seating herself on the turf, she took Bridget&rsquo;s head into
+her lap; and, with gentle touches, she arranged the dishevelled gray hair
+streaming thick and wild from beneath her mutch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;God help her!&rdquo; murmured Lucy. &ldquo;How she suffers!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At her desire we sought for water; but when we returned, Bridget had recovered
+her wandering senses, and was kneeling with clasped hands before Lucy, gazing
+at that sweet sad face as though her troubled nature drank in health and peace
+from every moment&rsquo;s contemplation. A faint tinge on Lucy&rsquo;s pale
+cheeks showed me that she was aware of our return; otherwise it appeared as if
+she was conscious of her influence for good over the passionate and troubled
+woman kneeling before her, and would not willingly avert her grave and loving
+eyes from that wrinkled and careworn countenance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly&mdash;in the twinkling of an eye&mdash;the creature appeared, there,
+behind Lucy; fearfully the same as to outward semblance, but kneeling exactly
+as Bridget knelt, and clasping her hands in jesting mimicry as Bridget clasped
+hers in her ecstasy that was deepening into a prayer. Mistress Clarke cried
+out&mdash;Bridget arose slowly, her gaze fixed on the creature beyond: drawing
+her breath with a hissing sound, never moving her terrible eyes, that were
+steady as stone, she made a dart at the phantom, and caught, as I had done, a
+mere handful of empty air. We saw no more of the creature&mdash;it vanished as
+suddenly as it came, but Bridget looked slowly on, as if watching some receding
+form. Lucy sat still, white, trembling, drooping&mdash;I think she would have
+swooned if I had not been there to uphold her. While I was attending to her,
+Bridget passed us, without a word to any one, and, entering her cottage, she
+barred herself in, and left us without.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All our endeavours were now directed to get Lucy back to the house where she
+had tarried the night before. Mistress Clarke told me that, not hearing from me
+(some letter must have miscarried), she had grown impatient and despairing, and
+had urged Lucy to the enterprise of coming to seek her grandmother; not telling
+her, indeed, of the dread reputation she possessed, or how we suspected her of
+having so fearfully blighted that innocent girl; but, at the same time, hoping
+much from the mysterious stirring of blood, which Mistress Clarke trusted in
+for the removal of the curse. They had come, by a different route from that
+which I had taken, to a village inn not far from Coldholme, only the night
+before. This was the first interview between ancestress and descendant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All through the sultry noon I wandered along the tangled brush-wood of the old
+neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a matter so complicated
+and mysterious. Meeting a countryman, I asked my way to the nearest clergyman,
+and went, hoping to obtain some counsel from him. But he proved to be a coarse
+and common-minded man, giving no time or attention to the intricacies of a
+case, but dashing out a strong opinion involving immediate action. For
+instance, as soon as I named Bridget Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist! I&rsquo;d have had her ducked
+long since but for that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest. He has had to
+threaten honest folk about here over and over again, or they&rsquo;d have had
+her up before the justices for her black doings. And it&rsquo;s the law of the
+land that witches should be burnt! Ay, and of Scripture, too, sir! Yet you see
+a papist, if he&rsquo;s a rich squire, can overrule both law and Scripture.
+I&rsquo;d carry a faggot myself to rid the country of her!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Such a one could give me no help. I rather drew back what I had already said;
+and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him to several pots of
+beer, in the village inn, to which we had adjourned for our conference at his
+suggestion. I left him as soon as I could, and returned to Coldholme, shaping
+my way past deserted Starkey Manor-house, and coming upon it by the back. At
+that side were the oblong remains of the old moat, the waters of which lay
+placid and motionless under the crimson rays of the setting sun; with the
+forest-trees lying straight along each side, and their deep-green foliage
+mirrored to blackness in the burnished surface of the moat below&mdash;and the
+broken sun-dial at the end nearest the hall&mdash;and the heron, standing on
+one leg at the water&rsquo;s edge, lazily looking down for fish&mdash;the
+lonely and desolate house scarce needed the broken windows, the weeds on the
+door-sill, the broken shutter softly flapping to and fro in the twilight
+breeze, to fill up the picture of desertion and decay. I lingered about the
+place until the growing darkness warned me on. And then I passed along the
+path, cut by the orders of the last lady of Starkey Manor-House, that led me to
+Bridget&rsquo;s cottage. I resolved at once to see her; and, in spite of closed
+doors&mdash;it might be of resolved will&mdash;she should see me. So I knocked
+at her door, gently, loudly, fiercely. I shook it so vehemently that a length
+the old hinges gave way, and with a crash it fell inwards, leaving me suddenly
+face to face with Bridget&mdash;I, red, heated, agitated with my so long
+baffled efforts&mdash;she, stiff as any stone, standing right facing me, her
+eyes dilated with terror, her ashen lips trembling, but her body motionless. In
+her hands she held her crucifix, as if by that holy symbol she sought to oppose
+my entrance. At sight of me, her whole frame relaxed, and she sank back upon a
+chair. Some mighty tension had given way. Still her eyes looked fearfully into
+the gloom of the outer air, made more opaque by the glimmer of the lamp inside,
+which she had placed before the picture of the Virgin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Is she there?&rdquo; asked Bridget, hoarsely.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No! Who? I am alone. You remember me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied she, still terror stricken. &ldquo;But
+she&mdash;that creature&mdash;has been looking in upon me through that window
+all day long. I closed it up with my shawl; and then I saw her feet below the
+door, as long as it was light, and I knew she heard my very
+breathing&mdash;nay, worse, my very prayers; and I could not pray, for her
+listening choked the words ere they rose to my lips. Tell me, who is
+she?&mdash;what means that double girl I saw this morning? One had a look of my
+dead Mary; but the other curdled my blood, and yet it was the same!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She had taken hold of my arm, as if to secure herself some human companionship.
+She shook all over with the slight, never-ceasing tremor of intense terror. I
+told her my tale as I have told it you, sparing none of the details.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had driven Lucy forth
+from her father&rsquo;s house&mdash;how I had disbelieved, until, with mine own
+eyes, I had seen another Lucy standing behind my Lucy, the same in form and
+feature, but with the demon-soul looking out of the eyes. I told her all, I
+say, believing that she&mdash;whose curse was working so upon the life of her
+innocent grandchild&mdash;was the only person who could find the remedy and the
+redemption. When I had done, she sat silent for many minutes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You love Mary&rsquo;s child?&rdquo; she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I do, in spite of the fearful working of the curse&mdash;I love her. Yet
+I shrink from her ever since that day on the moor-side. And men must shrink
+from one so accompanied; friends and lovers must stand afar off. Oh, Bridget
+Fitzgerald! loosen the curse! Set her free!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Where is she?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I eagerly caught at the idea that her presence was needed, in order that, by
+some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be reversed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will go and bring her to you,&rdquo; I exclaimed. Bridget tightened
+her hold upon my arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not so,&rdquo; said she, in a low, hoarse voice. &ldquo;It would kill me
+to see her again as I saw her this morning. And I must live till I have worked
+my work. Leave me!&rdquo; said she, suddenly, and again taking up the cross.
+&ldquo;I defy the demon I have called up. Leave me to wrestle with it!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She stood up, as if in an ecstasy of inspiration, from which all fear was
+banished. I lingered&mdash;why I can hardly tell&mdash;until once more she bade
+me begone. As I went along the forest way, I looked back, and saw her planting
+the cross in the empty threshold, where the door had been.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The next morning Lucy and I went to seek her, to bid her join her prayers with
+ours. The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze. No human being was there:
+the cross remained on the threshold, but Bridget was gone.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2>
+
+<p>
+What was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself. As for Lucy,
+she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon her. Her gentleness and
+piety, under the pressure of so horrible a life, seemed over-passive to me. She
+never complained. Mrs. Clarke complained more than ever. As for me, I was more
+in love with the real Lucy than ever; but I shrunk from the false similitude
+with an intensity proportioned to my love. I found out by instinct that Mrs.
+Clarke had occasional temptations to leave Lucy. The good lady&rsquo;s nerves
+were shaken, and, from what she said, I could almost have concluded that the
+object of the Double was to drive away from Lucy this last, and almost earliest
+friend. At times, I could scarcely bear to own it, but I myself felt inclined
+to turn recreant; and I would accuse Lucy of being too patient&mdash;too
+resigned. One after another, she won the little children of Coldholme. (Mrs.
+Clarke and she had resolved to stay there, for was it not as good a place as
+any other, to such as they? and did not all our faint hopes rest on
+Bridget&mdash;never seen or heard of now, but still we trusted to come back, or
+give some token?) So, as I say, one after another, the little children came
+about my Lucy, won by her soft tones, and her gentle smiles, and kind actions.
+Alas! one after another they fell away, and shrunk from her path with blanching
+terror; and we too surely guessed the reason why. It was the last drop. I could
+bear it no longer. I resolved no more to linger around the spot, but to go back
+to my uncle, and among the learned divines of the city of London, seek for some
+power whereby to annul the curse.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite testimonials relating to
+Lucy&rsquo;s descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and from Mr. Gisborne.
+The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he was again serving in the
+Austrian army), a letter alternately passionately self-reproachful and
+stoically repellant. It was evident that when he thought of Mary&mdash;her
+short life&mdash;how he had wronged her, and of her violent death, he could
+hardly find words severe enough for his own conduct; and from this point of
+view, the curse that Bridget had laid upon him and his, was regarded by him as
+a prophetic doom, to the utterance of which she was moved by a Higher Power,
+working for the fulfilment of a deeper vengeance than for the death of the poor
+dog. But then, again, when he came to speak of his daughter, the repugnance
+which the conduct of the demoniac creature had produced in his mind, was but
+ill-disguised under a show of profound indifference as to Lucy&rsquo;s fate.
+One almost felt as if he would have been as content to put her out of
+existence, as he would have been to destroy some disgusting reptile that had
+invaded his chamber or his couch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy&rsquo;s; and that was all&mdash;was
+nothing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My uncle and I sat in the gloom of a London November evening, in our house in
+Ormond Street. I was out of health, and felt as if I were in an inextricable
+coil of misery. Lucy and I wrote to each other, but that was little; and we
+dared not see each other for dread of the fearful Third, who had more than once
+taken her place at our meetings. My uncle had, on the day I speak of, bidden
+prayers to be put up on the ensuing Sabbath in many a church and meeting-house
+in London, for one grievously tormented by an evil spirit. He had faith in
+prayers&mdash;I had none; I was fast losing faith in all things. So we sat, he
+trying to interest me in the old talk of other days, I oppressed by one
+thought&mdash;when our old servant, Anthony, opened the door, and, without
+speaking, showed in a very gentlemanly and prepossessing man, who had something
+remarkable about his dress, betraying his profession to be that of the Roman
+Catholic priesthood. He glanced at my uncle first, then at me. It was to me he
+bowed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I did not give my name,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;because you would hardly
+have recognised it; unless, sir, when, in the north, you heard of Father
+Bernard, the chaplain at Stoney Hurst?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I had utterly
+forgotten it; so I professed myself a complete stranger to him; while my
+ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as much as it was in his nature
+to hate anything, placed a chair for the visitor, and bade Anthony bring
+glasses, and a fresh jug of claret.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful ease and pleasant
+acknowledgement which belongs to a man of the world. Then he turned to scan me
+with his keen glance. After some alight conversation, entered into on his part,
+I am certain, with an intention of discovering on what terms of confidence I
+stood with my uncle, he paused, and said gravely&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am sent here with a message to you, sir, from a woman to whom you have
+shown kindness, and who is one of my penitents, in Antwerp&mdash;one Bridget
+Fitzgerald.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bridget Fitzgerald!&rdquo; exclaimed I. &ldquo;In Antwerp? Tell me, sir,
+all that you can about her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There is much to be said,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;But may I inquire if
+this gentleman&mdash;if your uncle is acquainted with the particulars of which
+you and I stand informed?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All that I know, he knows,&rdquo; said I, eagerly laying my hand on my
+uncle&rsquo;s arm, as he made a motion as if to quit the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then I have to speak before two gentlemen who, however they may differ
+from me in faith, are yet fully impressed with the fact that there are evil
+powers going about continually to take cognizance of our evil thoughts: and, if
+their Master gives them power, to bring them into overt action. Such is my
+theory of the nature of that sin, which I dare not disbelieve&mdash;as some
+sceptics would have us do&mdash;the sin of witchcraft. Of this deadly sin, you
+and I are aware, Bridget Fitzgerald has been guilty. Since you saw her last,
+many prayers have been offered in our churches, many masses sung, many penances
+undergone, in order that, if God and the holy saints so willed it, her sin
+might be blotted out. But it has not been so willed.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Explain to me,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;who you are, and how you come
+connected with Bridget. Why is she at Antwerp? I pray you, sir, tell me more.
+If I am impatient, excuse me; I am ill and feverish, and in consequence
+bewildered.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was something to me inexpressibly soothing in the tone of voice with
+which he began to narrate, as it were from the beginning, his acquaintance with
+Bridget.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I had known Mr. and Mrs. Starkey during their residence abroad, and so
+it fell out naturally that, when I came as chaplain to the Sherburnes at Stoney
+Hurst, our acquaintance was renewed; and thus I became the confessor of the
+whole family, isolated as they were from the offices of the Church, Sherburne
+being their nearest neighbour who professed the true faith. Of course, you are
+aware that facts revealed in confession are sealed as in the grave; but I
+learnt enough of Bridget&rsquo;s character to be convinced that I had to do
+with no common woman; one powerful for good as for evil. I believe that I was
+able to give her spiritual assistance from time to time, and that she looked
+upon me as a servant of that Holy Church, which has such wonderful power of
+moving men&rsquo;s hearts, and relieving them of the burden of their sins. I
+have known her cross the moors on the wildest nights of storm, to confess and
+be absolved; and then she would return, calmed and subdued, to her daily work
+about her mistress, no one witting where she had been during the hours that
+most passed in sleep upon their beds. After her daughter&rsquo;s
+departure&mdash;after Mary&rsquo;s mysterious disappearance&mdash;I had to
+impose many a long penance, in order to wash away the sin of impatient repining
+that was fast leading her into the deeper guilt of blasphemy. She set out on
+that long journey of which you have possibly heard&mdash;that fruitless journey
+in search of Mary&mdash;and during her absence, my superiors ordered my return
+to my former duties at Antwerp, and for many years I heard no more of Bridget.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not many months ago, as I was passing homewards in the evening, along
+one of the streets near St. Jacques, leading into the Meer Straet, I saw a
+woman sitting crouched up under the shrine of the Holy Mother of Sorrows. Her
+hood was drawn over her head, so that the shadow caused by the light of the
+lamp above fell deep over her face; her hands were clasped round her knees. It
+was evident that she was some one in hopeless trouble, and as such it was my
+duty to stop and speak. I naturally addressed her first in Flemish, believing
+her to be one of the lower class of inhabitants. She shook her head, but did
+not look up. Then I tried French, and she replied in that language, but
+speaking it so indifferently, that I was sure she was either English or Irish,
+and consequently spoke to her in my own native tongue. She recognized my voice;
+and, starting up, caught at my robes, dragging me before the blessed shrine,
+and throwing herself down, and forcing me, as much by her evident desire as by
+her action, to kneel beside her, she exclaimed:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;O Holy Virgin! you will never hearken to me again, but hear him;
+for you know him of old, that he does your bidding, and strives to heal broken
+hearts. Hear him!&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She turned to me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;She will hear you, if you will only pray. She never hears
+<i>me</i>: she and all the saints in heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the
+Evil One carries them off, as he carried that first away. O, Father Bernard,
+pray for me!&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I prayed for one in sore distress, of what nature I could not say; but
+the Holy Virgin would know. Bridget held me fast, gasping with eagerness at the
+sound of my words. When I had ended, I rose, and, making the sign of the Cross
+over her, I was going to bless her in the name of the Holy Church, when she
+shrank away like some terrified creature, and said&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Arise, my daughter,&rsquo; said I, &lsquo;and come with
+me.&rsquo; And I led the way into one of the confessionals of St. Jaques.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She knelt; I listened. No words came. The evil powers had stricken her
+dumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when she approached
+confession.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She was too poor to pay for the necessary forms of exorcism; and
+hitherto those priests to whom she had addressed herself were either so
+ignorant of the meaning of her broken French, or her Irish-English, or else
+esteemed her to be one crazed&mdash;as, indeed, her wild and excited manner
+might easily have led any one to think&mdash;that they had neglected the sole
+means of loosening her tongue, so that she might confess her deadly sin, and,
+after due penance, obtain absolution. But I knew Bridget of old, and felt that
+she was a penitent sent to me. I went through those holy offices appointed by
+our Church for the relief of such a case. I was the more bound to do this, as I
+found that she had come to Antwerp for the sole purpose of discovering me, and
+making confession to me. Of the nature of that fearful confession I am
+forbidden to speak. Much of it you know; possibly all.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It now remains for her to free herself from mortal guilt, and to set
+others free from the consequences thereof. No prayers, no masses, will ever do
+it, although they may strengthen her with that strength by which alone acts of
+deepest love and purest self-devotion may be performed. Her words of passion,
+and cries for revenge&mdash;her unholy prayers could never reach the ears of
+the holy saints! Other powers intercepted them, and wrought so that the curses
+thrown up to heaven have fallen on her own flesh and blood; and so, through her
+very strength of love, have brused and crushed her heart. Henceforward her
+former self must be buried,&mdash;yea, buried quick, if need be,&mdash;but
+never more to make sign, or utter cry on earth! She has become a Poor Clare, in
+order that, by perpetual penance and constant service of others, she may at
+length so act as to obtain final absolution and rest for her soul. Until then,
+the innocent must suffer. It is to plead for the innocent that I come to you;
+not in the name of the witch, Bridget Fitzgerald, but of the penitent and
+servant of all men, the Poor Clare, Sister Magdalen.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I listen to your request with respect; only I
+may tell you it is not needed to urge me to do all that I can on behalf of one,
+love for whom is part of my very life. If for a time I have absented myself
+from her, it is to think and work for her redemption. I, a member of the
+English Church&mdash;my uncle, a Puritan&mdash;pray morning and night for her
+by name: the congregations of London, on the next Sabbath, will pray for one
+unknown, that she may be set free from the Powers of Darkness. Moreover, I must
+tell you, sir, that those evil ones touch not the great calm of her soul. She
+lives her own pure and loving life, unharmed and untainted, though all men fall
+off from her. I would I could have her faith!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My uncle now spoke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nephew,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;it seems to me that this gentleman,
+although professing what I consider an erroneous creed, has touched upon the
+right point in exhorting Bridget to acts of love and mercy, whereby to wipe out
+her sin of hate and vengeance. Let us strive after our fashion, by almsgiving
+and visiting of the needy and fatherless, to make our prayers acceptable.
+Meanwhile, I myself will go down into the north, and take charge of the maiden.
+I am too old to be daunted by man or demon. I will bring her to this house as
+to a home; and let the Double come if it will! A company of godly divines shall
+give it the meeting, and we will try issue.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The kindly, brave old man! But Father Bernard sat on musing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All hate,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;cannot be quenched in her heart; all
+Christian forgiveness cannot have entered into her soul, or the demon would
+have lost its power. You said, I think, that her grandchild was still
+tormented?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Still tormented!&rdquo; I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress
+Clarke&rsquo;s last letter.</p>
+<p>He rose to go. We afterwards heard that the
+occasion of his coming to London was a secret political mission on behalf of
+the Jacobites. Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Months and months passed away without any change. Lucy entreated my uncle to
+leave her where she was,&mdash;dreading, as I learnt, lest if she came, with
+her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me, that my love could
+not stand the repeated shocks to which I should be doomed. And this she thought
+from no distrust of the strength of my affection, but from a kind of pitying
+sympathy for the terror to the nerves which she clearly observed that the
+demoniac visitation caused in all.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was restless and miserable. I devoted myself to good works; but I performed
+them from no spirit of love, but solely from the hope of reward and payment,
+and so the reward was never granted. At length, I asked my uncle&rsquo;s leave
+to travel; and I went forth, a wanderer, with no distincter end than that of
+many another wanderer&mdash;to get away from myself. A strange impulse led me
+to Antwerp, in spite of the wars and commotions then raging in the Low
+Countries&mdash;or rather, perhaps, the very craving to become interested in
+something external, led me into the thick of the struggle then going on with
+the Austrians. The cities of Flanders were all full at that time of civil
+disturbances and rebellions, only kept down by force, and the presence of an
+Austrian garrison in every place.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry for Father Bernard. He was away in the
+country for a day or two. Then I asked my way to the Convent of Poor Clares;
+but, being healthy and prosperous, I could only see the dim, pent-up, gray
+walls, shut closely in by narrow streets, in the lowest part of the town. My
+landlord told me, that had I been stricken by some loathsome disease, or in
+desperate case of any kind, the Poor Clares would have taken me, and tended me.
+He spoke of them as an order of mercy of the strictest kind, dressing scantily
+in the coarsest materials, going barefoot, living on what the inhabitants of
+Antwerp chose to bestow, and sharing even those fragments and crumbs with the
+poor and helpless that swarmed all around; receiving no letters or
+communication with the outer world; utterly dead to everything but the
+alleviation of suffering. He smiled at my inquiring whether I could get speech
+of one of them; and told me that they were even forbidden to speak for the
+purposes of begging their daily food; while yet they lived, and fed others upon
+what was given in charity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But,&rdquo; exclaimed I, &ldquo;supposing all men forgot them! Would
+they quietly lie down and die, without making sign of their extremity?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If such were the rule the Poor Clares would willingly do it; but their
+founder appointed a remedy for such extreme cases as you suggest. They have a
+bell&mdash;&rsquo;tis but a small one, as I have heard, and has yet never been
+rung in the memory of man: when the Poor Clares have been without food for
+twenty-four hours, they may ring this bell, and then trust to our good people
+of Antwerp for rushing to the rescue of the Poor Clares, who have taken such
+blessed care of us in all our straits.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did not say
+what I thought. I rather turned the conversation, by asking my landlord if he
+knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain Sister Magdalen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said he, rather under his breath, &ldquo;news will creep
+out, even from a convent of Poor Clares. Sister Magdalen is either a great
+sinner or a great saint. She does more, as I have heard, than all the other
+nuns put together; yet, when last month they would fain have made her
+mother-superior, she begged rather that they would place her below all the
+rest, and make her the meanest servant of all.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You never saw her?&rdquo; asked I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Never,&rdquo; he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in Antwerp. The
+political state of things became worse than ever, increased to its height by
+the scarcity of food consequent on many deficient harvests. I saw groups of
+fierce, squalid men, at every corner of the street, glaring out with wolfish
+eyes at my sleek skin and handsome clothes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At last Father Bernard returned. We had a long conversation, in which he told
+me that, curiously enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy&rsquo;s father, was serving in
+one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at Antwerp. I asked Father
+Bernard if he would make us acquainted; which he consented to do. But, a day or
+two afterwards, he told me that, on hearing my name, Mr. Gisborne had declined
+responding to any advances on my part, saying he had adjured his country, and
+hated his countrymen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his daughter Lucy.
+Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of making his acquaintance.
+Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of the hidden fermentation, for
+some coming evil, working among the &ldquo;blouses&rdquo; of Antwerp, and he
+would fain have had me depart from out the city; but I rather craved the
+excitement of danger, and stubbornly refused to leave.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to an
+Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That is Mr. Gisborne,&rdquo; said he, as soon as the gentleman was past.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer. He carried himself
+in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and from his years might
+have had some excuse for a slight stoop. As I looked at the man, he turned
+round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face. Deeply lined, sallow, and scathed
+was that countenance; scarred by passion as well as by the fortunes of war.
+&rsquo;Twas but a moment our eyes met. We each turned round, and went on our
+separate way.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the thorough
+appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on it, made but an
+incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of his countenance. Because
+he was Lucy&rsquo;s father, I sought instinctively to meet him everywhere. At
+last he must have become aware of my pertinacity, for he gave me a haughty
+scowl whenever I passed him. In one of these encounters, however, I chanced to
+be of some service to him. He was turning the corner of a street, and came
+suddenly on one of the groups of discontented Flemings of whom I have spoken.
+Some words were exchanged, when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a
+slight but skilful cut drew blood from one of those who had insulted him, as he
+fancied, though I was too far off to hear the words. They would all have fallen
+upon him had I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, then well known in
+Antwerp, of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who were perpetually patrolling the
+streets, and who came in numbers to the rescue. I think that neither Mr.
+Gisborne nor the mutinous group of plebeians owed me much gratitude for my
+interference. He had planted himself against a wall, in a skilful attitude of
+fence, ready with his bright glancing rapier to do battle with all the heavy,
+fierce, unarmed men, some six or seven in number. But when his own soldiers
+came up, he sheathed his sword; and, giving some careless word of command, sent
+them away again, and continued his saunter all alone down the street, the
+workmen snarling in his rear, and more than half-inclined to fall on me for my
+cry for rescue. I cared not if they did, my life seemed so dreary a burden just
+then; and, perhaps, it was this daring loitering among them that prevented
+their attacking me. Instead, they suffered me to fall into conversation with
+them; and I heard some of their grievances. Sore and heavy to be borne were
+they, and no wonder the sufferers were savage and desperate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got out of me
+the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it. Another of the group heard
+his inquiry, and made answer&mdash;&ldquo;I know the man. He is one Gisborne,
+aide-de-camp to the General-Commandant. I know him well.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and muttering
+voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excited their evil blood,
+and which they evidently wished me not to hear, I sauntered away and back to my
+lodgings.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+That night Antwerp was in open revolt. The inhabitants rose in rebellion
+against their Austrian masters. The Austrians, holding the gates of the city,
+remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel; only, from time to time, the
+boom of the great cannon swept sullenly over the town. But if they expected the
+disturbance to die away, and spend itself in a few hours&rsquo; fury, they were
+mistaken. In a day or two, the rioters held possession of the principal
+municipal buildings. Then the Austrians poured forth in bright flaming array,
+calm and smiling, as they marched to the posts assigned, as if the fierce mob
+were no more to them then the swarms of buzzing summer flies. Their practised
+man&oelig;uvres, their well-aimed shot, told with terrible effect; but in the
+place of one slain rioter, three sprang up of his blood to avenge his loss. But
+a deadly foe, a ghastly ally of the Austrians, was at work. Food, scarce and
+dear for months, was now hardly to be obtained at any price. Desperate efforts
+were being made to bring provisions into the city, for the rioters had friends
+without. Close to the city port, nearest to the Scheldt, a great struggle took
+place. I was there, helping the rioters, whose cause I had adopted. We had a
+savage encounter with the Austrians. Numbers fell on both sides: I saw them lie
+bleeding for a moment: then a volley of smoke obscured them; and when it
+cleared away, they were dead&mdash;trampled upon or smothered, pressed down and
+hidden by the freshly-wounded whom those last guns had brought low. And then a
+gray-robed and grey-veiled figure came right across the flashing guns and
+stooped over some one, whose life-blood was ebbing away; sometimes it was to
+give him drink from cans which they carried slung at their sides; sometimes I
+saw the cross held above a dying man, and rapid prayers were being uttered,
+unheard by men in that hellish din and clangour, but listened to by One above.
+I saw all this as in a dream: the reality of that stern time was battle and
+carnage. But I knew that these gray figures, their bare feet all wet with
+blood, and their faces hidden by their veils, were the Poor Clares&mdash;sent
+forth now because dire agony was abroad and imminent danger at hand. Therefore,
+they left their cloistered shelter, and came into that thick and evil
+m&ecirc;l&eacute;e.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Close to me&mdash;driven past me by the struggle of many fighters&mdash;came
+the Antwerp burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon his face; and in an
+instant more, he was thrown by the press upon the Austrian officer Gisborne,
+and ere either had recovered the shock, the burgess had recognized his
+opponent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ha! the Englishman Gisborne!&rdquo; he cried, and threw himself upon him
+with redoubled fury. He had struck him hard&mdash;the Englishman was down; when
+out of the smoke came a dark-gray figure, and threw herself right under the
+uplifted flashing sword. The burgess&rsquo;s arm stood arrested. Neither
+Austrians nor Anversois willingly harmed the Poor Clares.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Leave him to me!&rdquo; said a low stern voice. &ldquo;He is mine
+enemy&mdash;mine for many years.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Those words were the last I heard. I myself was struck down by a bullet. I
+remember nothing more for days. When I came to myself, I was at the extremity
+of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit my strength. My landlord sat
+watching me. He, too, looked pinched and shrunken; he had heard of my wounded
+state, and sought me out. Yes! the struggle still continued, but the famine was
+sore: and some, he had heard, had died for lack of food. The tears stood in his
+eyes as he spoke. But soon he shook off his weakness, and his natural
+cheerfulness returned. Father Bernard had been to see me&mdash;no one else.
+(Who should, indeed?) Father Bernard would come back that afternoon&mdash;he
+had promised. But Father Bernard never came, although I was up and dressed, and
+looking eagerly for him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself: of what it was
+composed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and with every mouthful I
+seemed to gain strength. The good man sat looking at my evident enjoyment with
+a happy smile of sympathy; but, as my appetite became satisfied, I began to
+detect a certain wistfulness in his eyes, as if craving for the food I had so
+nearly devoured&mdash;for, indeed, at that time I was hardly aware of the
+extent of the famine. Suddenly, there was a sound of many rushing feet past our
+window. My landlord opened one of the sides of it, the better to learn what was
+going on. Then we heard a faint, cracked, tinkling bell, coming shrill upon the
+air, clear and distinct from all other sounds. &ldquo;Holy Mother!&rdquo;
+exclaimed my landlord, &ldquo;the Poor Clares!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into my hands,
+bidding me follow. Down stairs he ran, clutching at more food, as the women of
+his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a moment we were in the street,
+moving along with the great current, all tending towards the Convent of the
+Poor Clares. And still, as if piercing our ears with its inarticulate cry, came
+the shrill tinkle of the bell. In that strange crowd were old men trembling and
+sobbing, as they carried their little pittance of food; women with tears
+running down their cheeks, who had snatched up what provisions they had in the
+vessels in which they stood, so that the burden of these was in many cases much
+greater than that which they contained; children, with flushed faces, grasping
+tight the morsel of bitten cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it safe
+to the help of the Poor Clares; strong men&mdash;yea, both Anversois and
+Austrians&mdash;pressing onward with set teeth, and no word spoken; and over
+all, and through all, came that sharp tinkle&mdash;that cry for help in
+extremity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and piteous faces:
+they were issuing out of the convent to make way for the offerings of others.
+&ldquo;Haste, haste!&rdquo; said they. &ldquo;A Poor Clare is dying! A Poor
+Clare is dead for hunger! God forgive us and our city!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We pressed on. The stream bore us along where it would. We were carried through
+refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over whose doors the conventual
+name of the occupant was written. Thus it was that I, with others, was forced
+into Sister Magdalen&rsquo;s cell. On her couch lay Gisborne, pale unto death,
+but not dead. By his side was a cup of water, and a small morsel of mouldy
+bread, which he had pushed out of his reach, and could not move to obtain. Over
+against his bed were these words, copied in the English version
+&ldquo;Therefore, if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him
+drink.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like some
+famished wild animal. For now it was no longer the sharp tinkle, but that one
+solemn toll, which in all Christian countries tells of the passing of the
+spirit out of earthly life into eternity; and again a murmur gathered and grew,
+as of many people speaking with awed breath, &ldquo;A Poor Clare is dying! a
+Poor Clare is dead!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried into the
+chapel belonging to the Poor Clares. On a bier before the high altar, lay a
+woman&mdash;lay Sister Magdalen&mdash;lay Bridget Fitzgerald. By her side stood
+Father Bernard, in his robes of office, and holding the crucifix on high while
+he pronounced the solemn absolution of the Church, as to one who had newly
+confessed herself of deadly sin. I pushed on with passionate force, till I
+stood close to the dying woman, as she received extreme unction amid the
+breathless and awed hush of the multitude around. Her eyes were glazing, her
+limbs were stiffening; but when the rite was over and finished, she raised her
+gaunt figure slowly up, and her eyes brightened to a strange intensity of joy,
+as, with the gesture of her finger and the trance-like gleam of her eye, she
+seemed like one who watched the disappearance of some loathed and fearful
+creature.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She is freed from the curse!&rdquo; said she, as she fell back dead.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POOR CLARE ***</div>
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+<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poor Clare, by Elizabeth Gaskell</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
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+</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Poor Clare</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Elizabeth Gaskell</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 21, 2000 [eBook #2548]<br>
+[Most recently updated: February 5, 2024]</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price, Audrey Emmitt and Eugenia Corbo</div>
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POOR CLARE ***</div>
+
+<h1>THE POOR CLARE</h1>
+
+<h2 class="no-break">by Elizabeth Gaskell</h2>
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2>
+
+<p>
+December 12th, 1747.&mdash;My life has been strangely bound up with
+extraordinary incidents, some of which occurred before I had any connection
+with the principal actors in them, or indeed, before I even knew of their
+existence. I suppose, most old men are, like me, more given to looking back
+upon their own career with a kind of fond interest and affectionate
+remembrance, than to watching the events&mdash;though these may have far more
+interest for the multitude&mdash;immediately passing before their eyes. If this
+should be the case with the generality of old people, how much more so with me!
+. . . If I am to enter upon that strange story connected with poor Lucy, I must
+begin a long way back. I myself only came to the knowledge of her family
+history after I knew her; but, to make the tale clear to any one else, I must
+arrange events in the order in which they occurred&mdash;not that in which I
+became acquainted with them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There is a great old hall in the north-east of Lancashire, in a part they
+called the Trough of Bolland, adjoining that other district named Craven.
+Starkey Manor-house is rather like a number of rooms clustered round a gray,
+massive, old keep than a regularly-built hall. Indeed, I suppose that the house
+only consisted of a great tower in the centre, in the days when the Scots made
+their raids terrible as far south as this; and that after the Stuarts came in,
+and there was a little more security of property in those parts, the Starkeys
+of that time added the lower building, which runs, two stories high, all round
+the base of the keep. There has been a grand garden laid out in my days, on the
+southern slope near the house; but when I first knew the place, the
+kitchen-garden at the farm was the only piece of cultivated ground belonging to
+it. The deer used to come within sight of the drawing-room windows, and might
+have browsed quite close up to the house if they had not been too wild and shy.
+Starkey Manor-house itself stood on a projection or peninsula of high land,
+jutting out from the abrupt hills that form the sides of the Trough of Bolland.
+These hills were rocky and bleak enough towards their summit; lower down they
+were clothed with tangled copsewood and green depths of fern, out of which a
+gray giant of an ancient forest-tree would tower here and there, throwing up
+its ghastly white branches, as if in imprecation, to the sky. These trees, they
+told me, were the remnants of that forest which existed in the days of the
+Heptarchy, and were even then noted as landmarks. No wonder that their upper
+and more exposed branches were leafless, and that the dead bark had peeled
+away, from sapless old age.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Not far from the house there were a few cottages, apparently, of the same date
+as the keep; probably built for some retainers of the family, who sought
+shelter&mdash;they and their families and their small flocks and herds&mdash;at
+the hands of their feudal lord. Some of them had pretty much fallen to decay.
+They were built in a strange fashion. Strong beams had been sunk firm in the
+ground at the requisite distance, and their other ends had been fastened
+together, two and two, so as to form the shape of one of those rounded
+waggon-headed gipsy-tents, only very much larger. The spaces between were
+filled with mud, stones, osiers, rubbish, mortar&mdash;anything to keep out the
+weather. The fires were made in the centre of these rude dwellings, a hole in
+the roof forming the only chimney. No Highland hut or Irish cabin could be of
+rougher construction.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The owner of this property, at the beginning of the present century, was a Mr.
+Patrick Byrne Starkey. His family had kept to the old faith, and were stanch
+Roman Catholics, esteeming it even a sin to marry any one of Protestant
+descent, however willing he or she might have been to embrace the Romish
+religion. Mr. Patrick Starkey&rsquo;s father had been a follower of James the
+Second; and, during the disastrous Irish campaign of that monarch he had fallen
+in love with an Irish beauty, a Miss Byrne, as zealous for her religion and for
+the Stuarts as himself. He had returned to Ireland after his escape to France,
+and married her, bearing her back to the court at St. Germains. But some
+licence on the part of the disorderly gentlemen who surrounded King James in
+his exile, had insulted his beautiful wife, and disgusted him; so he removed
+from St. Germains to Antwerp, whence, in a few years&rsquo; time, he quietly
+returned to Starkey Manor-house&mdash;some of his Lancashire neighbours having
+lent their good offices to reconcile him to the powers that were. He was as
+firm a Catholic as ever, and as stanch an advocate for the Stuarts and the
+divine rights of kings; but his religion almost amounted to asceticism, and the
+conduct of these with whom he had been brought in such close contact at St.
+Germains would little bear the inspection of a stern moralist. So he gave his
+allegiance where he could not give his esteem, and learned to respect sincerely
+the upright and moral character of one whom he yet regarded as an usurper. King
+William&rsquo;s government had little need to fear such a one. So he returned,
+as I have said, with a sobered heart and impoverished fortunes, to his
+ancestral house, which had fallen sadly to ruin while the owner had been a
+courtier, a soldier, and an exile. The roads into the Trough of Bolland were
+little more than cart-ruts; indeed, the way up to the house lay along a
+ploughed field before you came to the deer-park. Madam, as the country-folk
+used to call Mrs. Starkey, rode on a pillion behind her husband, holding on to
+him with a light hand by his leather riding-belt. Little master (he that was
+afterwards Squire Patrick Byrne Starkey) was held on to his pony by a
+serving-man. A woman past middle age walked, with a firm and strong step, by
+the cart that held much of the baggage; and high up on the mails and boxes, sat
+a girl of dazzling beauty, perched lightly on the topmost trunk, and swaying
+herself fearlessly to and fro, as the cart rocked and shook in the heavy roads
+of late autumn. The girl wore the Antwerp faille, or black Spanish mantle over
+her head, and altogether her appearance was such that the old cottager, who
+described the possession to me many years after, said that all the country-folk
+took her for a foreigner. Some dogs, and the boy who held them in charge, made
+up the company. They rode silently along, looking with grave, serious eyes at
+the people, who came out of the scattered cottages to bow or curtsy to the real
+Squire, &ldquo;come back at last,&rdquo; and gazed after the little procession
+with gaping wonder, not deadened by the sound of the foreign language in which
+the few necessary words that passed among them were spoken. One lad, called
+from his staring by the Squire to come and help about the cart, accompanied
+them to the Manor-house. He said that when the lady had descended from her
+pillion, the middle-aged woman whom I have described as walking while the
+others rode, stepped quickly forward, and taking Madam Starkey (who was of a
+slight and delicate figure) in her arms, she lifted her over the threshold, and
+set her down in her husband&rsquo;s house, at the same time uttering a
+passionate and outlandish blessing. The Squire stood by, smiling gravely at
+first; but when the words of blessing were pronounced, he took off his fine
+feathered hat, and bent his head. The girl with the black mantle stepped onward
+into the shadow of the dark hall, and kissed the lady&rsquo;s hand; and that
+was all the lad could tell to the group that gathered round him on his return,
+eager to hear everything, and to know how much the Squire had given him for his
+services.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From all I could gather, the Manor-house, at the time of the Squire&rsquo;s
+return, was in the most dilapidated state. The stout gray walls remained firm
+and entire; but the inner chambers had been used for all kinds of purposes. The
+great withdrawing-room had been a barn; the state tapestry-chamber had held
+wool, and so on. But, by-and-by, they were cleared out; and if the Squire had
+no money to spend on new furniture, he and his wife had the knack of making the
+best of the old. He was no despicable joiner; she had a kind of grace in
+whatever she did, and imparted an air of elegant picturesqueness to whatever
+she touched. Besides, they had brought many rare things from the Continent;
+perhaps I should rather say, things that were rare in that part of
+England&mdash;carvings, and crosses, and beautiful pictures. And then, again,
+wood was plentiful in the Trough of Bolland, and great log-fires danced and
+glittered in all the dark, old rooms, and gave a look of home and comfort to
+everything.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Why do I tell you all this? I have little to do with the Squire and Madame
+Starkey; and yet I dwell upon them, as if I were unwilling to come to the real
+people with whom my life was so strangely mixed up. Madam had been nursed in
+Ireland by the very woman who lifted her in her arms, and welcomed her to her
+husband&rsquo;s home in Lancashire. Excepting for the short period of her own
+married life, Bridget Fitzgerald had never left her nursling. Her
+marriage&mdash;to one above her in rank&mdash;had been unhappy. Her husband had
+died, and left her in even greater poverty than that in which she was when he
+had first met with her. She had one child, the beautiful daughter who came
+riding on the waggon-load of furniture that was brought to the Manor-house.
+Madame Starkey had taken her again into her service when she became a widow.
+She and her daughter had followed &ldquo;the mistress&rdquo; in all her
+fortunes; they had lived at St. Germains and at Antwerp, and were now come to
+her home in Lancashire. As soon as Bridget had arrived there, the Squire gave
+her a cottage of her own, and took more pains in furnishing it for her than he
+did in anything else out of his own house. It was only nominally her residence.
+She was constantly up at the great house; indeed, it was but a short cut across
+the woods from her own home to the home of her nursling. Her daughter Mary, in
+like manner, moved from one house to the other at her own will. Madam loved
+both mother and child dearly. They had great influence over her, and, through
+her, over her husband. Whatever Bridget or Mary willed was sure to come to
+pass. They were not disliked; for, though wild and passionate, they were also
+generous by nature. But the other servants were afraid of them, as being in
+secret the ruling spirits of the household. The Squire had lost his interest in
+all secular things; Madam was gentle, affectionate, and yielding. Both husband
+and wife were tenderly attached to each other and to their boy; but they grew
+more and more to shun the trouble of decision on any point; and hence it was
+that Bridget could exert such despotic power. But if everyone else yielded to
+her &ldquo;magic of a superior mind,&rdquo; her daughter not unfrequently
+rebelled. She and her mother were too much alike to agree. There were wild
+quarrels between them, and wilder reconciliations. There were times when, in
+the heat of passion, they could have stabbed each other. At all other times
+they both&mdash;Bridget especially&mdash;would have willingly laid down their
+lives for one another. Bridget&rsquo;s love for her child lay very
+deep&mdash;deeper than that daughter ever knew; or I should think she would
+never have wearied of home as she did, and prayed her mistress to obtain for
+her some situation&mdash;as waiting maid&mdash;beyond the seas, in that more
+cheerful continental life, among the scenes of which so many of her happiest
+years had been spent. She thought, as youth thinks, that life would last for
+ever, and that two or three years were but a small portion of it to pass away
+from her mother, whose only child she was. Bridget thought differently, but was
+too proud ever to show what she felt. If her child wished to leave her,
+why&mdash;she should go. But people said Bridget 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 Mary wanted for a time to leave the place, and to seek some
+change, and would thankfully have taken her mother with her. Indeed when Madam
+Starkey had gotten her a situation with some grand lady abroad, and the time
+drew near for her to go, it was Mary who clung to her mother with passionate
+embrace, and, with floods of tears, declared that she would never leave her;
+and it was Bridget, who at last loosened her arms, and, grave and tearless
+herself, bade her keep her word, and go forth into the wide world. Sobbing
+aloud, and looking back continually, Mary went away. Bridget was still as
+death, scarcely drawing her breath, or closing her stony eyes; till at last she
+turned back into her cottage, and heaved a ponderous old settle against the
+door. There she sat, motionless, over the gray ashes of her extinguished fire,
+deaf to Madam&rsquo;s sweet voice, as she begged leave to enter and comfort her
+nurse. Deaf, stony, and motionless, she sat for more than twenty hours; till,
+for the third time, Madam came across the snowy path from the great house,
+carrying with her a young spaniel, which had been Mary&rsquo;s pet up at the
+hall; and which had not ceased all night long to seek for its absent mistress,
+and to whine and moan after her. With tears Madam told this story, through the
+closed door&mdash;tears excited by the terrible look of anguish, so steady, so
+immovable&mdash;so the same to-day as it was yesterday&mdash;on her
+nurse&rsquo;s face. The little creature in her arms began to utter its piteous
+cry, as it shivered with the cold. Bridget stirred; she moved&mdash;she
+listened. Again that long whine; she thought it was for her daughter; and what
+she had denied to her nursling and mistress she granted to the dumb creature
+that Mary had cherished. She opened the door, and took the dog from
+Madam&rsquo;s arms. Then Madam came in, and kissed and comforted the old woman,
+who took but little notice of her or anything. And sending up Master Patrick to
+the hall for fire and food, the sweet young lady never left her nurse all that
+night. Next day, the Squire himself came down, carrying a beautiful foreign
+picture&mdash;Our Lady of the Holy Heart, the Papists call it. It is a picture
+of the Virgin, her heart pierced with arrows, each arrow representing one of
+her great woes. That picture hung in Bridget&rsquo;s cottage when I first saw
+her; I have that picture now.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Years went on. Mary was still abroad. Bridget was still and stern, instead of
+active and passionate. The little dog, Mignon, was indeed her darling. I have
+heard that she talked to it continually; although, to most people, she was so
+silent. The Squire and Madam treated her with the greatest consideration, and
+well they might; for to them she was as devoted and faithful as ever. Mary
+wrote pretty often, and seemed satisfied with her life. But at length the
+letters ceased&mdash;I hardly know whether before or after a great and terrible
+sorrow came upon the house of the Starkeys. The Squire sickened of a putrid
+fever; and Madam caught it in nursing him, and died. You may be sure, Bridget
+let no other woman tend her but herself; and in the very arms that had received
+her at her birth, that sweet young woman laid her head down, and gave up her
+breath. The Squire recovered, in a fashion. He was never strong&mdash;he had
+never the heart to smile again. He fasted and prayed more than ever; and people
+did say that he tried to cut off the entail, and leave all the property away to
+found a monastery abroad, of which he prayed that some day little Squire
+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 he could only
+appoint gentlemen of his own faith as guardians to his son, with many charges
+about the lad&rsquo;s soul, and a few about the land, and the way it was to be
+held while he was a minor. Of course, Bridget was not forgotten. He sent for
+her as he lay on his death-bed, and asked her if she would rather have a sum
+down, or have a small annuity settled upon her. She said at once she would have
+a sum down; for she thought of her daughter, and how she could bequeath the
+money to her, whereas an annuity would 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 a heart 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 left alone.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I have said that she had not heard from Mary for some time. In her last letter,
+she had told of travelling about with her mistress, who was the English wife of
+some great foreign officer, and had spoken of her chances of making a good
+marriage, without naming the gentleman&rsquo;s name, keeping it rather back as
+a pleasant surprise to her mother; his station and fortune being, as I had
+afterwards reason to know, far superior to anything she had a right to expect.
+Then came a long silence; and Madam was dead, and the Squire was dead; and
+Bridget&rsquo;s heart was gnawed by anxiety, and she knew not whom to ask for
+news of her child. She could not write, and the Squire had managed her
+communication with her daughter. She walked off to Hurst; and got a good priest
+there&mdash;one whom she had known at Antwerp&mdash;to write for her. But no
+answer came. It was like crying into the awful stillness of night.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been accustomed to mark
+her goings-out and comings-in. She had never been sociable with any 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, and her house-door
+remained closed, her window dead from any glitter, or light 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 through the blank unshuttered window. But,
+at last, they summoned up courage; and then saw that Bridget&rsquo;s absence
+from their little world was not the result of accident or death, but of
+premeditation. Such small articles of furniture as could be secured from the
+effects of time and damp by being packed up, were stowed away in boxes. The
+picture of the Madonna was taken down, and gone. In a word, Bridget had stolen
+away from her home, 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
+her lost daughter. She was too illiterate to have faith in letters, even had
+she had the means of writing and sending many. But she had faith in her own
+strong love, and believed that her passionate instinct would guide her to her
+child. Besides, foreign travel was no new thing to her, and she could speak
+enough of French to explain the object of her journey, and had, moreover, the
+advantage of being, from her faith, a welcome object of charitable hospitality
+at many a distant convent. But the country people round Starkey Manor-house
+knew nothing of all this. They wondered what had become of her, in a torpid,
+lazy fashion, and then left off thinking of her altogether. Several years
+passed. Both Manor-house and cottage were deserted. The young Squire lived far
+away under the direction of his guardians. There were inroads of wool and corn
+into the sitting-rooms of the Hall; and there was some low talk, from time to
+time, among the hinds and country people whether it would not be as well to
+break into old Bridget&rsquo;s cottage, and save such of her goods as were left
+from the moth and rust which must be making sad havoc. But this idea was always
+quenched by the recollection of her strong character and passionate anger; and
+tales of her masterful spirit, and vehement force of will, were whispered
+about, till the very thought of offending her, by touching any article of hers,
+became invested with a kind of horror: it was believed that, dead or alive, she
+would not fail to avenge it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly she came home; with as little noise or note of preparation as she had
+departed. One day some one noticed a thin, blue curl of smoke ascending from
+her chimney. Her door stood open to the noonday sun; and, ere many hours had
+elapsed, some one had seen an old travel-and-sorrow-stained woman dipping her
+pitcher in the well; and said, that the dark, solemn eyes that looked up at him
+were more like Bridget Fitzgerald&rsquo;s than any one else&rsquo;s in this
+world; and yet, if it were she, she looked as if she had been scorched in the
+flames of hell, so brown, and scared, and fierce a creature did she seem.
+By-and-by many saw her; and those who met her eye once cared not to be caught
+looking at her again. She had got into the habit of perpetually talking to
+herself; nay, more, answering herself, and varying her tones according to the
+side she took at the moment. It was no wonder that those who dared to listen
+outside her door at night believed that she held converse with some spirit; in
+short, she was unconsciously earning for herself the dreadful reputation of a
+witch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her little dog, which had wandered half over the Continent with her, was her
+only companion; a dumb remembrancer of happier days. Once he was ill; and she
+carried him more than three miles, to ask about his management from one who had
+been groom to the last Squire, and had then been noted for his skill in all
+diseases of animals. Whatever this man did, the dog recovered; and they who
+heard her thanks, intermingled with blessings (that were rather promises of
+good fortune than prayers), looked grave at his good luck when, next year, his
+ewes twinned, and his meadow-grass was heavy and thick.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now it so happened that, about the year seventeen hundred and eleven, one of
+the guardians of the young squire, a certain Sir Philip Tempest, bethought him
+of the good shooting there must be on his ward&rsquo;s property; and in
+consequence he brought down four or five gentlemen, of his friends, to stay for
+a week or two at the Hall. From all accounts, they roystered and spent pretty
+freely. I never heard any of their names but one, and that was Squire
+Gisborne&rsquo;s. He was hardly a middle-aged man then; he had been much
+abroad, and there, I believe, he had known Sir Philip Tempest, and done him
+some service. He was a daring and dissolute fellow in those days: careless and
+fearless, and one who would rather be in a quarrel than out of it. He had his
+fits of ill-temper besides, when he would spare neither man nor beast.
+Otherwise, those who knew him well, used to say he had a good heart, when he
+was neither drunk, nor angry, nor in any way vexed. He had altered much when I
+came to know him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but little success,
+I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had none, and was in a black humour
+accordingly. He was coming home, having his gun loaded, sportsman-like, when
+little Mignon crossed his path, just as he turned out of the wood by
+Bridget&rsquo;s cottage. Partly for wantonness, partly to vent his spleen upon
+some living creature. Mr. Gisborne took his gun, and fired&mdash;he had better
+have never fired gun again, than aimed that unlucky shot, he hit Mignon, and at
+the creature&rsquo;s sudden cry, Bridget came out, and saw at a glance what had
+been done. She took Mignon up in her arms, and looked hard at the wound; the
+poor dog looked at her with his glazing eyes, and tried to wag his tail and
+lick her hand, all covered with blood. Mr. Gisborne spoke in a kind of sullen
+penitence:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You should have kept the dog out of my way&mdash;a little poaching
+varmint.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At this very moment, Mignon stretched out his legs, and stiffened in her
+arms&mdash;her lost Mary&rsquo;s dog, who had wandered and sorrowed with her
+for years. She walked right into Mr. Gisborne&rsquo;s path, and fixed his
+unwilling, sullen look, with her dark and terrible eye.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Those never throve that did me harm,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
+alone in the world, and helpless; the more do the saints in heaven hear my
+prayers. Hear me, ye blessed ones! hear me while I ask for sorrow on this bad,
+cruel man. He has killed the only creature that loved me&mdash;the dumb beast
+that I loved. Bring down heavy sorrow on his head for it, O ye saints! He
+thought that I was helpless, because he saw me lonely and poor; but are not the
+armies of heaven for the like of me?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Come, come,&rdquo; said he, half remorseful, but not one whit afraid.
+&ldquo;Here&rsquo;s a crown to buy thee another dog. Take it, and leave off
+cursing! I care none for thy threats.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; said she, coming a step closer, and changing her
+imprecatory cry for a whisper which made the gamekeeper&rsquo;s lad, following
+Mr. Gisborne, creep all over. &ldquo;You shall live to see the creature you
+love best, and who alone loves you&mdash;ay, a human creature, but as innocent
+and fond as my poor, dead darling&mdash;you shall see this creature, for whom
+death would be too happy, become a terror and a loathing to all, for this
+blood&rsquo;s sake. Hear me, O holy saints, who never fail them that have no
+other help!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She threw up her right hand, filled with poor Mignon&rsquo;s life-drops; they
+spirted, one or two of them, on his shooting-dress,&mdash;an ominous sight to
+the follower. But the master only laughed a little, forced, scornful laugh, and
+went on to the Hall. Before he got there, however, he took out a gold piece,
+and bade the boy carry it to the old woman on his return to the village. The
+lad was &ldquo;afeared,&rdquo; as he told me in after years; he came to the
+cottage, and hovered about, not daring to enter. He peeped through the window
+at last; and by the flickering wood-flame, he saw Bridget kneeling before the
+picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart, with dead Mignon lying between her and
+the Madonna. She was praying wildly, as her outstretched arms betokened. The
+lad shrunk away in redoubled terror; and contented himself with slipping the
+gold piece under the ill-fitting door. The next day it was thrown out upon the
+midden; and there it lay, no one daring to touch it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Meanwhile Mr. Gisborne, half curious, half uneasy, thought to lessen his
+uncomfortable feelings by asking Sir Philip who Bridget was? He could only
+describe her&mdash;he did not know her name. Sir Philip was equally at a loss.
+But an old servant of the Starkeys, who had resumed his livery at the Hall on
+this occasion&mdash;a scoundrel whom Bridget had saved from dismissal more than
+once during her palmy days&mdash;said:&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It will be the old witch, that his worship means. She needs a ducking,
+if ever a woman did, does that Bridget Fitzgerald.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Fitzgerald!&rdquo; said both the gentlemen at once. But Sir Philip was
+the first to continue:&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I must have no talk of ducking her, Dickon. Why, she must be the very
+woman poor Starkey bade me have a care of; but when I came here last she was
+gone, no one knew where. I&rsquo;ll go and see her to-morrow. But mind you,
+sirrah, if any harm comes to her, or any more talk of her being a
+witch&mdash;I&rsquo;ve a pack of hounds at home, who can follow the scent of a
+lying knave as well as ever they followed a dog-fox; so take care how you talk
+about ducking a faithful old servant of your dead master&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Had she ever a daughter?&rdquo; asked Mr. Gisborne, after a while.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know&mdash;yes! I&rsquo;ve a notion she had; a kind of
+waiting woman to Madam Starkey.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Please your worship,&rdquo; said humbled Dickon, &ldquo;Mistress Bridget
+had a daughter&mdash;one Mistress Mary&mdash;who went abroad, and has never
+been heard on since; and folk do say that has crazed her mother.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Gisborne shaded his eyes with his hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I could wish she had not cursed me,&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;She may
+have power&mdash;no one else could.&rdquo; After a while, he said aloud, no one
+understanding rightly what he meant, &ldquo;Tush! it is
+impossible!&rdquo;&mdash;and called for claret; and he and the other gentlemen
+set-to to a drinking-bout.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2>
+
+<p>
+I now come to the time in which I myself was mixed up with the people that I
+have been writing about. And to make you understand how I became connected with
+them, I must give you some little account of myself. My father was the younger
+son of a Devonshire gentleman of moderate property; my eldest uncle succeeded
+to the estate of his forefathers, my second became an eminent attorney in
+London, and my father took orders. Like most poor clergymen, he had a large
+family; and I have no doubt was glad enough when my London uncle, who was a
+bachelor, offered to take charge of me, and bring me up to be his successor in
+business.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In this way I came to live in London, in my uncle&rsquo;s house, not far from
+Gray&rsquo;s Inn, and to be treated and esteemed as his son, and to labour with
+him in his office. I was very fond of the old gentleman. He was the
+confidential agent of many country squires, and had attained to his present
+position as much by knowledge of human nature as by knowledge of law; though he
+was learned enough in the latter. He used to say his business was law, his
+pleasure heraldry. From his intimate acquaintance with family history, and all
+the tragic courses of life therein involved, to hear him talk, at leisure
+times, about any coat of arms that came across his path was as good as a play
+or a romance. Many cases of disputed property, dependent on a love of
+genealogy, were brought to him, as to a great authority on such points. If the
+lawyer who came to consult him was young, he would take no fee, only give him a
+long lecture on the importance of attending to heraldry; if the lawyer was of
+mature age and good standing, he would mulct him pretty well, and abuse him to
+me afterwards as negligent of one great branch of the profession. His house was
+in a stately new street called Ormond Street, and in it he had a handsome
+library; but all the books treated of things that were past; none of them
+planned or looked forward into the future. I worked away&mdash;partly for the
+sake of my family at home, partly because my uncle had really taught me to
+enjoy the kind of practice in which he himself took such delight. I suspect I
+worked too hard; at any rate, in seventeen hundred and eighteen I was far from
+well, and my good uncle was disturbed by my ill looks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day, he rang the bell twice into the clerk&rsquo;s room at the dingy office
+in Grey&rsquo;s Inn Lane. It was the summons for me, and I went into his
+private room just as a gentleman&mdash;whom I knew well enough by sight as an
+Irish lawyer of more reputation than he deserved&mdash;was leaving.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering. I was there two
+or three minutes before he spoke. Then he told me that I must pack up my
+portmanteau that very afternoon, and start that night by post-horse for West
+Chester. I should get there, if all went well, at the end of five days&rsquo;
+time, and must then wait for a packet to cross over to Dublin; from thence I
+must proceed to a certain town named Kildoon, and in that neighbourhood I was
+to remain, making certain inquiries as to the existence of any descendants of
+the younger branch of a family to whom some valuable estates had descended in
+the female line. The Irish lawyer whom I had seen was weary of the case, and
+would willingly have given up the property, without further ado, to a man who
+appeared to claim them; but on laying his tables and trees before my uncle, the
+latter had foreseen so many possible prior claimants, that the lawyer had
+begged him to undertake the management of the whole business. In his youth, my
+uncle would have liked nothing better than going over to Ireland himself, and
+ferreting out every scrap of paper or parchment, and every word of tradition
+respecting the family. As it was, old and gouty, he deputed me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Accordingly, I went to Kildoon. I suspect I had something of my uncle&rsquo;s
+delight in following up a genealogical scent, for I very soon found out, when
+on the spot, that Mr. Rooney, the Irish lawyer, would have got both himself and
+the first claimant into a terrible scrape, if he had pronounced his opinion
+that the estates ought to be given up to him. There were three poor Irish
+fellows, each nearer of kin to the last possessor; but, a generation before,
+there was a still nearer relation, who had never been accounted for, nor his
+existence ever discovered by the lawyers, I venture to think, till I routed him
+out from the memory of some of the old dependants of the family. What had
+become of him? I travelled backwards and forwards; I crossed over to France,
+and came back again with a slight clue, which ended in my discovering that,
+wild and dissipated himself, he had left one child, a son, of yet worse
+character than his father; that this same Hugh Fitzgerald had married a very
+beautiful serving-woman of the Byrnes&mdash;a person below him in hereditary
+rank, but above him in character; that he had died soon after his marriage,
+leaving one child, whether a boy or a girl I could not learn, and that the
+mother had returned to live in the family of the Byrnes. Now, the chief of this
+latter family was serving in the Duke of Berwick&rsquo;s regiment, and it was
+long before I could hear from him; it was more than a year before I got a
+short, haughty letter&mdash;I fancy he had a soldier&rsquo;s contempt for a
+civilian, an Irishman&rsquo;s hatred for an Englishman, an exiled
+Jacobite&rsquo;s jealousy of one who prospered and lived tranquilly under the
+government he looked upon as an usurpation. &ldquo;Bridget Fitzgerald,&rdquo;
+he said, &ldquo;had been faithful to the fortunes of his sister&mdash;had
+followed her abroad, and to England when Mrs. Starkey had thought fit to
+return. Both his sister and her husband were dead, he knew nothing of Bridget
+Fitzgerald at the present time: probably Sir Philip Tempest, his nephew&rsquo;s
+guardian, might be able to give me some information.&rdquo; I have not given
+the little contemptuous terms; the way in which faithful service was meant to
+imply more than it said&mdash;all that has nothing to do with my story. Sir
+Philip, when applied to, told me that he paid an annuity regularly to an old
+woman named Fitzgerald, living at Coldholme (the village near Starkey
+Manor-house). Whether she had any descendants he could not say.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One bleak March evening, I came in sight of the places described at the
+beginning of my story. I could hardly understand the rude dialect in which the
+direction to old Bridget&rsquo;s house was given.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yo&rsquo; see yon furleets,&rdquo; all run together, gave me no idea
+that I was to guide myself by the distant lights that shone in the windows of
+the Hall, 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 grand tour. However, at
+last, I reached Bridget&rsquo;s cottage&mdash;a low, moss-grown place: the
+palings that had once surrounded it were broken and gone; and the underwood of
+the forest came up to the walls, and must have darkened the windows. It was
+about seven o&rsquo;clock&mdash;not late to my London notions&mdash;but, after
+knocking for some time at the door and receiving no reply, I was driven to
+conjecture that the occupant of the house was gone to bed. So I betook myself
+to the nearest church I had seen, three miles back on the road I had come, sure
+that close to that I should find an inn of some kind; and early the next
+morning I set off back to Coldholme, by a field-path which my host assured me I
+should find a shorter 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 that
+covered the ground; nevertheless, I saw an old woman, whom I instinctively
+suspected to be the object of my search, in a sheltered covert on one side of
+my path. I lingered and watched her. She must have been considerably above the
+middle size in her prime, for when she raised 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 something on the ground, as, with bent head, she turned off from
+the spot where I gazed upon her, and was lost to my sight. I fancy I missed my
+way, and made a round in spite of the landlord&rsquo;s directions; for by the
+time I had reached Bridget&rsquo;s cottage she was there, with no semblance of
+hurried walk or discomposure of any kind. The door was slightly ajar. I
+knocked, and the majestic figure stood before me, silently awaiting the
+explanation of my errand. Her teeth were all gone, so the nose and chin were
+brought near together; the gray eyebrows were straight, and almost hung over
+her deep, cavernous eyes, and the thick white hair lay in silvery masses over
+the low, wide, wrinkled forehead. For a moment, I stood uncertain how to shape
+my answer to the solemn questioning of her silence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Your name is Bridget Fitzgerald, I believe?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She bowed her head in assent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have something to say to you. May I come in? I am unwilling to keep
+you standing.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You cannot tire me,&rdquo; she said, and at first she seemed inclined to
+deny me the shelter of her roof. But the next moment&mdash;she had searched the
+very soul in me with her eyes during that instant&mdash;she led me in, and
+dropped the shadowing hood of her gray, draping cloak, which had previously hid
+part of the character of her countenance. The cottage was rude and bare enough.
+But before the picture of the Virgin, of which I have made mention, there stood
+a little cup filled with fresh primroses. While she paid her reverence to the
+Madonna, I understood why she had been out seeking through the clumps of green
+in the sheltered copse. Then she turned round, and bade me be seated. The
+expression of her face, which all this time I was studying, was not bad, as the
+stories of my last night&rsquo;s landlord had led me to expect; it was a wild,
+stern, fierce, indomitable countenance, seamed and scarred by agonies of
+solitary weeping; but it was neither cunning nor malignant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;My name is Bridget Fitzgerald,&rdquo; said she, by way of opening our
+conversation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And your husband was Hugh Fitzgerald, of Knock Mahon, near Kildoon, in
+Ireland?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A faint light came into the dark gloom of her eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;He was.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;May I ask if you had any children by him?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The light in her eyes grew quick and red. She tried to speak, I could see; but
+something rose in her throat, and choked her, and until she could speak calmly,
+she would fain not speak at all before a stranger. In a minute or so she
+said&mdash;&ldquo;I had a daughter&mdash;one Mary Fitzgerald,&rdquo;&mdash;then
+her strong nature mastered her strong will, and she cried out, with a trembling
+wailing cry: &ldquo;Oh, man! what of her?&mdash;what of her?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She rose from her seat, and came and clutched at my arm, and looked in my eyes.
+There she read, as I suppose, my utter ignorance of what had become of her
+child; for she went blindly back to her chair, and sat rocking herself and
+softly moaning, as if I were not there; I not daring to speak to the lone and
+awful woman. After a little pause, she knelt down before the picture of Our
+Lady of the Holy Heart, and spoke to her by all the fanciful and poetic names
+of the Litany.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;O Rose of Sharon! O Tower of David! O Star of the Sea! have ye no
+comfort for my sore heart? Am I for ever to hope? Grant me at least
+despair!&rdquo;&mdash;and so on she went, heedless of my presence. Her prayers
+grew wilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the borders of
+madness and blasphemy. Almost involuntarily, I spoke as if to stop her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Have you any reason to think that your daughter is dead?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She rose from her knees, and came and stood before me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Mary Fitzgerald is dead,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I shall never see her
+again in the flesh. No tongue ever told me; but I know she is dead. I have
+yearned so to see her, and my heart&rsquo;s will is fearful and strong: it
+would have drawn her to me before now, if she had been a wanderer on the other
+side of the world. I wonder often it has not drawn her out of the grave to come
+and stand before me, and hear me tell her how I loved her. For, sir, we parted
+unfriends.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I knew nothing but the dry particulars needed for my lawyer&rsquo;s quest, but
+I could not help feeling for the desolate woman; and she must have read the
+unusual sympathy with her wistful eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes, sir, we did. She never knew how I loved her; and we parted
+unfriends; and I fear me that I wished her voyage might not turn out well, only
+meaning,&mdash;O, blessed Virgin! you know I only meant that she should come
+home to her mother&rsquo;s arms as to the happiest place on earth; but my
+wishes are terrible&mdash;their power goes beyond my thought&mdash;and there is
+no hope for me, if my words brought Mary harm.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;you do not know that she is dead. Even now,
+you hoped she might be alive. Listen to me,&rdquo; and I told her the tale I
+have already told you, giving it all in the driest manner, for I wanted to
+recall the clear sense that I felt almost sure she had possessed in her younger
+days, and by keeping up her attention to details, restrain the vague wildness
+of her grief.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She listened with deep attention, putting from time to time such questions as
+convinced me I had to do with no common intelligence, however dimmed and shorn
+by solitude and mysterious sorrow. Then she took up her tale; and in few brief
+words, told me of her wanderings abroad in vain search after her daughter;
+sometimes in the wake of armies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in city. The
+lady, whose waiting-woman Mary had gone to be, had died soon after the date of
+her last letter home; her husband, the foreign officer, had been serving in
+Hungary, whither Bridget had followed him, but too late to find him. Vague
+rumours reached her that Mary had made a great marriage: and this sting of
+doubt was added,&mdash;whether the mother might not be close to her child under
+her new name, and even hearing of her every day; and yet never recognizing the
+lost one under the appellation she then bore. At length the thought took
+possession of her, that it was possible that all this 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, to her desolate hearth, and empty
+cottage. Here she had thought it safest to remain; if Mary was in life, it was
+here she would seek for her mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I noted down one or two particulars out of Bridget&rsquo;s narrative that I
+thought might be of use to me: for I was stimulated to further search in a
+strange and extraordinary manner. It seemed as if it were impressed upon 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 my uncle&rsquo;s anxiety on
+the subject, my own reputation as a lawyer, and so on), but from some strange
+power which had taken possession of my will only that very morning, and which
+forced it in the direction it chose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will go,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;I will spare nothing in the search.
+Trust to me. I will learn all that can be learnt. You shall know all that
+money, or pains, or wit can discover. It is true she may be long dead: but she
+may have left a child.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;A child!&rdquo; she cried, as if for the first time this idea had struck
+her mind. &ldquo;Hear him, Blessed Virgin! he says she may have left a child.
+And you have never told me, though I have prayed so for a sign, waking or
+sleeping!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I know nothing but what you tell me. You say
+you heard of her marriage.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But she caught nothing of what I said. She was praying to the Virgin in a kind
+of ecstasy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my very presence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest&rsquo;s. The wife of the foreign
+officer had been a cousin of his father&rsquo;s, and from him I thought I might
+gain some particulars as to the existence of the Count de la Tour
+d&rsquo;Auvergne, and where I could find him; for I knew questions <i>de vive
+voix</i> aid the flagging recollection, and I was determined to lose no chance
+for want of trouble. But Sir Philip had gone abroad, and it would be some time
+before I could receive an answer. So I followed my uncle&rsquo;s advice, to
+whom I had mentioned how wearied I felt, both in body and mind, by my
+will-o&rsquo;-the-wisp search. He immediately told me to go to Harrogate, there
+to await Sir Philip&rsquo;s reply. I should be near to one of the places
+connected with my search, Coldholme; not far from Sir Philip Tempest, in case
+he returned, and I wished to ask him any further questions; and, in conclusion,
+my uncle bade me try to forget all about my business for a time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This was far easier said than done. I have seen a child on a common blown along
+by a high wind, without power of standing still and resisting the tempestuous
+force. I was somewhat in the same predicament as regarded my mental state.
+Something resistless seemed to urge my thoughts on, through every possible
+course by which there was a chance of attaining to my object. I did not see the
+sweeping moors when I walked out: when I held a book in my hand, and read the
+words, their sense did not 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
+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 it compelled me to live
+in the present suffering, and not in the visionary researches I had been
+continually making before. My kind uncle came to nurse me; and after the
+immediate danger was over, my life seemed to slip away in delicious languor for
+two or three months. I did not ask&mdash;so much did I dread falling into the
+old channel of thought&mdash;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 midsummer, and then returned to his
+business in London; leaving me perfectly well, although not completely strong.
+I was to follow him in a fortnight; when, as he said, &ldquo;we would look over
+letters, and talk about several things.&rdquo; I knew what this little speech
+alluded to, and shrank from the train of thought it suggested, which was so
+intimately connected with my first feelings of illness. However, I had a
+fortnight more to roam on those invigorating Yorkshire moors.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In those days, there was one large, rambling inn, at Harrogate, close to the
+Medicinal Spring; but it was already becoming too small for the accommodation
+of the influx of visitors, and many lodged round about, in the farm-houses of
+the district. It was so early in the season, that I had the inn pretty much to
+myself; and, indeed, felt rather like a visitor in a private house, so intimate
+had the landlord and landlady become with me during my long illness. She would
+chide me for being out so late on the moors, or for having been too long
+without food, quite in a motherly way; while he consulted me about vintages and
+wines, and taught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle about horses. In my walks I met
+other strangers from time to time. Even before my uncle had left me, I had
+noticed, with half-torpid curiosity, a young lady of very striking appearance,
+who went about always accompanied by an elderly companion,&mdash;hardly a
+gentlewoman, but with something in her look that prepossessed me in her favour.
+The younger lady always put her veil down when any one approached; so it had
+been only once or twice, when I had come upon her at a sudden turn in the path,
+that I had even had a glimpse at her face. I am not sure if it was beautiful,
+though in after-life I grew to think it so. But it was at this time
+overshadowed by a sadness that never varied: a pale, quiet, resigned look of
+intense suffering, that irresistibly attracted me,&mdash;not with love, but
+with a sense of infinite compassion for one so young yet so hopelessly unhappy.
+The companion wore something of the same look: quiet melancholy, hopeless, yet
+resigned. I asked my landlord who they were. He said they were called Clarke,
+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 that there was any such
+relationship between them. They had been in the neighbourhood of Harrogate for
+some time, lodging in a remote farm-house. The people there would tell nothing
+about them; saying that they paid handsomely, and never did any harm; so why
+should they be speaking of any strange things that might happen? That, as the
+landlord shrewdly observed, showed there was something out of the common way he
+had heard that the elderly woman was a cousin of the farmer&rsquo;s where they
+lodged, and so the regard existing between relations might help to keep them
+quiet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;What did he think, then, was the reason for their extreme
+seclusion?&rdquo; asked I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nay, he could not tell,&mdash;not he. He had heard that the young lady,
+for all as quiet as she seemed, played strange pranks at times.&rdquo; He shook
+his head when I asked him for more particulars, and refused to give them, which
+made me doubt if he knew any, for he was in general a talkative and
+communicative man. In default of other interests, after my uncle left, I set
+myself to watch these two people. I hovered about their walks drawn towards
+them with a strange fascination, which was not diminished by their evident
+annoyance at so frequently meeting me. One day, I had the sudden good fortune
+to be at hand when they were alarmed by the attack of a bull, which, in those
+unenclosed grazing districts, was a particularly dangerous occurrence. I have
+other and more important things to relate, than to tell of the accident which
+gave me an opportunity of rescuing them, it is enough to say, that this event
+was the beginning of an acquaintance, reluctantly acquiesced in by them, but
+eagerly prosecuted by me. I can hardly tell when intense curiosity became
+merged in love, but in less than ten days after my uncle&rsquo;s departure I
+was passionately enamoured of Mistress Lucy, as her attendant called her;
+carefully&mdash;for this I noted well&mdash;avoiding any address which appeared
+as if there was an equality of station between them. I noticed also that Mrs.
+Clarke, the elderly woman, after her first reluctance to allow me to pay them
+any attentions had been overcome, was cheered by my evident attachment to the
+young girl; it seemed to lighten her heavy burden of care, and she evidently
+favoured my visits to the farmhouse where they lodged. It was not so with Lucy.
+A more attractive person I never saw, in spite of her depression of manner, and
+shrinking avoidance of me. I felt sure at once, that whatever 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, for a moment or two, I beguiled her into talk,
+I could see a rare intelligence in her face, and a grave, trusting look in the
+soft, gray eyes that were raised for a minute to mine. I made every excuse I
+possibly could for going there. I sought wild flowers for Lucy&rsquo;s sake; I
+planned walks for Lucy&rsquo;s sake; I watched the heavens by night, in hopes
+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 dome above.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some motive which
+I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but then 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 (I loved so dearly) I could have begged
+her to spare herself, even though the happiness of my whole life should have
+been the sacrifice; for her complexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more
+hopeless, her delicate frame yet slighter. During this period I had written, I
+should say, to my uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong my stay at Harrogate,
+not giving any reason; but such was his tenderness towards me, that in a few
+days I heard from him, giving me a willing permission, and only charging me to
+take care of myself, and not use too much exertion during the hot weather.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One sultry evening I drew near the farm. The windows of their parlour were
+open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the house, as I passed the
+first window (there were two windows in their little ground-floor room). I saw
+Lucy distinctly; but when I had knocked at their door&mdash;the house-door
+stood always ajar&mdash;she was gone, and I saw only Mrs. Clarke, turning over
+the work-things lying on the table, in a nervous and purposeless manner. I felt
+by instinct that a conversation of some importance was coming on, in which I
+should be expected to say what was my object in paying these frequent visits. I
+was glad of the opportunity. My uncle had several times alluded to the pleasant
+possibility of my bringing home a young wife, to cheer and adorn the old house
+in Ormond Street. He was rich, and I was to succeed him, and had, as I knew, a
+fair reputation for so young a lawyer. So on my side I saw no obstacle. It was
+true that Lucy was shrouded in mystery; her name (I was convinced it was not
+Clarke), birth, parentage, and previous life were unknown to me. But I was sure
+of her goodness and sweet innocence, and although I knew that there must be
+something painful to be told, to account for her mournful sadness, yet I was
+willing to bear my share in her grief, whatever it might be.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Clarke began, as if it was a relief to her to plunge into the subject.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;We have thought, sir&mdash;at least I have thought&mdash;that you knew
+very little of us, nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant the intimate
+acquaintance we have fallen into. I beg your pardon, sir,&rdquo; she went on,
+nervously; &ldquo;I am but a plain kind of woman, and I mean to use no
+rudeness; but I must say straight out that I&mdash;we&mdash;think it would be
+better for you not to come so often to see us. She is very unprotected,
+and&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Why should I not come to see you, dear madam?&rdquo; asked I, eagerly,
+glad of the opportunity of explaining myself. &ldquo;I come, I own, because I
+have learnt to love Mistress Lucy, and wish to teach her to love me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mistress Clarke shook her head, and sighed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t, sir&mdash;neither love her, nor, for the sake of all you
+hold sacred, teach her to love you! If I am too late, and you love her already,
+forget her,&mdash;forget these last few weeks. O! I should never have allowed
+you to come!&rdquo; she went on passionately; &ldquo;but what am I to do? We
+are forsaken by all, except the great God, and even He permits a strange and
+evil power to afflict us&mdash;what am I to do! Where is it to end?&rdquo; She
+wrung her hands in her distress; then she turned to me: &ldquo;Go away, sir! go
+away, before you learn to care any more for her. I ask it for your own
+sake&mdash;I implore! You have been good and kind to us, and we shall always
+recollect you with gratitude; but go away now, and never come back to cross our
+fatal path!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Indeed, madam,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I shall do no such thing. You urge
+it for my own sake. I have no fear, so urged&mdash;nor wish, except to hear
+more&mdash;all. I cannot have seen Mistress Lucy in all the intimacy of this
+last fortnight, without acknowledging her goodness and innocence; and without
+seeing&mdash;pardon me, madam&mdash;that for some reason you are two very
+lonely women, in some mysterious sorrow and distress. Now, though I am not
+powerful myself, yet I have friends who are so wise and kind that they may be
+said to possess power. Tell me some particulars. Why are you in
+grief&mdash;what is your secret&mdash;why are you here? I declare solemnly that
+nothing you have said has daunted me in my wish to become Lucy&rsquo;s husband;
+nor will I shrink from any difficulty that, as such an aspirant, I may have to
+encounter. You say you are friendless&mdash;why cast away 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. I do not shun inquiry.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She shook her head again. &ldquo;You had better go away, sir. You know nothing
+about us.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I know your names,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;and I have heard you allude to
+the part of the country from which you came, which I happen to know as a wild
+and lonely place. There are so few people living in it that, if I chose to go
+there, I could easily ascertain all about you; but I would rather hear it from
+yourself.&rdquo; You see I wanted to pique her into telling me something
+definite.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You do not know our true names, sir,&rdquo; said she, hastily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Well, I may have conjectured as much. But tell me, then, I conjure you.
+Give me your reasons for distrusting my willingness to stand by what I have
+said with regard to Mistress Lucy.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Oh, what can I do?&rdquo; exclaimed she. &ldquo;If I am turning away a
+true friend, as he says?&mdash;Stay!&rdquo; coming to a sudden
+decision&mdash;&ldquo;I will tell you something&mdash;I cannot tell you
+all&mdash;you would not believe it. But, perhaps, I can tell you enough to
+prevent your going on in your hopeless attachment. I am not Lucy&rsquo;s
+mother.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;So I conjectured,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Go on.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I do not even know whether she is the legitimate or illegitimate child
+of her father. But he is cruelly turned against her; and her mother is long
+dead; and for a terrible reason, she has no other creature to keep constant to
+her but me. She&mdash;only two years ago&mdash;such a darling and such a pride
+in her father&rsquo;s house! Why, sir, there is a mystery that might happen in
+connection with her any moment; and then you would go away like all the rest;
+and, when you next heard her name, you would loathe her. Others, who have loved
+her longer, have done so before now. My poor child! whom neither God nor man
+has mercy upon&mdash;or, surely, she would die!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The good woman was stopped by her crying. I confess, I was a little stunned by
+her last words; but only for a moment. At any rate, till I knew definitely what
+was this mysterious stain upon one so simple and pure, as Lucy seemed, I would
+not desert her, and so I said; and she made me answer:&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir, after
+knowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but I am so foolish
+and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain hope to find a friend in
+you. I cannot help trusting that, although you may no longer feel toward her as
+a lover, you will have pity upon us; and perhaps, by your learning you can tell
+us where to go for aid.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I implore you to tell me what this mystery is,&rdquo; I cried, almost
+maddened by this suspense.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I cannot,&rdquo; said she, solemnly. &ldquo;I am under a deep vow of
+secrecy. If you are to be told, it must be by her.&rdquo; She left the room,
+and I remained to ponder over this strange interview. I mechanically turned
+over the few books, and with eyes that saw nothing at the time, examined the
+tokens of Lucy&rsquo;s frequent presence in that room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When I got home at night, I remembered how all these trifles spoke of a pure
+and tender heart and innocent life. Mistress Clarke returned; she had been
+crying sadly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;it is as I feared: she loves you so much
+that she is willing to run the fearful risk of telling you all
+herself&mdash;she acknowledges 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
+you hope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of fear or repugnance
+you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I half smiled. &ldquo;Have no fear,&rdquo; I said. It seemed too absurd to
+imagine my feeling dislike to Lucy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Her father loved her well,&rdquo; said she, gravely, &ldquo;yet he drove
+her out like some monstrous thing.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden. It was
+Lucy&rsquo;s voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one side of the
+open casement&mdash;and as though she were suddenly stirred to
+merriment&mdash;merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings or sayings
+of some other person. I can scarcely say why, but the sound jarred on me
+inexpressibly. She knew the subject of our conversation, and must have been at
+least aware of the state of agitation her friend was in; she herself usually so
+gentle and quiet. I half rose to go to the window, and satisfy my instinctive
+curiosity as to what had provoked this burst of, ill-timed laughter; but Mrs.
+Clarke threw her whole weight and power upon the hand with which she pressed
+and kept me down.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;For God&rsquo;s sake!&rdquo; she said, white and trembling all over,
+&ldquo;sit still; be quiet. Oh! be patient. To-morrow you will know all. Leave
+us, for we are all sorely afflicted. Do not seek to know more about us.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Again that laugh&mdash;so musical in sound, yet so discordant to my heart. She
+held me tight&mdash;tighter; without positive violence I could not have risen.
+I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a shadow pass between the
+sun&rsquo;s warmth and me, and a strange shudder ran through my frame. In a
+minute or two she released me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Go,&rdquo; repeated she. &ldquo;Be warned, I ask you once more. I do not
+think you can stand this knowledge that you seek. If I had had my own way, Lucy
+should never have yielded, and promised to tell you all. Who knows what may
+come of it?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am firm in my wish to know all. I return at ten to-morrow morning, and
+then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to Mistress
+Clarke&rsquo;s sanity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable thoughts
+connected with that strange laughter, filled my mind. I could hardly sleep. I
+rose early; and long before the hour I had appointed, I was on the path over
+the common that led to the old farm-house where they lodged. I suppose that
+Lucy had passed no better a night than I; for there she was also, slowly pacing
+with her even step, her eyes bent down, her whole look most saintly and pure.
+She started when I came close to her, and grew paler as I reminded her of my
+appointment, and spoke with something of the impatience of obstacles that,
+seeing her once more, had called up afresh in my mind. All strange and terrible
+hints, and giddy merriment were forgotten. My heart gave forth words of fire,
+and my tongue uttered them. Her colour went and came, as she listened; but,
+when I had ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me, and
+said&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But you know that you have something to learn about me yet. I only want
+to say this: I shall not think less of you&mdash;less well of you, I
+mean&mdash;if you, too, fall away from me when you know all. Stop!&rdquo; said
+she, as if fearing another burst of mad words. &ldquo;Listen to me. My father
+is a man of great wealth. I never knew my mother; she must have died when I was
+very young. When first I remember anything, I was living in a great, lonely
+house, with my dear and faithful Mistress Clarke. My father, even, was not
+there; he was&mdash;he is&mdash;a soldier, and his duties lie aboard. But he
+came from time to time, and every time I think he loved 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 his absences. I can sit down and measure the depth of
+his lost love now, by such 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 he
+was an angry man at times, even then; but never with me. He was very reckless,
+too; and, once or twice, I heard a whisper among the servants that a doom was
+over him, and that he knew it, and tried to drown his knowledge in wild
+activity, and even sometimes, sir, in wine. So I grew up in this grand mansion,
+in that lonely place. Everything around me seemed at my disposal, and I think
+every one loved me; I am sure I loved them. Till about two years ago&mdash;I
+remember it well&mdash;my father had come to England, to us; and he seemed so
+proud and so pleased with me and all I had done. And one day his tongue seemed
+loosened with wine, and he told me much that I had not known till
+then,&mdash;how dearly he had loved my mother, yet how his wilful usage had
+caused her death; and then he went on to say how he loved me better than any
+creature on earth, and how, some day, he hoped to take me to foreign places,
+for that he could hardly bear these long absences from his only child. Then he
+seemed to change suddenly, and said, in a strange, wild way, that I was not to
+believe what he said; that there was many a thing he loved better&mdash;his
+horse&mdash;his dog&mdash;I know not what.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And &rsquo;twas only the next morning that, when I came into his room to
+ask his blessing as was my wont, he received me with fierce and angry words.
+&lsquo;Why had I,&rsquo; so he asked, &lsquo;been delighting myself in such
+wanton mischief&mdash;dancing over the tender plants in the flower-beds, all
+set with the famous Dutch bulbs he had brought from Holland?&rsquo; I had never
+been out of doors that morning, sir, and I could not conceive what he meant,
+and so I said; and then he swore at me for a liar, and said I was of no true
+blood, for he had seen me doing all that mischief himself&mdash;with his own
+eyes. What could I say? He would not listen to me, and even my tears seemed
+only to irritate him. That day was the beginning of my great sorrows. Not long
+after, he reproached me for my undue familiarity&mdash;all unbecoming a
+gentlewoman&mdash;with his grooms. I had been in the stable-yard, laughing and
+talking, he said. Now, sir, I am something of a coward by nature, and I had
+always dreaded horses; be-sides that, my father&rsquo;s servants&mdash;those
+whom he brought with him from foreign parts&mdash;were wild fellows, whom I had
+always avoided, and to whom I had never spoken, except as a lady must needs
+from time to time speak to her father&rsquo;s people. Yet my father called me
+by names of which I hardly know the meaning, but my heart told me they were
+such as shame any modest woman; and from that day he turned quite against
+me;&mdash;nay, sir, not many weeks after that, he came in with a riding-whip in
+his hand; and, accusing me harshly of evil doings, of which I knew no more than
+you, sir, he was about to strike me, and I, all in bewildering tears, was ready
+to take his stripes as great kindness compared to his harder words, when
+suddenly he stopped his arm mid-way, gasped and staggered, crying out,
+&lsquo;The curse&mdash;the curse!&rsquo; I looked up in terror. In the great
+mirror opposite I saw myself, and right behind, another wicked, fearful self,
+so like me that my soul seemed to quiver within me, as though not knowing to
+which similitude of body it belonged. My father saw my double at the same
+moment, either in its dreadful reality, whatever that might be, or in the
+scarcely less terrible reflection in the mirror; but what came of it at that
+moment I cannot say, for I suddenly swooned away; and when I came to myself I
+was lying in my bed, and my faithful Clarke sitting by me. I was in my bed for
+days; and even while I lay there my double was seen by all, flitting about the
+house and gardens, always about some mischievous or detestable work. What
+wonder that every one shrank from me in dread&mdash;that my father drove me
+forth at length, when the disgrace of which I was the cause was past his
+patience to bear. Mistress Clarke came with me; and here we try to live such a
+life of piety and prayer as may in time set me free from the curse.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All the time she had been speaking, I had been weighing her story in my mind. I
+had hitherto put cases of witchcraft on one side, as mere superstitions; and my
+uncle and I had had many an argument, he supporting himself by the opinion of
+his good friend Sir Matthew Hale. Yet this sounded like the tale of one
+bewitched; or was it merely the effect of a life of extreme seclusion telling
+on the nerves of a sensitive girl? My scepticism inclined me to the latter
+belief, and when she paused I said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I fancy that some physician could have disabused your father of his
+belief in visions&mdash;&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Just at that instant, standing as I was opposite to her in the full and perfect
+morning light, I saw behind her another figure&mdash;a ghastly resemblance,
+complete in likeness, so far as form and feature and minutest touch of dress
+could go, but with a loathsome demon soul looking out of the gray eyes, that
+were in turns mocking and voluptuous. My heart stood still within me; every
+hair rose up erect; my flesh crept with horror. I could not see the grave and
+tender Lucy&mdash;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; then my sight came
+back, and I saw Lucy standing before me, alone, deathly pale, and, I could have
+fancied, almost, shrunk in size.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I<small>T</small> has been near me?&rdquo; she said, as if asking a
+question.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The sound seemed taken out of her voice; it was husky as the notes on an old
+harpsichord when the strings have ceased to vibrate. She read her answer in my
+face, I suppose, for I could not speak. Her look was one of intense 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: she saw the purple moors, the blue
+distant hills, quivering in the sunlight, but nothing else.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Will you take me home?&rdquo; she said, meekly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I took her by the hand, and led her silently through the budding
+heather&mdash;we dared not speak; for we could not tell but that the dread
+creature was listening, although unseen,&mdash;but that <small>IT</small> might
+appear and push us asunder. I never loved her more fondly than now
+when&mdash;and that was the unspeakable misery&mdash;the idea of her was
+becoming so inextricably blended with the shuddering thought of
+<small>IT</small>. She seemed to understand what I must be feeling. She let go
+my hand, which she had kept clasped until then, when we reached the garden
+gate, and went forwards to meet her anxious friend, who was standing by the
+window looking for her. I could not enter the house: I needed silence, society,
+leisure, change&mdash;I knew not what&mdash;to shake off the sensation of that
+creature&rsquo;s presence. Yet I lingered about the garden&mdash;I hardly know
+why; I partly suppose, because I feared to encounter the resemblance again on
+the solitary common, where it had vanished, and partly from a feeling of
+inexpressible compassion for Lucy. In a few minutes Mistress Clarke came forth
+and joined me. We walked some paces in silence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You know all now,&rdquo; said she, solemnly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I saw <small>IT</small>,&rdquo; said I, below my breath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And you shrink from us, now,&rdquo; she said, with a hopelessness which
+stirred up all that was brave or good in me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not a whit,&rdquo; said I. &ldquo;Human flesh shrinks from encounter
+with the powers of darkness: and, for some reason unknown to me, the pure and
+holy Lucy is their victim.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children,&rdquo; she
+said.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Who is her father?&rdquo; asked I. &ldquo;Knowing as much as I do, I may
+surely know more&mdash;know all. Tell me, I entreat you, madam, all that you
+can conjecture respecting this demoniac persecution of one so good.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will; but not now. I must go to Lucy now. Come this afternoon, I will
+see you alone; and oh, sir! I will trust that you may yet find some way to help
+us in our sore trouble!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was miserably exhausted by the swooning affright which had taken possession
+of me. When I reached the inn, I staggered in like one overcome by wine. I went
+to my own private room. It was some time before 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, It was from Sir Philip Tempest: my letter of inquiry
+respecting Mary Fitzgerald had reached him at Li&eacute;ge, where it so
+happened that the Count de la Tour d&rsquo;Auvergne was quartered at the very
+time. He remembered his wife&rsquo;s beautiful attendant; she had had high
+words with the deceased countess, respecting her intercourse with an English
+gentleman of good standing, who was also in the foreign service. The countess
+augured evil of his intentions; while Mary, proud and vehement, asserted that
+he would soon marry her, and resented her mistress&rsquo;s warnings as an
+insult. The consequence was, that she had left Madame de la Tour
+d&rsquo;Auvergne&rsquo;s service, and, as the Count believed, had gone to live
+with the Englishman; whether he had married her, or not, he could not say.
+&ldquo;But,&rdquo; added Sir Philip Tempest, &ldquo;you may easily hear what
+particulars you wish to know respecting Mary Fitzgerald from the Englishman
+himself, if, as I suspect, he is no other than my neighbour and former
+acquaintance, Mr. Gisborne, of Skipford Hall, in the West Riding. I am led to
+the belief that he is no other, by several small particulars, none of which are
+in themselves conclusive, but which, taken together, furnish a mass of
+presumptive evidence. As far as I could make out from the Count&rsquo;s foreign
+pronunciation, Gisborne was the name of the Englishman: I know that Gisborne of
+Skipford was abroad and in the foreign service at that time&mdash;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 old Bridget Fitzgerald, of
+Coldholme, whom he once encountered while staying with me at Starkey
+Manor-house. I remember that the meeting seemed to have produced some
+extraordinary effect upon his mind, as though he had suddenly discovered some
+connection which she might have had with his previous life. I beg you to let me
+know if I can be of any further service to you. Your uncle once rendered me a
+good turn, and I will gladly repay it, so far as in me lies, to his
+nephew.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was now apparently close on the discovery which I had striven so many months
+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 passed that very day. Nothing
+was real but the unreal presence, which had come like an evil blast across my
+bodily eyes, and burnt itself down upon my brain. Dinner came, and went away
+untouched. Early in the afternoon I walked to the farm-house. I found Mistress
+Clarke alone, and I was glad and relieved. She was evidently prepared to tell
+me all I might wish to hear.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You asked me for Mistress Lucy&rsquo;s true name; it is Gisborne,&rdquo;
+she began.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not Gisborne of Skipford?&rdquo; I exclaimed, breathless with
+anticipation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The same,&rdquo; said she, quietly, not regarding my manner. &ldquo;Her
+father is a man of note; although, being a Roman Catholic, he cannot take that
+rank in this country to which his station entitles him. The consequence is that
+he lives much abroad&mdash;has been a soldier, I am told.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;And Lucy&rsquo;s mother?&rdquo; I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She shook her head. &ldquo;I never knew her,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Lucy was
+about three years old when I was engaged to take charge of her. Her mother was
+dead.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But you know her name?&mdash;you can tell if it was Mary
+Fitzgerald?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked astonished. &ldquo;That was her name. But, sir, how came you to be
+so well acquainted with it? It was a mystery to the whole household at Skipford
+Court. She was some beautiful young woman whom he lured away from her
+protectors while he was abroad. I have heard said he practised some terrible
+deceit upon her, and when she came to know it, she was neither to have nor to
+hold, but rushed off from his very arms, and threw herself into a rapid stream
+and was drowned. It stung him deep with remorse, but I used to think the
+remembrance of the mother&rsquo;s cruel death made him love the child yet
+dearer.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I told her, as briefly as might be, of my researches after the descendant and
+heir of the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added&mdash;something of my old lawyer
+spirit returning into me for the moment&mdash;that I had no doubt but that we
+should prove Lucy to be by right possessed of large estates in Ireland.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+No flush came over her gray face; no light into her eyes. &ldquo;And what is
+all the wealth in the whole world to that poor girl?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It
+will not free her from the ghastly bewitchment which persecutes her. As for
+money, what a pitiful thing it is! it cannot touch her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No more can the Evil Creature harm her,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Her holy
+nature dwells apart, and cannot be defiled or stained by all the devilish arts
+in the whole world.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;True! but it is a cruel fate to know that all shrink from her, sooner or
+later, as from one possessed&mdash;accursed.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;How came it to pass?&rdquo; I asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nay, I know not. Old rumours there are, that were bruited through the
+household at Skipford.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; I demanded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;They came from servants, who would fain account for every thing. They
+say that, many years ago, Mr. Gisborne killed a dog belonging to an old witch
+at Coldholme; that she cursed, with a dreadful and mysterious curse, the
+creature, whatever it might be, that he should love best; and that it struck so
+deeply into his heart that for years he kept himself aloof from any temptation
+to love aught. But who could help loving Lucy?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You never heard the witch&rsquo;s name?&rdquo; I gasped.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes&mdash;they called her Bridget: they said he would never go near the
+spot again for terror of her. Yet he was a brave man!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; said I, taking hold of her arm, the better to arrest her
+full attention: &ldquo;if what I suspect holds true, that man stole
+Bridget&rsquo;s only child&mdash;the very Mary Fitzgerald who was Lucy&rsquo;s
+mother; if so, Bridget cursed him in ignorance of the deeper wrong he had done
+her. To this hour she yearns after her lost child, and questions the saints
+whether she be living or not. The roots of that curse lie deeper than she
+knows: she unwittingly banned him for a deeper guilt than that of killing a
+dumb beast. The sins of the fathers are indeed visited upon the
+children.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But,&rdquo; said Mistress Clarke, eagerly, &ldquo;she would never let
+evil rest on her own grandchild? Surely, sir, if what you say be true, there
+are hopes for Lucy. Let us go&mdash;go at once, and tell this fearful woman all
+that you suspect, and beseech her to take off the spell she has put upon her
+innocent grandchild.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It seemed to me, indeed, that something like this was the best course we could
+pursue. But first it was necessary to ascertain more than what mere rumour or
+careless hearsay could tell. My thoughts turned to my uncle&mdash;he could
+advise me wisely&mdash;he ought to know all. I resolved to go to him without
+delay; but I did not choose to tell Mistress Clarke of all the visionary plans
+that flitted through my mind. I simply declared my intention of proceeding
+straight to London on Lucy&rsquo;s affairs. I bade her believe that my interest
+on the young lady&rsquo;s behalf was greater than ever, and that my whole time
+should be given up to her cause. I saw that Mistress Clarke distrusted me,
+because my mind was too full of thoughts for my words to flow freely. She
+sighed and shook her head, and said, &ldquo;Well, it is all right!&rdquo; in
+such a tone that it was an implied reproach. But I was firm and constant in my
+heart, and I took confidence from that.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I rode to London. I rode long days drawn out into the lovely summer nights: I
+could not rest. I reached London. I told my uncle all, though in the stir of
+the great city the horror had faded away, and I could hardly imagine that he
+would believe the account I gave him of the fearful double of Lucy which I had
+seen on the lonely moor-side. But my uncle had lived many years, and learnt
+many things; and, in the deep secrets of family history that had been confided
+to him, he had heard of cases of innocent people bewitched and taken possession
+of by evil spirits yet more fearful than Lucy&rsquo;s. For, as he said, to
+judge from all I told him, that resemblance had no power over her&mdash;she was
+too pure and good to be tainted by its evil, haunting presence. It had, in all
+probability, so my uncle conceived, tried to suggest wicked thoughts and to
+tempt to wicked actions but she, in her saintly maidenhood, had passed on
+undefiled by evil thought or deed. It could not touch her soul: but true, it
+set her apart from all sweet love or common human intercourse. My uncle threw
+himself with an energy more like six-and-twenty than sixty into the
+consideration of the whole case. He undertook the proving Lucy&rsquo;s descent,
+and volunteered to go and find out Mr. Gisborne, and obtain, firstly, the legal
+proofs of her descent from the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and, secondly, to try
+and hear all that he could respecting the working of the curse, and whether any
+and what means had been taken to exorcise that terrible appearance. For he told
+me of instances where, by prayers and long fasting, the evil possessor had been
+driven forth with howling and many cries from the body which it had come to
+inhabit; he spoke of those strange New England cases which had happened not so
+long before; of Mr. Defoe, who had written a book, wherein he had named many
+modes of subduing apparitions, and sending them back whence they came; and,
+lastly, he spoke low of dreadful ways of compelling witches to undo their
+witchcraft. But I could not endure to hear of those tortures and burnings. I
+said that Bridget was rather a wild and savage woman than a malignant witch;
+and, above all, that Lucy was of her kith and kin; and that, in putting her to
+the trial, by water or by fire, we should be torturing&mdash;it might be to the
+death&mdash;the ancestress of her we sought to redeem.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My uncle thought awhile, and then said, that in this last matter I was
+right&mdash;at any rate, it should not be tried, with his consent, till all
+other modes of remedy had failed; and he assented to my proposal that I should
+go myself and see Bridget, and tell her all.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In accordance with this, I went down once more to the wayside inn near
+Coldholme. It was late at night when I arrived there; and, while I supped, I
+inquired of the landlord more particulars as to Bridget&rsquo;s ways. Solitary
+and savage had been her life for many years. Wild and despotic were her words
+and manner to those few people who came across her path. The country-folk did
+her imperious bidding, because they feared to disobey. If they pleased her,
+they prospered; if, on the contrary, they neglected or traversed her behests,
+misfortune, small or great, fell on them and theirs. It was not detestation so
+much as an indefinable terror that she excited.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the morning I went to see her. She was standing on the green outside her
+cottage, and received me with the sullen grandeur of a throneless queen. I read
+in her face that she recognized me, and that I was not unwelcome; but she stood
+silent till I had opened my errand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I have news of your daughter,&rdquo; said I, resolved to speak straight
+to all that I knew she felt of love, and not to spare her. &ldquo;She is
+dead!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The stern figure scarcely trembled, but her hand sought the support of the
+door-post.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I knew that she was dead,&rdquo; said she, deep and low, and then was
+silent for an instant. &ldquo;My tears that should have flowed for her were
+burnt up long years ago. Young man, tell me about her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not yet,&rdquo; said I, having a strange power given me of confronting
+one, whom, nevertheless, in my secret soul I dreaded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You had once a little dog,&rdquo; I continued. The words called out in
+her more show of emotion than the intelligence of her daughter&rsquo;s death.
+She broke in upon my speech:&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I had! It was hers&mdash;the last thing I had of hers&mdash;and it was
+shot for wantonness! It died in my arms. The man who killed that dog rues it to
+this day. For that dumb beast&rsquo;s blood, his best-beloved stands
+accursed.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her eyes distended, as if she were in a trance and saw the working of her
+curse. Again I spoke:&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;O, woman!&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;that best-beloved, standing accursed
+before men, is your dead daughter&rsquo;s child.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The life, the energy, the passion, came back to the eyes with which she pierced
+through me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without another question or word,
+she threw herself on the ground with fearful vehemence, and clutched at the
+innocent daisies with convulsed hands.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bone of my bone! flesh of my flesh! have I cursed thee&mdash;and art
+thou accursed?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So she moaned, as she lay prostrate in her great agony. I stood aghast at my
+own work. She did not hear my broken sentences; she asked no more, but the dumb
+confirmation which my sad looks had given that one fact, that her curse rested
+on her own daughter&rsquo;s child. The fear grew on me lest she should die in
+her strife of body and soul; and then might not Lucy remain under the spell as
+long as she lived?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming through the woodland path that led to
+Bridget&rsquo;s cottage; Mistress Clarke was with her: I felt at my heart that
+it was she, by the balmy peace which the look of her sent over me, as she
+slowly advanced, a glad surprise shining out of her soft quiet eyes. That was
+as her gaze met mine. As her looks fell on the woman lying stiff, convulsed on
+the earth, they became full of tender pity; and she came forward to try and
+lift her up. Seating herself on the turf, she took Bridget&rsquo;s head into
+her lap; and, with gentle touches, she arranged the dishevelled gray hair
+streaming thick and wild from beneath her mutch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;God help her!&rdquo; murmured Lucy. &ldquo;How she suffers!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At her desire we sought for water; but when we returned, Bridget had recovered
+her wandering senses, and was kneeling with clasped hands before Lucy, gazing
+at that sweet sad face as though her troubled nature drank in health and peace
+from every moment&rsquo;s contemplation. A faint tinge on Lucy&rsquo;s pale
+cheeks showed me that she was aware of our return; otherwise it appeared as if
+she was conscious of her influence for good over the passionate and troubled
+woman kneeling before her, and would not willingly avert her grave and loving
+eyes from that wrinkled and careworn countenance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Suddenly&mdash;in the twinkling of an eye&mdash;the creature appeared, there,
+behind Lucy; fearfully the same as to outward semblance, but kneeling exactly
+as Bridget knelt, and clasping her hands in jesting mimicry as Bridget clasped
+hers in her ecstasy that was deepening into a prayer. Mistress Clarke cried
+out&mdash;Bridget arose slowly, her gaze fixed on the creature beyond: drawing
+her breath with a hissing sound, never moving her terrible eyes, that were
+steady as stone, she made a dart at the phantom, and caught, as I had done, a
+mere handful of empty air. We saw no more of the creature&mdash;it vanished as
+suddenly as it came, but Bridget looked slowly on, as if watching some receding
+form. Lucy sat still, white, trembling, drooping&mdash;I think she would have
+swooned if I had not been there to uphold her. While I was attending to her,
+Bridget passed us, without a word to any one, and, entering her cottage, she
+barred herself in, and left us without.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All our endeavours were now directed to get Lucy back to the house where she
+had tarried the night before. Mistress Clarke told me that, not hearing from me
+(some letter must have miscarried), she had grown impatient and despairing, and
+had urged Lucy to the enterprise of coming to seek her grandmother; not telling
+her, indeed, of the dread reputation she possessed, or how we suspected her of
+having so fearfully blighted that innocent girl; but, at the same time, hoping
+much from the mysterious stirring of blood, which Mistress Clarke trusted in
+for the removal of the curse. They had come, by a different route from that
+which I had taken, to a village inn not far from Coldholme, only the night
+before. This was the first interview between ancestress and descendant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All through the sultry noon I wandered along the tangled brush-wood of the old
+neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a matter so complicated
+and mysterious. Meeting a countryman, I asked my way to the nearest clergyman,
+and went, hoping to obtain some counsel from him. But he proved to be a coarse
+and common-minded man, giving no time or attention to the intricacies of a
+case, but dashing out a strong opinion involving immediate action. For
+instance, as soon as I named Bridget Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist! I&rsquo;d have had her ducked
+long since but for that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest. He has had to
+threaten honest folk about here over and over again, or they&rsquo;d have had
+her up before the justices for her black doings. And it&rsquo;s the law of the
+land that witches should be burnt! Ay, and of Scripture, too, sir! Yet you see
+a papist, if he&rsquo;s a rich squire, can overrule both law and Scripture.
+I&rsquo;d carry a faggot myself to rid the country of her!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Such a one could give me no help. I rather drew back what I had already said;
+and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him to several pots of
+beer, in the village inn, to which we had adjourned for our conference at his
+suggestion. I left him as soon as I could, and returned to Coldholme, shaping
+my way past deserted Starkey Manor-house, and coming upon it by the back. At
+that side were the oblong remains of the old moat, the waters of which lay
+placid and motionless under the crimson rays of the setting sun; with the
+forest-trees lying straight along each side, and their deep-green foliage
+mirrored to blackness in the burnished surface of the moat below&mdash;and the
+broken sun-dial at the end nearest the hall&mdash;and the heron, standing on
+one leg at the water&rsquo;s edge, lazily looking down for fish&mdash;the
+lonely and desolate house scarce needed the broken windows, the weeds on the
+door-sill, the broken shutter softly flapping to and fro in the twilight
+breeze, to fill up the picture of desertion and decay. I lingered about the
+place until the growing darkness warned me on. And then I passed along the
+path, cut by the orders of the last lady of Starkey Manor-House, that led me to
+Bridget&rsquo;s cottage. I resolved at once to see her; and, in spite of closed
+doors&mdash;it might be of resolved will&mdash;she should see me. So I knocked
+at her door, gently, loudly, fiercely. I shook it so vehemently that a length
+the old hinges gave way, and with a crash it fell inwards, leaving me suddenly
+face to face with Bridget&mdash;I, red, heated, agitated with my so long
+baffled efforts&mdash;she, stiff as any stone, standing right facing me, her
+eyes dilated with terror, her ashen lips trembling, but her body motionless. In
+her hands she held her crucifix, as if by that holy symbol she sought to oppose
+my entrance. At sight of me, her whole frame relaxed, and she sank back upon a
+chair. Some mighty tension had given way. Still her eyes looked fearfully into
+the gloom of the outer air, made more opaque by the glimmer of the lamp inside,
+which she had placed before the picture of the Virgin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Is she there?&rdquo; asked Bridget, hoarsely.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;No! Who? I am alone. You remember me.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied she, still terror stricken. &ldquo;But
+she&mdash;that creature&mdash;has been looking in upon me through that window
+all day long. I closed it up with my shawl; and then I saw her feet below the
+door, as long as it was light, and I knew she heard my very
+breathing&mdash;nay, worse, my very prayers; and I could not pray, for her
+listening choked the words ere they rose to my lips. Tell me, who is
+she?&mdash;what means that double girl I saw this morning? One had a look of my
+dead Mary; but the other curdled my blood, and yet it was the same!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She had taken hold of my arm, as if to secure herself some human companionship.
+She shook all over with the slight, never-ceasing tremor of intense terror. I
+told her my tale as I have told it you, sparing none of the details.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had driven Lucy forth
+from her father&rsquo;s house&mdash;how I had disbelieved, until, with mine own
+eyes, I had seen another Lucy standing behind my Lucy, the same in form and
+feature, but with the demon-soul looking out of the eyes. I told her all, I
+say, believing that she&mdash;whose curse was working so upon the life of her
+innocent grandchild&mdash;was the only person who could find the remedy and the
+redemption. When I had done, she sat silent for many minutes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You love Mary&rsquo;s child?&rdquo; she asked.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I do, in spite of the fearful working of the curse&mdash;I love her. Yet
+I shrink from her ever since that day on the moor-side. And men must shrink
+from one so accompanied; friends and lovers must stand afar off. Oh, Bridget
+Fitzgerald! loosen the curse! Set her free!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Where is she?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I eagerly caught at the idea that her presence was needed, in order that, by
+some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be reversed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I will go and bring her to you,&rdquo; I exclaimed. Bridget tightened
+her hold upon my arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not so,&rdquo; said she, in a low, hoarse voice. &ldquo;It would kill me
+to see her again as I saw her this morning. And I must live till I have worked
+my work. Leave me!&rdquo; said she, suddenly, and again taking up the cross.
+&ldquo;I defy the demon I have called up. Leave me to wrestle with it!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She stood up, as if in an ecstasy of inspiration, from which all fear was
+banished. I lingered&mdash;why I can hardly tell&mdash;until once more she bade
+me begone. As I went along the forest way, I looked back, and saw her planting
+the cross in the empty threshold, where the door had been.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The next morning Lucy and I went to seek her, to bid her join her prayers with
+ours. The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze. No human being was there:
+the cross remained on the threshold, but Bridget was gone.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2>
+
+<p>
+What was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself. As for Lucy,
+she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon her. Her gentleness and
+piety, under the pressure of so horrible a life, seemed over-passive to me. She
+never complained. Mrs. Clarke complained more than ever. As for me, I was more
+in love with the real Lucy than ever; but I shrunk from the false similitude
+with an intensity proportioned to my love. I found out by instinct that Mrs.
+Clarke had occasional temptations to leave Lucy. The good lady&rsquo;s nerves
+were shaken, and, from what she said, I could almost have concluded that the
+object of the Double was to drive away from Lucy this last, and almost earliest
+friend. At times, I could scarcely bear to own it, but I myself felt inclined
+to turn recreant; and I would accuse Lucy of being too patient&mdash;too
+resigned. One after another, she won the little children of Coldholme. (Mrs.
+Clarke and she had resolved to stay there, for was it not as good a place as
+any other, to such as they? and did not all our faint hopes rest on
+Bridget&mdash;never seen or heard of now, but still we trusted to come back, or
+give some token?) So, as I say, one after another, the little children came
+about my Lucy, won by her soft tones, and her gentle smiles, and kind actions.
+Alas! one after another they fell away, and shrunk from her path with blanching
+terror; and we too surely guessed the reason why. It was the last drop. I could
+bear it no longer. I resolved no more to linger around the spot, but to go back
+to my uncle, and among the learned divines of the city of London, seek for some
+power whereby to annul the curse.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite testimonials relating to
+Lucy&rsquo;s descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and from Mr. Gisborne.
+The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he was again serving in the
+Austrian army), a letter alternately passionately self-reproachful and
+stoically repellant. It was evident that when he thought of Mary&mdash;her
+short life&mdash;how he had wronged her, and of her violent death, he could
+hardly find words severe enough for his own conduct; and from this point of
+view, the curse that Bridget had laid upon him and his, was regarded by him as
+a prophetic doom, to the utterance of which she was moved by a Higher Power,
+working for the fulfilment of a deeper vengeance than for the death of the poor
+dog. But then, again, when he came to speak of his daughter, the repugnance
+which the conduct of the demoniac creature had produced in his mind, was but
+ill-disguised under a show of profound indifference as to Lucy&rsquo;s fate.
+One almost felt as if he would have been as content to put her out of
+existence, as he would have been to destroy some disgusting reptile that had
+invaded his chamber or his couch.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy&rsquo;s; and that was all&mdash;was
+nothing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My uncle and I sat in the gloom of a London November evening, in our house in
+Ormond Street. I was out of health, and felt as if I were in an inextricable
+coil of misery. Lucy and I wrote to each other, but that was little; and we
+dared not see each other for dread of the fearful Third, who had more than once
+taken her place at our meetings. My uncle had, on the day I speak of, bidden
+prayers to be put up on the ensuing Sabbath in many a church and meeting-house
+in London, for one grievously tormented by an evil spirit. He had faith in
+prayers&mdash;I had none; I was fast losing faith in all things. So we sat, he
+trying to interest me in the old talk of other days, I oppressed by one
+thought&mdash;when our old servant, Anthony, opened the door, and, without
+speaking, showed in a very gentlemanly and prepossessing man, who had something
+remarkable about his dress, betraying his profession to be that of the Roman
+Catholic priesthood. He glanced at my uncle first, then at me. It was to me he
+bowed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I did not give my name,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;because you would hardly
+have recognised it; unless, sir, when, in the north, you heard of Father
+Bernard, the chaplain at Stoney Hurst?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I had utterly
+forgotten it; so I professed myself a complete stranger to him; while my
+ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as much as it was in his nature
+to hate anything, placed a chair for the visitor, and bade Anthony bring
+glasses, and a fresh jug of claret.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful ease and pleasant
+acknowledgement which belongs to a man of the world. Then he turned to scan me
+with his keen glance. After some alight conversation, entered into on his part,
+I am certain, with an intention of discovering on what terms of confidence I
+stood with my uncle, he paused, and said gravely&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I am sent here with a message to you, sir, from a woman to whom you have
+shown kindness, and who is one of my penitents, in Antwerp&mdash;one Bridget
+Fitzgerald.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Bridget Fitzgerald!&rdquo; exclaimed I. &ldquo;In Antwerp? Tell me, sir,
+all that you can about her.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;There is much to be said,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;But may I inquire if
+this gentleman&mdash;if your uncle is acquainted with the particulars of which
+you and I stand informed?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All that I know, he knows,&rdquo; said I, eagerly laying my hand on my
+uncle&rsquo;s arm, as he made a motion as if to quit the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Then I have to speak before two gentlemen who, however they may differ
+from me in faith, are yet fully impressed with the fact that there are evil
+powers going about continually to take cognizance of our evil thoughts: and, if
+their Master gives them power, to bring them into overt action. Such is my
+theory of the nature of that sin, which I dare not disbelieve&mdash;as some
+sceptics would have us do&mdash;the sin of witchcraft. Of this deadly sin, you
+and I are aware, Bridget Fitzgerald has been guilty. Since you saw her last,
+many prayers have been offered in our churches, many masses sung, many penances
+undergone, in order that, if God and the holy saints so willed it, her sin
+might be blotted out. But it has not been so willed.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Explain to me,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;who you are, and how you come
+connected with Bridget. Why is she at Antwerp? I pray you, sir, tell me more.
+If I am impatient, excuse me; I am ill and feverish, and in consequence
+bewildered.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was something to me inexpressibly soothing in the tone of voice with
+which he began to narrate, as it were from the beginning, his acquaintance with
+Bridget.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I had known Mr. and Mrs. Starkey during their residence abroad, and so
+it fell out naturally that, when I came as chaplain to the Sherburnes at Stoney
+Hurst, our acquaintance was renewed; and thus I became the confessor of the
+whole family, isolated as they were from the offices of the Church, Sherburne
+being their nearest neighbour who professed the true faith. Of course, you are
+aware that facts revealed in confession are sealed as in the grave; but I
+learnt enough of Bridget&rsquo;s character to be convinced that I had to do
+with no common woman; one powerful for good as for evil. I believe that I was
+able to give her spiritual assistance from time to time, and that she looked
+upon me as a servant of that Holy Church, which has such wonderful power of
+moving men&rsquo;s hearts, and relieving them of the burden of their sins. I
+have known her cross the moors on the wildest nights of storm, to confess and
+be absolved; and then she would return, calmed and subdued, to her daily work
+about her mistress, no one witting where she had been during the hours that
+most passed in sleep upon their beds. After her daughter&rsquo;s
+departure&mdash;after Mary&rsquo;s mysterious disappearance&mdash;I had to
+impose many a long penance, in order to wash away the sin of impatient repining
+that was fast leading her into the deeper guilt of blasphemy. She set out on
+that long journey of which you have possibly heard&mdash;that fruitless journey
+in search of Mary&mdash;and during her absence, my superiors ordered my return
+to my former duties at Antwerp, and for many years I heard no more of Bridget.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Not many months ago, as I was passing homewards in the evening, along
+one of the streets near St. Jacques, leading into the Meer Straet, I saw a
+woman sitting crouched up under the shrine of the Holy Mother of Sorrows. Her
+hood was drawn over her head, so that the shadow caused by the light of the
+lamp above fell deep over her face; her hands were clasped round her knees. It
+was evident that she was some one in hopeless trouble, and as such it was my
+duty to stop and speak. I naturally addressed her first in Flemish, believing
+her to be one of the lower class of inhabitants. She shook her head, but did
+not look up. Then I tried French, and she replied in that language, but
+speaking it so indifferently, that I was sure she was either English or Irish,
+and consequently spoke to her in my own native tongue. She recognized my voice;
+and, starting up, caught at my robes, dragging me before the blessed shrine,
+and throwing herself down, and forcing me, as much by her evident desire as by
+her action, to kneel beside her, she exclaimed:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;O Holy Virgin! you will never hearken to me again, but hear him;
+for you know him of old, that he does your bidding, and strives to heal broken
+hearts. Hear him!&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She turned to me.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;She will hear you, if you will only pray. She never hears
+<i>me</i>: she and all the saints in heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the
+Evil One carries them off, as he carried that first away. O, Father Bernard,
+pray for me!&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;I prayed for one in sore distress, of what nature I could not say; but
+the Holy Virgin would know. Bridget held me fast, gasping with eagerness at the
+sound of my words. When I had ended, I rose, and, making the sign of the Cross
+over her, I was going to bless her in the name of the Holy Church, when she
+shrank away like some terrified creature, and said&mdash;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven.&rsquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;&lsquo;Arise, my daughter,&rsquo; said I, &lsquo;and come with
+me.&rsquo; And I led the way into one of the confessionals of St. Jaques.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She knelt; I listened. No words came. The evil powers had stricken her
+dumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when she approached
+confession.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She was too poor to pay for the necessary forms of exorcism; and
+hitherto those priests to whom she had addressed herself were either so
+ignorant of the meaning of her broken French, or her Irish-English, or else
+esteemed her to be one crazed&mdash;as, indeed, her wild and excited manner
+might easily have led any one to think&mdash;that they had neglected the sole
+means of loosening her tongue, so that she might confess her deadly sin, and,
+after due penance, obtain absolution. But I knew Bridget of old, and felt that
+she was a penitent sent to me. I went through those holy offices appointed by
+our Church for the relief of such a case. I was the more bound to do this, as I
+found that she had come to Antwerp for the sole purpose of discovering me, and
+making confession to me. Of the nature of that fearful confession I am
+forbidden to speak. Much of it you know; possibly all.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;It now remains for her to free herself from mortal guilt, and to set
+others free from the consequences thereof. No prayers, no masses, will ever do
+it, although they may strengthen her with that strength by which alone acts of
+deepest love and purest self-devotion may be performed. Her words of passion,
+and cries for revenge&mdash;her unholy prayers could never reach the ears of
+the holy saints! Other powers intercepted them, and wrought so that the curses
+thrown up to heaven have fallen on her own flesh and blood; and so, through her
+very strength of love, have brused and crushed her heart. Henceforward her
+former self must be buried,&mdash;yea, buried quick, if need be,&mdash;but
+never more to make sign, or utter cry on earth! She has become a Poor Clare, in
+order that, by perpetual penance and constant service of others, she may at
+length so act as to obtain final absolution and rest for her soul. Until then,
+the innocent must suffer. It is to plead for the innocent that I come to you;
+not in the name of the witch, Bridget Fitzgerald, but of the penitent and
+servant of all men, the Poor Clare, Sister Magdalen.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;I listen to your request with respect; only I
+may tell you it is not needed to urge me to do all that I can on behalf of one,
+love for whom is part of my very life. If for a time I have absented myself
+from her, it is to think and work for her redemption. I, a member of the
+English Church&mdash;my uncle, a Puritan&mdash;pray morning and night for her
+by name: the congregations of London, on the next Sabbath, will pray for one
+unknown, that she may be set free from the Powers of Darkness. Moreover, I must
+tell you, sir, that those evil ones touch not the great calm of her soul. She
+lives her own pure and loving life, unharmed and untainted, though all men fall
+off from her. I would I could have her faith!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My uncle now spoke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Nephew,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;it seems to me that this gentleman,
+although professing what I consider an erroneous creed, has touched upon the
+right point in exhorting Bridget to acts of love and mercy, whereby to wipe out
+her sin of hate and vengeance. Let us strive after our fashion, by almsgiving
+and visiting of the needy and fatherless, to make our prayers acceptable.
+Meanwhile, I myself will go down into the north, and take charge of the maiden.
+I am too old to be daunted by man or demon. I will bring her to this house as
+to a home; and let the Double come if it will! A company of godly divines shall
+give it the meeting, and we will try issue.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The kindly, brave old man! But Father Bernard sat on musing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;All hate,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;cannot be quenched in her heart; all
+Christian forgiveness cannot have entered into her soul, or the demon would
+have lost its power. You said, I think, that her grandchild was still
+tormented?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Still tormented!&rdquo; I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress
+Clarke&rsquo;s last letter.</p>
+<p>He rose to go. We afterwards heard that the
+occasion of his coming to London was a secret political mission on behalf of
+the Jacobites. Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Months and months passed away without any change. Lucy entreated my uncle to
+leave her where she was,&mdash;dreading, as I learnt, lest if she came, with
+her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me, that my love could
+not stand the repeated shocks to which I should be doomed. And this she thought
+from no distrust of the strength of my affection, but from a kind of pitying
+sympathy for the terror to the nerves which she clearly observed that the
+demoniac visitation caused in all.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was restless and miserable. I devoted myself to good works; but I performed
+them from no spirit of love, but solely from the hope of reward and payment,
+and so the reward was never granted. At length, I asked my uncle&rsquo;s leave
+to travel; and I went forth, a wanderer, with no distincter end than that of
+many another wanderer&mdash;to get away from myself. A strange impulse led me
+to Antwerp, in spite of the wars and commotions then raging in the Low
+Countries&mdash;or rather, perhaps, the very craving to become interested in
+something external, led me into the thick of the struggle then going on with
+the Austrians. The cities of Flanders were all full at that time of civil
+disturbances and rebellions, only kept down by force, and the presence of an
+Austrian garrison in every place.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry for Father Bernard. He was away in the
+country for a day or two. Then I asked my way to the Convent of Poor Clares;
+but, being healthy and prosperous, I could only see the dim, pent-up, gray
+walls, shut closely in by narrow streets, in the lowest part of the town. My
+landlord told me, that had I been stricken by some loathsome disease, or in
+desperate case of any kind, the Poor Clares would have taken me, and tended me.
+He spoke of them as an order of mercy of the strictest kind, dressing scantily
+in the coarsest materials, going barefoot, living on what the inhabitants of
+Antwerp chose to bestow, and sharing even those fragments and crumbs with the
+poor and helpless that swarmed all around; receiving no letters or
+communication with the outer world; utterly dead to everything but the
+alleviation of suffering. He smiled at my inquiring whether I could get speech
+of one of them; and told me that they were even forbidden to speak for the
+purposes of begging their daily food; while yet they lived, and fed others upon
+what was given in charity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;But,&rdquo; exclaimed I, &ldquo;supposing all men forgot them! Would
+they quietly lie down and die, without making sign of their extremity?&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;If such were the rule the Poor Clares would willingly do it; but their
+founder appointed a remedy for such extreme cases as you suggest. They have a
+bell&mdash;&rsquo;tis but a small one, as I have heard, and has yet never been
+rung in the memory of man: when the Poor Clares have been without food for
+twenty-four hours, they may ring this bell, and then trust to our good people
+of Antwerp for rushing to the rescue of the Poor Clares, who have taken such
+blessed care of us in all our straits.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did not say
+what I thought. I rather turned the conversation, by asking my landlord if he
+knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain Sister Magdalen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said he, rather under his breath, &ldquo;news will creep
+out, even from a convent of Poor Clares. Sister Magdalen is either a great
+sinner or a great saint. She does more, as I have heard, than all the other
+nuns put together; yet, when last month they would fain have made her
+mother-superior, she begged rather that they would place her below all the
+rest, and make her the meanest servant of all.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;You never saw her?&rdquo; asked I.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Never,&rdquo; he replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in Antwerp. The
+political state of things became worse than ever, increased to its height by
+the scarcity of food consequent on many deficient harvests. I saw groups of
+fierce, squalid men, at every corner of the street, glaring out with wolfish
+eyes at my sleek skin and handsome clothes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At last Father Bernard returned. We had a long conversation, in which he told
+me that, curiously enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy&rsquo;s father, was serving in
+one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at Antwerp. I asked Father
+Bernard if he would make us acquainted; which he consented to do. But, a day or
+two afterwards, he told me that, on hearing my name, Mr. Gisborne had declined
+responding to any advances on my part, saying he had adjured his country, and
+hated his countrymen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his daughter Lucy.
+Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of making his acquaintance.
+Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of the hidden fermentation, for
+some coming evil, working among the &ldquo;blouses&rdquo; of Antwerp, and he
+would fain have had me depart from out the city; but I rather craved the
+excitement of danger, and stubbornly refused to leave.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to an
+Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;That is Mr. Gisborne,&rdquo; said he, as soon as the gentleman was past.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer. He carried himself
+in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and from his years might
+have had some excuse for a slight stoop. As I looked at the man, he turned
+round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face. Deeply lined, sallow, and scathed
+was that countenance; scarred by passion as well as by the fortunes of war.
+&rsquo;Twas but a moment our eyes met. We each turned round, and went on our
+separate way.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the thorough
+appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on it, made but an
+incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of his countenance. Because
+he was Lucy&rsquo;s father, I sought instinctively to meet him everywhere. At
+last he must have become aware of my pertinacity, for he gave me a haughty
+scowl whenever I passed him. In one of these encounters, however, I chanced to
+be of some service to him. He was turning the corner of a street, and came
+suddenly on one of the groups of discontented Flemings of whom I have spoken.
+Some words were exchanged, when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a
+slight but skilful cut drew blood from one of those who had insulted him, as he
+fancied, though I was too far off to hear the words. They would all have fallen
+upon him had I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, then well known in
+Antwerp, of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who were perpetually patrolling the
+streets, and who came in numbers to the rescue. I think that neither Mr.
+Gisborne nor the mutinous group of plebeians owed me much gratitude for my
+interference. He had planted himself against a wall, in a skilful attitude of
+fence, ready with his bright glancing rapier to do battle with all the heavy,
+fierce, unarmed men, some six or seven in number. But when his own soldiers
+came up, he sheathed his sword; and, giving some careless word of command, sent
+them away again, and continued his saunter all alone down the street, the
+workmen snarling in his rear, and more than half-inclined to fall on me for my
+cry for rescue. I cared not if they did, my life seemed so dreary a burden just
+then; and, perhaps, it was this daring loitering among them that prevented
+their attacking me. Instead, they suffered me to fall into conversation with
+them; and I heard some of their grievances. Sore and heavy to be borne were
+they, and no wonder the sufferers were savage and desperate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got out of me
+the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it. Another of the group heard
+his inquiry, and made answer&mdash;&ldquo;I know the man. He is one Gisborne,
+aide-de-camp to the General-Commandant. I know him well.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and muttering
+voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excited their evil blood,
+and which they evidently wished me not to hear, I sauntered away and back to my
+lodgings.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+That night Antwerp was in open revolt. The inhabitants rose in rebellion
+against their Austrian masters. The Austrians, holding the gates of the city,
+remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel; only, from time to time, the
+boom of the great cannon swept sullenly over the town. But if they expected the
+disturbance to die away, and spend itself in a few hours&rsquo; fury, they were
+mistaken. In a day or two, the rioters held possession of the principal
+municipal buildings. Then the Austrians poured forth in bright flaming array,
+calm and smiling, as they marched to the posts assigned, as if the fierce mob
+were no more to them then the swarms of buzzing summer flies. Their practised
+man&oelig;uvres, their well-aimed shot, told with terrible effect; but in the
+place of one slain rioter, three sprang up of his blood to avenge his loss. But
+a deadly foe, a ghastly ally of the Austrians, was at work. Food, scarce and
+dear for months, was now hardly to be obtained at any price. Desperate efforts
+were being made to bring provisions into the city, for the rioters had friends
+without. Close to the city port, nearest to the Scheldt, a great struggle took
+place. I was there, helping the rioters, whose cause I had adopted. We had a
+savage encounter with the Austrians. Numbers fell on both sides: I saw them lie
+bleeding for a moment: then a volley of smoke obscured them; and when it
+cleared away, they were dead&mdash;trampled upon or smothered, pressed down and
+hidden by the freshly-wounded whom those last guns had brought low. And then a
+gray-robed and grey-veiled figure came right across the flashing guns and
+stooped over some one, whose life-blood was ebbing away; sometimes it was to
+give him drink from cans which they carried slung at their sides; sometimes I
+saw the cross held above a dying man, and rapid prayers were being uttered,
+unheard by men in that hellish din and clangour, but listened to by One above.
+I saw all this as in a dream: the reality of that stern time was battle and
+carnage. But I knew that these gray figures, their bare feet all wet with
+blood, and their faces hidden by their veils, were the Poor Clares&mdash;sent
+forth now because dire agony was abroad and imminent danger at hand. Therefore,
+they left their cloistered shelter, and came into that thick and evil
+m&ecirc;l&eacute;e.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Close to me&mdash;driven past me by the struggle of many fighters&mdash;came
+the Antwerp burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon his face; and in an
+instant more, he was thrown by the press upon the Austrian officer Gisborne,
+and ere either had recovered the shock, the burgess had recognized his
+opponent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Ha! the Englishman Gisborne!&rdquo; he cried, and threw himself upon him
+with redoubled fury. He had struck him hard&mdash;the Englishman was down; when
+out of the smoke came a dark-gray figure, and threw herself right under the
+uplifted flashing sword. The burgess&rsquo;s arm stood arrested. Neither
+Austrians nor Anversois willingly harmed the Poor Clares.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;Leave him to me!&rdquo; said a low stern voice. &ldquo;He is mine
+enemy&mdash;mine for many years.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Those words were the last I heard. I myself was struck down by a bullet. I
+remember nothing more for days. When I came to myself, I was at the extremity
+of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit my strength. My landlord sat
+watching me. He, too, looked pinched and shrunken; he had heard of my wounded
+state, and sought me out. Yes! the struggle still continued, but the famine was
+sore: and some, he had heard, had died for lack of food. The tears stood in his
+eyes as he spoke. But soon he shook off his weakness, and his natural
+cheerfulness returned. Father Bernard had been to see me&mdash;no one else.
+(Who should, indeed?) Father Bernard would come back that afternoon&mdash;he
+had promised. But Father Bernard never came, although I was up and dressed, and
+looking eagerly for him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself: of what it was
+composed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and with every mouthful I
+seemed to gain strength. The good man sat looking at my evident enjoyment with
+a happy smile of sympathy; but, as my appetite became satisfied, I began to
+detect a certain wistfulness in his eyes, as if craving for the food I had so
+nearly devoured&mdash;for, indeed, at that time I was hardly aware of the
+extent of the famine. Suddenly, there was a sound of many rushing feet past our
+window. My landlord opened one of the sides of it, the better to learn what was
+going on. Then we heard a faint, cracked, tinkling bell, coming shrill upon the
+air, clear and distinct from all other sounds. &ldquo;Holy Mother!&rdquo;
+exclaimed my landlord, &ldquo;the Poor Clares!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into my hands,
+bidding me follow. Down stairs he ran, clutching at more food, as the women of
+his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a moment we were in the street,
+moving along with the great current, all tending towards the Convent of the
+Poor Clares. And still, as if piercing our ears with its inarticulate cry, came
+the shrill tinkle of the bell. In that strange crowd were old men trembling and
+sobbing, as they carried their little pittance of food; women with tears
+running down their cheeks, who had snatched up what provisions they had in the
+vessels in which they stood, so that the burden of these was in many cases much
+greater than that which they contained; children, with flushed faces, grasping
+tight the morsel of bitten cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it safe
+to the help of the Poor Clares; strong men&mdash;yea, both Anversois and
+Austrians&mdash;pressing onward with set teeth, and no word spoken; and over
+all, and through all, came that sharp tinkle&mdash;that cry for help in
+extremity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and piteous faces:
+they were issuing out of the convent to make way for the offerings of others.
+&ldquo;Haste, haste!&rdquo; said they. &ldquo;A Poor Clare is dying! A Poor
+Clare is dead for hunger! God forgive us and our city!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We pressed on. The stream bore us along where it would. We were carried through
+refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over whose doors the conventual
+name of the occupant was written. Thus it was that I, with others, was forced
+into Sister Magdalen&rsquo;s cell. On her couch lay Gisborne, pale unto death,
+but not dead. By his side was a cup of water, and a small morsel of mouldy
+bread, which he had pushed out of his reach, and could not move to obtain. Over
+against his bed were these words, copied in the English version
+&ldquo;Therefore, if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him
+drink.&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like some
+famished wild animal. For now it was no longer the sharp tinkle, but that one
+solemn toll, which in all Christian countries tells of the passing of the
+spirit out of earthly life into eternity; and again a murmur gathered and grew,
+as of many people speaking with awed breath, &ldquo;A Poor Clare is dying! a
+Poor Clare is dead!&rdquo;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried into the
+chapel belonging to the Poor Clares. On a bier before the high altar, lay a
+woman&mdash;lay Sister Magdalen&mdash;lay Bridget Fitzgerald. By her side stood
+Father Bernard, in his robes of office, and holding the crucifix on high while
+he pronounced the solemn absolution of the Church, as to one who had newly
+confessed herself of deadly sin. I pushed on with passionate force, till I
+stood close to the dying woman, as she received extreme unction amid the
+breathless and awed hush of the multitude around. Her eyes were glazing, her
+limbs were stiffening; but when the rite was over and finished, she raised her
+gaunt figure slowly up, and her eyes brightened to a strange intensity of joy,
+as, with the gesture of her finger and the trance-like gleam of her eye, she
+seemed like one who watched the disappearance of some loathed and fearful
+creature.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+&ldquo;She is freed from the curse!&rdquo; said she, as she fell back dead.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POOR CLARE ***</div>
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+The Project Gutenberg Etext The Poor Clare, by Elizabeth Gaskell
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+Title:  The Poor Clare
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+Author:  Elizabeth Gaskell
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+March, 2001  [Etext #2548]
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+The Project Gutenberg Etext The Poor Clare, by Elizabeth Gaskell
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+This etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
+from the 1896 "Lizzie Leigh and Other Tales" Macmillan and Co. edition.
+Proofing was by Audrey Emmitt and Eugenia Corbo.
+
+
+
+
+
+THE POOR CLARE
+
+by Elizabeth Gaskell
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+
+
+December 12th, 1747.--My life has been strangely bound up with
+extraordinary incidents, some of which occurred before I had any
+connection with the principal actors in them, or indeed, before I
+even knew of their existence.  I suppose, most old men are, like me,
+more given to looking back upon their own career with a kind of fond
+interest and affectionate remembrance, than to watching the events--
+though these may have far more interest for the multitude--
+immediately passing before their eyes.  If this should be the case
+with the generality of old people, how much more so with me! . . . If
+I am to enter upon that strange story connected with poor Lucy, I
+must begin a long way back.  I myself only came to the knowledge of
+her family history after I knew her; but, to make the tale clear to
+any one else, I must arrange events in the order in which they
+occurred--not that in which I became acquainted with them.
+
+There is a great old hall in the north-east of Lancashire, in a part
+they called the Trough of Bolland, adjoining that other district
+named Craven.  Starkey Manor-house is rather like a number of rooms
+clustered round a gray, massive, old keep than a regularly-built
+hall.  Indeed, I suppose that the house only consisted of a great
+tower in the centre, in the days when the Scots made their raids
+terrible as far south as this; and that after the Stuarts came in,
+and there was a little more security of property in those parts, the
+Starkeys of that time added the lower building, which runs, two
+stories high, all round the base of the keep.  There has been a grand
+garden laid out in my days, on the southern slope near the house; but
+when I first knew the place, the kitchen-garden at the farm was the
+only piece of cultivated ground belonging to it.  The deer used to
+come within sight of the drawing-room windows, and might have browsed
+quite close up to the house if they had not been too wild and shy.
+Starkey Manor-house itself stood on a projection or peninsula of high
+land, jutting out from the abrupt hills that form the sides of the
+Trough of Bolland.  These hills were rocky and bleak enough towards
+their summit; lower down they were clothed with tangled copsewood and
+green depths of fern, out of which a gray giant of an ancient forest-
+tree would tower here and there, throwing up its ghastly white
+branches, as if in imprecation, to the sky.  These trees, they told
+me, were the remnants of that forest which existed in the days of the
+Heptarchy, and were even then noted as landmarks.  No wonder that
+their upper and more exposed branches were leafless, and that the
+dead bark had peeled away, from sapless old age.
+
+Not far from the house there were a few cottages, apparently, of the
+same date as the keep; probably built for some retainers of the
+family, who sought shelter--they and their families and their small
+flocks and herds--at the hands of their feudal lord.  Some of them
+had pretty much fallen to decay.  They were built in a strange
+fashion.  Strong beams had been sunk firm in the ground at the
+requisite distance, and their other ends had been fastened together,
+two and two, so as to form the shape of one of those rounded waggon-
+headed gipsy-tents, only very much larger.  The spaces between were
+filled with mud, stones, osiers, rubbish, mortar--anything to keep
+out the weather.  The fires were made in the centre of these rude
+dwellings, a hole in the roof forming the only chimney.  No Highland
+hut or Irish cabin could be of rougher construction.
+
+The owner of this property, at the beginning of the present century,
+was a Mr. Patrick Byrne Starkey.  His family had kept to the old
+faith, and were stanch Roman Catholics, esteeming it even a sin to
+marry any one of Protestant descent, however willing he or she might
+have been to embrace the Romish religion.  Mr. Patrick Starkey's
+father had been a follower of James the Second; and, during the
+disastrous Irish campaign of that monarch he had fallen in love with
+an Irish beauty, a Miss Byrne, as zealous for her religion and for
+the Stuarts as himself.  He had returned to Ireland after his escape
+to France, and married her, bearing her back to the court at St.
+Germains.  But some licence on the part of the disorderly gentlemen
+who surrounded King James in his exile, had insulted his beautiful
+wife, and disgusted him; so he removed from St. Germains to Antwerp,
+whence, in a few years' time, he quietly returned to Starkey Manor-
+house--some of his Lancashire neighbours having lent their good
+offices to reconcile him to the powers that were.  He was as firm a
+Catholic as ever, and as stanch an advocate for the Stuarts and the
+divine rights of kings; but his religion almost amounted to
+asceticism, and the conduct of these with whom he had been brought in
+such close contact at St. Germains would little bear the inspection
+of a stern moralist.  So he gave his allegiance where he could not
+give his esteem, and learned to respect sincerely the upright and
+moral character of one whom he yet regarded as an usurper.  King
+William's government had little need to fear such a one.  So he
+returned, as I have said, with a sobered heart and impoverished
+fortunes, to his ancestral house, which had fallen sadly to ruin
+while the owner had been a courtier, a soldier, and an exile.  The
+roads into the Trough of Bolland were little more than cart-ruts;
+indeed, the way up to the house lay along a ploughed field before you
+came to the deer-park.  Madam, as the country-folk used to call Mrs.
+Starkey, rode on a pillion behind her husband, holding on to him with
+a light hand by his leather riding-belt.  Little master (he that was
+afterwards Squire Patrick Byrne Starkey) was held on to his pony by a
+serving-man.  A woman past middle age walked, with a firm and strong
+step, by the cart that held much of the baggage; and high up on the
+mails and boxes, sat a girl of dazzling beauty, perched lightly on
+the topmost trunk, and swaying herself fearlessly to and fro, as the
+cart rocked and shook in the heavy roads of late autumn.  The girl
+wore the Antwerp faille, or black Spanish mantle over her head, and
+altogether her appearance was such that the old cottager, who
+described the possession to me many years after, said that all the
+country-folk took her for a foreigner.  Some dogs, and the boy who
+held them in charge, made up the company.  They rode silently along,
+looking with grave, serious eyes at the people, who came out of the
+scattered cottages to bow or curtsy to the real Squire, "come back at
+last," and gazed after the little procession with gaping wonder, not
+deadened by the sound of the foreign language in which the few
+necessary words that passed among them were spoken.  One lad, called
+from his staring by the Squire to come and help about the cart,
+accompanied them to the Manor-house.  He said that when the lady had
+descended from her pillion, the middle-aged woman whom I have
+described as walking while the others rode, stepped quickly forward,
+and taking Madam Starkey (who was of a slight and delicate figure) in
+her arms, she lifted her over the threshold, and set her down in her
+husband's house, at the same time uttering a passionate and
+outlandish blessing.  The Squire stood by, smiling gravely at first;
+but when the words of blessing were pronounced, he took off his fine
+feathered hat, and bent his head.  The girl with the black mantle
+stepped onward into the shadow of the dark hall, and kissed the
+lady's hand; and that was all the lad could tell to the group that
+gathered round him on his return, eager to hear everything, and to
+know how much the Squire had given him for his services.
+
+From all I could gather, the Manor-house, at the time of the Squire's
+return, was in the most dilapidated state.  The stout gray walls
+remained firm and entire; but the inner chambers had been used for
+all kinds of purposes.  The great withdrawing-room had been a barn;
+the state tapestry-chamber had held wool, and so on.  But, by-and-by,
+they were cleared out; and if the Squire had no money to spend on new
+furniture, he and his wife had the knack of making the best of the
+old.  He was no despicable joiner; she had a kind of grace in
+whatever she did, and imparted an air of elegant picturesqueness to
+whatever she touched.  Besides, they had brought many rare things
+from the Continent; perhaps I should rather say, things that were
+rare in that part of England--carvings, and crosses, and beautiful
+pictures.  And then, again, wood was plentiful in the Trough of
+Bolland, and great log-fires danced and glittered in all the dark,
+old rooms, and gave a look of home and comfort to everything.
+
+Why do I tell you all this?  I have little to do with the Squire and
+Madame Starkey; and yet I dwell upon them, as if I were unwilling to
+come to the real people with whom my life was so strangely mixed up.
+Madam had been nursed in Ireland by the very woman who lifted her in
+her arms, and welcomed her to her husband's home in Lancashire.
+Excepting for the short period of her own married life, Bridget
+Fitzgerald had never left her nursling.  Her marriage--to one above
+her in rank--had been unhappy.  Her husband had died, and left her in
+even greater poverty than that in which she was when he had first met
+with her.  She had one child, the beautiful daughter who came riding
+on the waggon-load of furniture that was brought to the Manor-house.
+Madame Starkey had taken her again into her service when she became a
+widow.  She and her daughter had followed "the mistress" in all her
+fortunes; they had lived at St. Germains and at Antwerp, and were now
+come to her home in Lancashire.  As soon as Bridget had arrived
+there, the Squire gave her a cottage of her own, and took more pains
+in furnishing it for her than he did in anything else out of his own
+house.  It was only nominally her residence.  She was constantly up
+at the great house; indeed, it was but a short cut across the woods
+from her own home to the home of her nursling.  Her daughter Mary, in
+like manner, moved from one house to the other at her own will.
+Madam loved both mother and child dearly.  They had great influence
+over her, and, through her, over her husband.  Whatever Bridget or
+Mary willed was sure to come to pass.  They were not disliked; for,
+though wild and passionate, they were also generous by nature.  But
+the other servants were afraid of them, as being in secret the ruling
+spirits of the household.  The Squire had lost his interest in all
+secular things; Madam was gentle, affectionate, and yielding.  Both
+husband and wife were tenderly attached to each other and to their
+boy; but they grew more and more to shun the trouble of decision on
+any point; and hence it was that Bridget could exert such despotic
+power.  But if everyone else yielded to her "magic of a superior
+mind," her daughter not unfrequently rebelled.  She and her mother
+were too much alike to agree.  There were wild quarrels between them,
+and wilder reconciliations.  There were times when, in the heat of
+passion, they could have stabbed each other.  At all other times they
+both--Bridget especially--would have willingly laid down their lives
+for one another.  Bridget's love for her child lay very deep--deeper
+than that daughter ever knew; or I should think she would never have
+wearied of home as she did, and prayed her mistress to obtain for her
+some situation--as waiting maid--beyond the seas, in that more
+cheerful continental life, among the scenes of which so many of her
+happiest years had been spent.  She thought, as youth thinks, that
+life would last for ever, and that two or three years were but a
+small portion of it to pass away from her mother, whose only child
+she was.  Bridget thought differently, but was too proud ever to show
+what she felt.  If her child wished to leave her, why--she should go.
+But people said Bridget 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 Mary wanted for a time to leave the place, and to
+seek some change, and would thankfully have taken her mother with
+her.  Indeed when Madam Starkey had gotten her a situation with some
+grand lady abroad, and the time drew near for her to go, it was Mary
+who clung to her mother with passionate embrace, and, with floods of
+tears, declared that she would never leave her; and it was Bridget,
+who at last loosened her arms, and, grave and tearless herself, bade
+her keep her word, and go forth into the wide world.  Sobbing aloud,
+and looking back continually, Mary went away.  Bridget was still as
+death, scarcely drawing her breath, or closing her stony eyes; till
+at last she turned back into her cottage, and heaved a ponderous old
+settle against the door.  There she sat, motionless, over the gray
+ashes of her extinguished fire, deaf to Madam's sweet voice, as she
+begged leave to enter and comfort her nurse.  Deaf, stony, and
+motionless, she sat for more than twenty hours; till, for the third
+time, Madam came across the snowy path from the great house, carrying
+with her a young spaniel, which had been Mary's pet up at the hall;
+and which had not ceased all night long to seek for its absent
+mistress, and to whine and moan after her.  With tears Madam told
+this story, through the closed door--tears excited by the terrible
+look of anguish, so steady, so immovable--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 it shivered with the cold.
+Bridget stirred; she moved--she listened.  Again that long whine; she
+thought it was for her daughter; and what she had denied to her
+nursling and mistress she granted to the dumb creature that Mary had
+cherished.  She opened the door, and took the dog from Madam's arms.
+Then Madam came in, and kissed and comforted the old woman, who took
+but little notice of her or anything.  And sending up Master Patrick
+to the hall for fire and food, the sweet young lady never left her
+nurse all that night.  Next day, the Squire himself came down,
+carrying a beautiful foreign picture--Our Lady of the Holy Heart, the
+Papists call it.  It is a picture of the Virgin, her heart pierced
+with arrows, each arrow representing one of her great woes.  That
+picture hung in Bridget's cottage 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
+her darling.  I have heard that she talked to it continually;
+although, to most people, she was so silent.  The Squire and Madam
+treated her with the greatest consideration, and well they might; for
+to them she was as devoted and faithful as ever.  Mary wrote pretty
+often, and seemed satisfied with her life.  But at length the letters
+ceased--I hardly know whether before or after a great and terrible
+sorrow came upon the house of the Starkeys.  The Squire sickened of a
+putrid fever; and Madam caught it in nursing him, and died.  You may
+be sure, Bridget let no other woman tend her but herself; and in the
+very arms that had received her at her birth, 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 the heart to smile
+again.  He fasted and prayed more than ever; and people did say that
+he tried to cut off the entail, and leave all the property away to
+found a monastery abroad, of which he prayed that some day little
+Squire 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 he could 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 the way it was to be held while he was a
+minor.  Of course, Bridget was not forgotten.  He sent for her as he
+lay on his death-bed, and asked her if she would rather have a sum
+down, or have a small annuity settled upon her.  She said at once she
+would have a sum down; for she thought of her daughter, and how she
+could bequeath the money to her, whereas an annuity would 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 a heart
+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
+left alone.
+
+I have said that she had not heard from Mary for some time.  In her
+last letter, she had told of travelling about with her mistress, who
+was the English wife of some great foreign officer, and had spoken of
+her chances of making a good marriage, without naming the gentleman's
+name, keeping it rather back as a pleasant surprise to her mother;
+his station and fortune being, as I had afterwards reason to know,
+far superior to anything she had a right to expect.  Then came a long
+silence; and Madam was dead, and the Squire was dead; and Bridget's
+heart was gnawed by anxiety, and she knew not whom to ask for news of
+her child.  She could not write, and the Squire had managed her
+communication with her daughter.  She walked off to Hurst; and got a
+good priest there--one whom she had known at Antwerp--to write for
+her.  But no answer came.  It was like crying into the' awful
+stillness of night.
+
+One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been
+accustomed to mark her goings-out and comings-in.  She had never been
+sociable with any 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, and her house-door remained closed, her window
+dead from any glitter, or light 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 through the blank unshuttered
+window.  But, at last, they summoned up courage; and then saw that
+Bridget's absence from their little world was not the result of
+accident or death, but of premeditation.  Such small articles of
+furniture as could be secured from the effects of time and damp by
+being packed up, were stowed away in boxes.  The picture of the
+Madonna was taken down, and gone.  In a word, Bridget had stolen away
+from her home, 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 her lost daughter.  She was too illiterate to have faith
+in letters, even had she had the means of writing and sending many.
+But she had faith in her own strong love, and believed that her
+passionate instinct would guide her to her child.  Besides, foreign
+travel was no new thing to her, and she could speak enough of French
+to explain the object of her journey, and had, moreover, the
+advantage of being, from her faith, a welcome object of charitable
+hospitality at many a distant convent.  But the country people round
+Starkey Manor-house knew nothing of all this.  They wondered what had
+become of her, in a torpid, lazy fashion, and then left off thinking
+of her altogether.  Several years passed.  Both Manor-house and
+cottage were deserted.  The young Squire lived far away under the
+direction of his guardians.  There were inroads of wool and corn into
+the sitting-rooms of the Hall; and there was some low talk, from time
+to time, among the hinds and country people whether it would not be
+as well to break into old Bridget's cottage, and save such of her
+goods as were left from the moth and rust which must be making sad
+havoc.  But this idea was always quenched by the recollection of her
+strong character and passionate anger; and tales of her masterful
+spirit, and vehement force of will, were whispered about, till the
+very thought of offending her, by touching any article of hers,
+became invested with a kind of horror:  it was believed that, dead or
+alive, she would not fail to avenge it.
+
+Suddenly she came home; with as little noise or note of preparation
+as she had departed.  One day some one noticed a thin, blue curl of
+smoke ascending from her chimney.  Her door stood open to the noonday
+sun; and, ere many hours had elapsed, some one had seen an old
+travel-and-sorrow-stained woman dipping her pitcher in the well; and
+said, that the dark, solemn eyes that looked up at him were more like
+Bridget Fitzgerald's than any one else's in this world; and yet, if
+it were she, she looked as if she had been scorched in the flames of
+hell, so brown, and scared, and fierce a creature did she seem.  By-
+and-by many saw her; and those who met her eye once cared not to be
+caught looking at her again.  She had got into the habit of
+perpetually talking to herself; nay, more, answering herself, and
+varying her tones according to the side she took at the moment.  It
+was no wonder that those who dared to listen outside her door at
+night believed that she held converse with some spirit; in short, she
+was unconsciously earning for herself the dreadful reputation of a
+witch.
+
+Her little dog, which had wandered half over the Continent with her,
+was her only companion; a dumb remembrancer of happier days.  Once he
+was ill; and she carried him more than three miles, to ask about his
+management from one who had been groom to the last Squire, and had
+then been noted for his skill in all diseases of animals.  Whatever
+this man did, the dog recovered; and they who heard her thanks,
+intermingled with blessings (that were rather promises of good
+fortune than prayers), looked grave at his good luck when, next year,
+his ewes twinned, and his meadow-grass was heavy and thick.
+
+Now it so happened that, about the year seventeen hundred and eleven,
+one of the guardians of the young squire, a certain Sir Philip
+Tempest, bethought him of the good shooting there must be on his
+ward's property; and in consequence he brought down four or five
+gentlemen, of his friends, to stay for a week or two at the Hall.
+From all accounts, they roystered and spent pretty freely.  I never
+heard any of their names but one, and that was Squire Gisborne's.  He
+was hardly a middle-aged man then; he had been much abroad, and
+there, I believe, he had known Sir Philip Tempest, and done him some
+service.  He was a daring and dissolute fellow in those days:
+careless and fearless, and one who would rather be in a quarrel than
+out of it.  He had his fits of ill-temper besides, when he would
+spare neither man nor beast.  Otherwise, those who knew him well,
+used to say he had a good heart, when he was neither drunk, nor
+angry, nor in any way vexed.  He had altered much when I came to know
+him.
+
+One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but little
+success, I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had none, and was in a black
+humour accordingly.  He was coming home, having his gun loaded,
+sportsman-like, when little Mignon crossed his path, just as he
+turned out of the wood by Bridget's cottage.  Partly for wantonness,
+partly to vent his spleen upon some living creature.  Mr. Gisborne
+took his gun, and fired--he had better have never fired gun again,
+than aimed that unlucky shot, he hit Mignon, and at the creature's
+sudden cry, Bridget came out, and saw at a glance what had been done.
+She took Mignon up in her arms, and looked hard at the wound; the
+poor dog looked at her with his glazing eyes, and tried to wag his
+tail and lick her hand, all covered with blood.  Mr. Gisborne spoke
+in a kind of sullen penitence:
+
+"You should have kept the dog out of my way--a little poaching
+varmint."
+
+At this very moment, Mignon stretched out his legs, and stiffened in
+her arms--her lost Mary's dog, who had wandered and sorrowed with her
+for years.  She walked right into Mr. Gisborne's path, and fixed his
+unwilling, sullen look, with her dark and terrible eye.
+
+"Those never throve that did me harm," said she.  "I'm alone in the
+world, and helpless; the more do the saints in heaven hear my
+prayers.  Hear me, ye blessed ones! hear me while I ask for sorrow on
+this bad, cruel man.  He has killed the only creature that loved me--
+the dumb beast that I loved.  Bring down heavy sorrow on his head for
+it, O ye saints!  He thought that I was helpless, because he saw me
+lonely and poor; but are not the armies of heaven for the like of
+me?"
+
+"Come, come," said he, half remorseful, but not one whit afraid.
+"Here's a crown to buy thee another dog.  Take it, and leave off
+cursing!  I care none for thy threats."
+
+"Don't you?" said she, coming a step closer, and changing her
+imprecatory cry for a whisper which made the gamekeeper's lad,
+following Mr. Gisborne, creep all over.  "You shall live to see the
+creature you love best, and who alone loves you--ay, a human
+creature, but as innocent and fond as my poor, dead darling--you
+shall see this creature, for whom death would be too happy, become a
+terror and a loathing to all, for this blood's sake.  Hear me, O holy
+saints, who never fail them that have no other help!"
+
+She threw up her right hand, filled with poor Mignon's life-drops;
+they spirted, one or two of them, on his shooting-dress,--an ominous
+sight to the follower.  But the master only laughed a little, forced,
+scornful laugh, and went on to the Hall.  Before he got there,
+however, he took out a gold piece, and bade the boy carry it to the
+old woman on his return to the village.  The lad was "afeared," as he
+told me in after years; he came to the cottage, and hovered about,
+not daring to enter.  He peeped through the window at last; and by
+the flickering wood-flame, he saw Bridget kneeling before the picture
+of Our Lady of the Holy Heart, with dead Mignon lying between her and
+the Madonna.  She was praying wildly, as her outstretched arms
+betokened.  The lad shrunk away in redoubled terror; and contented
+himself with slipping the gold piece under the ill-fitting door.  The
+next day it was thrown out upon the midden; and there it lay, no one
+daring to touch it.
+
+Meanwhile Mr. Gisborne, half curious, half uneasy, thought to lessen
+his uncomfortable feelings by asking Sir Philip who Bridget was?  He
+could only describe her--he did not know her name.  Sir Philip was
+equally at a loss.  But an old servant of the Starkeys, who had
+resumed his livery at the Hall on this occasion--a scoundrel whom
+Bridget had saved from dismissal more than once during her palmy
+days--said:-
+
+"It will be the old witch, that his worship means.  She needs a
+ducking, if ever a woman did, does that Bridget Fitzgerald."
+
+"Fitzgerald!" said both the gentlemen at once.  But Sir Philip was
+the first to continue:-
+
+"I must have no talk of ducking her, Dickon.  Why, she must be the
+very woman poor Starkey bade me have a care of; but when I came here
+last she was gone, no one knew where.  I'll go and see her to-morrow.
+But mind you, sirrah, if any harm comes to her, or any more talk of
+her being a witch--I've a pack of hounds at home, who can follow the
+scent of a lying knave as well as ever they followed a dog-fox; so
+take care how you talk about ducking a faithful old servant of your
+dead master's."
+
+"Had she ever a daughter?" asked Mr. Gisborne, after a while.
+
+"I don't know--yes!  I've a notion she had; a kind of waiting woman
+to Madam Starkey."
+
+"Please your worship," said humbled Dickon, "Mistress Bridget had a
+daughter--one Mistress Mary--who went abroad, and has never been
+heard on since; and folk do say that has crazed her mother."
+
+Mr. Gisborne shaded his eyes with his hand.
+
+"I could wish she had not cursed me," he muttered.  "She may have
+power--no one else could."  After a while, he said aloud, no one
+understanding rightly what he meant, "Tush! it is impossible!"--and
+called for claret; and he and the other gentlemen set-to to a
+drinking-bout.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+
+
+I now come to the time in which I myself was mixed up with the people
+that I have been writing about.  And to make you understand how I
+became connected with them, I must give you some little account of
+myself.  My father was the younger son of a Devonshire gentleman of
+moderate property; my eldest uncle succeeded to the estate of his
+forefathers, my second became an eminent attorney in London, and my
+father took orders.  Like most poor clergymen, he had a large family;
+and I have no doubt was glad enough when my London uncle, who was a
+bachelor, offered to 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
+from Gray's Inn, and to be treated and esteemed as his son, and to
+labour with him in his office.  I was very fond of the old gentleman.
+He was the confidential agent of many country squires, and had
+attained to his present position as much by knowledge of human nature
+as by knowledge of law; though he was learned enough in the latter.
+He used to say his business was law, his pleasure heraldry.  From his
+intimate acquaintance with family history, and all the tragic courses
+of life therein involved, to hear him talk, at leisure times, about
+any coat of arms that came across his path was as good as a play or a
+romance.  Many cases of disputed property, dependent on a love of
+genealogy, were brought to him, as to a great authority on such
+points.  If the lawyer who came to consult him was young, he would
+take no fee, only give him a long lecture on the importance of
+attending to heraldry; if the lawyer was of mature age and good
+standing, he would mulct him pretty well, and abuse him to me
+afterwards as negligent of one great branch of the profession.  His
+house was in a stately new street called Ormond Street, and in it he
+had a handsome library; but all the books treated of things that were
+past; none of them planned or looked forward into the 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 of practice in which
+he himself took such delight.  I suspect I worked too hard; at any
+rate, in seventeen hundred and eighteen I was far from well, and my
+good uncle was disturbed by my ill looks.
+
+One day, he rang the bell twice into the clerk's room at the dingy
+office in Grey's Inn Lane.  It was the summons for me, and I went
+into his private room just as a gentleman--whom I knew well enough by
+sight as an Irish lawyer of more reputation than he deserved--was
+leaving.
+
+My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering.  I
+was there two or three minutes before he spoke.  Then he told me that
+I must pack up my portmanteau that very afternoon, and start that
+night by post-horse for West Chester.  I should get there, if all
+went well, at the end of five days' time, and must then wait for a
+packet to cross over to Dublin; from thence I must proceed to a
+certain town named Kildoon, and in that neighbourhood I was to
+remain, making certain inquiries as to the existence of any
+descendants of the younger branch of a family to whom some valuable
+estates had descended in the female line.  The Irish lawyer whom I
+had seen was weary of the case, and would willingly have given up the
+property, without further ado, to a man who appeared to claim them;
+but on laying his tables and trees before my uncle, the latter had
+foreseen so many possible prior claimants, that the lawyer had begged
+him to undertake the management of the whole business.  In his youth,
+my uncle would have liked nothing better than going over to Ireland
+himself, and ferreting out every scrap of paper or parchment, and
+every word of tradition respecting the family.  As it was, old and
+gouty, he deputed me.
+
+Accordingly, I went to Kildoon.  I suspect I had something of my
+uncle's delight in following up a genealogical scent, for I very soon
+found out, when on the spot, that Mr. Rooney, the Irish lawyer, would
+have got both himself and the first claimant into a terrible scrape,
+if he had pronounced his opinion that the estates ought to be given
+up to him.  There were three poor Irish fellows, each nearer of kin
+to the last possessor; but, a generation before, there was a still
+nearer relation, who had never been accounted for, nor his existence
+ever discovered by the lawyers, I venture to think, till I routed him
+out from the memory of some of the old dependants of the family.
+What had become of him?  I travelled backwards and forwards; I
+crossed over to France, and came back again with a slight clue, which
+ended in my discovering that, wild and dissipated himself, he had
+left one child, a son, of yet worse character than his father; that
+this same Hugh Fitzgerald had married a very beautiful serving-woman
+of the Byrnes--a person below him in hereditary rank, but above him
+in character; that he had died soon after his marriage, leaving one
+child, whether a boy or a girl I could not learn, and that the mother
+had returned to live in the family of the Byrnes.  Now, the chief of
+this latter family was serving in the Duke of Berwick's regiment, and
+it was long before I could 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, an Irishman's hatred for an Englishman, an
+exiled Jacobite's jealousy of one who prospered and lived tranquilly
+under the government he looked upon as an usurpation.  "Bridget
+Fitzgerald," he said, "had been faithful to the fortunes of his
+sister--had followed her abroad, and to England when Mrs. Starkey had
+thought fit to return.  Both his sister and her husband were dead, he
+knew nothing of Bridget Fitzgerald at the present time:  probably Sir
+Philip Tempest, his nephew's guardian, might be able to give me some
+information."  I have not given the little contemptuous terms; the
+way in which faithful service was meant to imply more than it said--
+all that has nothing to do with my story.  Sir Philip, when applied
+to, told me that he paid an annuity regularly to an old woman named
+Fitzgerald, living at Coldholme (the village near Starkey Manor-
+house).  Whether she had any descendants he could not say.
+
+One bleak March evening, I came in sight of the places described at
+the beginning of my story.  I could hardly understand the rude
+dialect in which the direction to old Bridget's house was given.
+
+"Yo' see yon furleets," all run together, gave me no idea that I was
+to guide myself by the distant lights that shone in the windows of
+the Hall, 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 grand tour.  However, at last, I reached Bridget's cottage--a
+low, moss-grown place:  the palings that had once surrounded it were
+broken and gone; and the underwood of the forest came up to the
+walls, and must have darkened the windows.  It was about seven
+o'clock--not late to my London notions--but, after knocking for some
+time at the door and receiving no reply, I was driven to conjecture
+that the occupant of the house was gone to bed.  So I betook myself
+to the nearest church I had seen, three miles back on the road I had
+come, sure that close to that I should find an inn of some kind; and
+early the next morning I set off back to Coldholme, by a field-path
+which my host assured me I should find a shorter 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 that covered the ground;
+nevertheless, I saw an old woman, whom I instinctively suspected to
+be the object of my search, in a sheltered covert on one side of my
+path.  I lingered and watched her.  She must have been considerably
+above the middle size in her prime, for when she raised 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 something on the
+ground, as, with bent head, she turned off from the spot where I
+gazed upon her, and was lost to my sight.  I fancy I missed my way,
+and made a round in spite of the landlord's directions; for by the
+time I had reached Bridget's cottage she was there, with no semblance
+of hurried walk or discomposure of any kind.  The door was slightly
+ajar.  I knocked, and the majestic figure stood before me, silently
+awaiting the explanation of my errand.  Her teeth were all gone, so
+the nose and chin were brought near together; the gray eyebrows were
+straight, and almost hung over her deep, cavernous eyes, and the
+thick white hair lay in silvery masses over the low, wide, wrinkled
+forehead.  For a moment, I stood uncertain how to shape my answer to
+the solemn questioning of her silence.
+
+"Your name is Bridget Fitzgerald, I believe?"
+
+She bowed her head in assent.
+
+"I have something to say to you.  May I come in?  I am unwilling to
+keep you standing."
+
+"You cannot tire me," she said, and at first she seemed inclined to
+deny me the shelter of her roof.  But the next moment--she had
+searched the very soul in me with her eyes during that instant--she
+led me in, and dropped the shadowing hood of her gray, draping cloak,
+which had previously hid part of the character of her countenance.
+The cottage was rude and bare enough.  But before the picture of the
+Virgin, of which I have made mention, there stood a little cup filled
+with fresh primroses.  While she paid her reverence to the Madonna, I
+understood why she had been out seeking through the clumps of green
+in the sheltered copse.  Then she turned round, and bade me be
+seated.  The expression of her face, which all this time I was
+studying, was not bad, as the stories of my last night's landlord had
+led me to expect; it was a wild, stern, fierce, indomitable
+countenance, seamed and scarred by agonies of solitary weeping; but
+it was neither cunning nor malignant.
+
+"My name is Bridget Fitzgerald," said she, by way of opening our
+conversation.
+
+"And your husband was Hugh Fitzgerald, of Knock Mahon, near Kildoon,
+in Ireland?"
+
+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
+could see; but something rose in her throat, and choked her, and
+until she could 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 nature mastered her strong will, and
+she cried out, with a trembling 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 my eyes.  There she read, as I suppose, my utter ignorance of what
+had become of her child; for she went blindly back to her chair, and
+sat rocking herself and softly moaning, as if I were not there; I not
+daring to speak to the lone and awful woman.  After a little pause,
+she knelt down before the picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart, and
+spoke to 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 ye no
+comfort for my sore heart?  Am I for ever to hope?  Grant me at least
+despair!"--and so on she went, heedless of my presence.  Her prayers
+grew wilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the
+borders of madness 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
+the flesh.  No tongue ever told me; but I know she is dead.  I have
+yearned so to see her, and my heart's will is fearful and strong:  it
+would have drawn her to me before now, if she had been a wanderer on
+the other side of the world.  I wonder often it has not drawn her out
+of the grave to come 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,
+but I could not help feeling for the desolate woman; and she must
+have read the unusual sympathy with her wistful eyes.
+
+"Yes, sir, we did.  She never knew how I loved her; and we parted
+unfriends; and I fear me that I wished her voyage might not turn out
+well, only meaning,--O, blessed Virgin! you know I only meant that
+she should 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 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
+hoped she might be alive.  Listen to me," and I told her the tale I
+have already told you, giving it all in the driest manner, for I
+wanted to recall the clear sense that I felt almost sure she had
+possessed in her younger days, and by keeping up her attention to
+details, restrain the vague wildness of her grief.
+
+She listened with deep attention, putting from time to time such
+questions as convinced me I had to do with no common intelligence,
+however dimmed and shorn by solitude and mysterious sorrow.  Then she
+took up her tale; and in few brief words, told me of her wanderings
+abroad in vain search after her daughter; sometimes in the wake of
+armies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in city.  The lady, whose
+waiting-woman Mary had gone to be, had died soon after the date of
+her last letter home; her husband, the foreign officer, had been
+serving in Hungary, whither Bridget had followed him, but too late to
+find him.  Vague rumours reached her that Mary had made a great
+marriage:  and this sting of doubt was added,--whether the mother
+might not be close to her child under her new name, and even hearing
+of her every day; and yet never recognizing the lost one under the
+appellation she then bore.  At length the thought took possession of
+her, that it was possible that all this 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, to her desolate hearth, and
+empty cottage.  Here she had thought it safest to remain; if Mary was
+in life, it was here she would seek for her mother.
+
+I noted down one or two particulars out of Bridget's narrative that I
+thought might be of use to me:  for I was stimulated to further
+search in a strange and extraordinary manner.  It seemed as if it
+were impressed upon 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 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 of my will only 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, or pains, or wit can discover.  It is true she may be long
+dead:  but she may have left a child."
+
+"A child!" she cried, as if for the first time this idea had struck
+her mind.  "Hear him, Blessed Virgin! he says she may have left a
+child.  And you have never told me, though I have prayed so for a
+sign, waking or sleeping!"
+
+"Nay," said I, "I know nothing but what you tell me.  You say you
+heard of her marriage."
+
+But she caught nothing of what I said.  She was praying to the Virgin
+in a kind of ecstasy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my
+very presence.
+
+From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest's.  The wife of the
+foreign officer had been a cousin of his father's, and from him I
+thought I might gain some particulars as to the existence of the
+Count de la Tour d'Auvergne, and where I could find him; for I knew
+questions de vive voix aid the flagging recollection, and I was
+determined to lose no chance for want of trouble.  But Sir Philip had
+gone abroad, and it would be some time before I could receive an
+answer.  So I followed my uncle's advice, to whom I had mentioned how
+wearied I felt, both in body and mind, by my will-o'-the-wisp search.
+He immediately told me to go to Harrogate, there to await Sir
+Philip's reply.  I should be near to one of the places connected with
+my search, Coldholme; not far from Sir Philip Tempest, in case he
+returned, and I wished to ask him any further questions; and, in
+conclusion, my uncle bade me try to forget all about my business for
+a time.
+
+This was far easier said than done.  I have seen a child on a common
+blown along by a high wind, without power of standing still and
+resisting the tempestuous force.  I was somewhat in the same
+predicament as regarded my mental state.  Something resistless seemed
+to urge my thoughts on, through every possible course by which there
+was a chance of attaining to my object.  I did not see the sweeping
+moors when I walked out:  when I held a book in my hand, and read the
+words, their sense did not 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 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 it compelled me to live in the present suffering,
+and not in the visionary researches I had been continually making
+before.  My kind uncle came to nurse me; and after the immediate
+danger was over, my life seemed to slip away in delicious languor for
+two or three months.  I did not ask--so much did I dread falling into
+the old channel of thought--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 midsummer,
+and then returned to his business in London; leaving me perfectly
+well, although not completely strong.  I was to follow him in a
+fortnight; when, as he said, "we would look over letters, and talk
+about several things."  I knew what this little speech alluded to,
+and shrank from the train of thought it suggested, which was so
+intimately connected with my first feelings of illness.  However, I
+had a fortnight more to roam on those invigorating Yorkshire moors.
+
+In those days, there was one large, rambling inn, at Harrogate, close
+to the Medicinal Spring; but it was already becoming too small for
+the accommodation of the influx of visitors, and many lodged round
+about, in the farm-houses of the district.  It was so early in the
+season, that I had the inn pretty much to myself; and, indeed, felt
+rather like a visitor in a private house, so intimate had the
+landlord and landlady become with me during my long illness.  She
+would chide me for being out so late on the moors, or for having been
+too long without food, quite in a motherly way; while he consulted me
+about vintages and wines, and taught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle
+about horses.  In my walks I met other strangers from time to time.
+Even before my uncle had left me, I had noticed, with half-torpid
+curiosity, a young lady of very striking appearance, who went about
+always accompanied by an elderly companion,--hardly a gentlewoman,
+but with something in her look that prepossessed me in her favour.
+The younger lady always put her veil down when any one approached; so
+it had been only once or twice, when I had come upon her at a sudden
+turn in the path, that I had even had a glimpse at her face.  I am
+not sure if it was beautiful, though in after-life I grew to think it
+so.  But it was at this time overshadowed by a sadness that never
+varied:  a pale, quiet, resigned look of intense suffering, that
+irresistibly attracted me,--not with love, but with a sense of
+infinite compassion for one so young yet so hopelessly unhappy.  The
+companion wore something of the same look:  quiet melancholy,
+hopeless, yet resigned.  I asked my landlord who they were.  He said
+they were called Clarke, 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 that there was any such relationship between them.
+They had been in the neighbourhood of Harrogate for some time,
+lodging in a remote farm-house.  The people there would tell nothing
+about them; saying that they paid handsomely, and never did any harm;
+so why should they be speaking of any strange things that might
+happen?  That, as the landlord shrewdly observed, showed there was
+something out of the common way he had heard that the elderly woman
+was a cousin of the farmer's where they lodged, and so the regard
+existing between relations might help to keep 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,
+for all as quiet as she seemed, played strange pranks at times."  He
+shook his head when I asked him for more particulars, and refused to
+give them, which made me doubt if he knew any, for he was in general
+a talkative and communicative man.  In default of other interests,
+after my uncle left, I set myself to watch these two people.  I
+hovered about their walks drawn towards them with a strange
+fascination, which was not diminished by their evident annoyance at
+so frequently meeting me.  One day, I had the sudden good fortune to
+be at hand when they were alarmed by the attack of a bull, which, in
+those unenclosed grazing districts, was a particularly dangerous
+occurrence.  I have other and more important things to relate, than
+to tell of the accident which gave me an opportunity of rescuing
+them, it is enough to say, that this event was the beginning of an
+acquaintance, reluctantly acquiesced in by them, but eagerly
+prosecuted by me.  I can hardly tell when intense curiosity became
+merged in love, but in less than ten days after my uncle's departure
+I was passionately enamoured of Mistress Lucy, as her attendant
+called her; carefully--for this I noted well--avoiding any address
+which appeared as if there was an equality of station between them.
+I noticed also that Mrs. Clarke, the elderly woman, after her first
+reluctance to allow me to pay them any attentions had been overcome,
+was cheered by my evident attachment to the young girl; it seemed to
+lighten her heavy burden of care, and she evidently favoured my
+visits to the farmhouse where they lodged.  It was not so with Lucy.
+A more attractive person I never saw, in spite of her depression of
+manner, and shrinking avoidance of me.  I felt sure at once, that
+whatever 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, for a moment or two, I beguiled her into talk, I could see a
+rare intelligence in her face, and a grave, trusting look in the
+soft, gray eyes that were raised for a minute to mine.  I made every
+excuse I possibly 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, in hopes 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 dome above.
+
+It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some
+motive which I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but
+then 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 (I loved so dearly) I could have begged her to spare herself,
+even though the happiness of my whole life should have been the
+sacrifice; for her complexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more
+hopeless, her delicate frame yet slighter.  During this period I had
+written, I should say, to my uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong
+my stay at Harrogate, not giving any reason; but such was his
+tenderness towards me, that in a few days I heard from him, giving me
+a willing permission, and only charging me to take care of myself,
+and not use too much exertion during the hot weather.
+
+One sultry evening I drew near the farm.  The windows of their
+parlour were open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the
+house, as I passed the first window (there were two windows in their
+little ground-floor room).  I saw Lucy distinctly; but when I had
+knocked at their door--the house-door stood always ajar--she was
+gone, and I saw only Mrs. Clarke, turning over the work-things lying
+on the table, in a nervous and purposeless manner.  I felt by
+instinct that a conversation of some importance was coming on, in
+which I should be expected to say what was my object in paying these
+frequent visits.  I was glad of the opportunity.  My uncle had
+several times alluded to the pleasant possibility of my bringing home
+a young wife, to cheer and adorn the old house in Ormond Street.  He
+was rich, and I was to succeed him, and had, as I knew, a fair
+reputation for so young a lawyer.  So on my side I saw no obstacle.
+It was true that Lucy was shrouded in mystery; her name (I was
+convinced it was not Clarke), birth, parentage, and previous life
+were unknown to me.  But I was sure of her goodness and sweet
+innocence, and although I knew that there must be something painful
+to be told, to account for her mournful sadness, yet I was willing 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 the
+subject.
+
+"We have thought, sir--at least I have thought--that you knew very
+little of us, nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant the
+intimate acquaintance 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 no rudeness; but I must say straight out that I--we--think it
+would be better 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,
+glad of the opportunity of explaining myself.  "I come, I own,
+because I have learnt 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 hold
+sacred, teach her to love you!  If I am too late, and you love her
+already, forget her,--forget these last few weeks.  O!  I should
+never have allowed you to come!" she went on passionately; "but what
+am I to do?  We are forsaken by all, except the great God, and even
+He permits a strange and evil power to afflict us--what am I to do!
+Where is it to end?" She wrung her hands in her distress; then she
+turned to me:  "Go away, sir! go away, before you learn to care any
+more for her.  I ask it for your own sake--I implore!  You have been
+good and kind to us, and we shall always recollect you with
+gratitude; but go away now, and never come back to cross our fatal
+path!"
+
+"Indeed, madam," said I, "I shall do no such thing.  You urge it for
+my own 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 last fortnight, without acknowledging her goodness and
+innocence; and without seeing--pardon me, madam--that for some reason
+you are two very lonely women, in some mysterious sorrow and
+distress.  Now, though I am not powerful myself, yet I have friends
+who are so wise and kind that they may be said to possess power.
+Tell me some particulars.  Why are you in grief--what is your secret-
+-why are you here?  I declare solemnly that nothing you have said has
+daunted me in my wish to become Lucy's husband; nor will I shrink
+from any difficulty that, as such an aspirant, I may have to
+encounter.  You say you are friendless--why cast away 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.  I do not
+shun inquiry."
+
+She shook her head again.  "You had better go away, sir.  You know
+nothing about us."
+
+"I know your names," said I, "and I have heard you allude to the part
+of the country from which you came, which I happen to know as a wild
+and lonely place.  There are so few people living in it that, if I
+chose to go there, I could easily ascertain all about you; but I
+would rather hear it from yourself."  You see I wanted to pique her
+into telling me something definite.
+
+"You do not know our true names, sir," said she, hastily.
+
+"Well, I may have conjectured as much.  But tell me, then, I conjure
+you.  Give me your reasons for distrusting my willingness to stand by
+what I have said with regard to Mistress Lucy."
+
+"Oh, what can I do?" exclaimed she.  "If I am turning away a true
+friend, as he says?--Stay!" coming to a sudden decision--" I will
+tell you something--I cannot tell you all--you would not believe it.
+But, perhaps, I can tell you enough to prevent your going on in your
+hopeless 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
+child of her father.  But he is cruelly turned against her; and her
+mother is long dead; and for a terrible reason, she has no other
+creature to keep constant to her but me.  She--only two years ago--
+such a darling and such a pride in her father's house!  Why, sir,
+there is a mystery that might happen in connection with her any
+moment; and then you would go away like all the rest; and, when you
+next heard her name, you would loathe 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, she would die!"
+
+The good woman was stopped by her crying.  I confess, I was a little
+stunned by her last words; but only for a moment.  At any rate, till
+I knew definitely what was this mysterious stain upon one so simple
+and pure, as Lucy seemed, I would not desert her, and so I said; and
+she made me answer:-
+
+"If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir,
+after knowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but
+I am so foolish and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain
+hope to find a friend in you.  I cannot help trusting that, although
+you may no longer feel toward her as a lover, you will have pity upon
+us; and perhaps, by your learning you can tell us where to go for
+aid."
+
+"I implore you to tell me what this mystery is," I cried, almost
+maddened by this suspense.
+
+"I cannot," said she, solemnly.  "I am under a deep vow of secrecy.
+If you are to be told, it must be by her."  She left the room, and I
+remained to ponder over this strange interview.  I mechanically
+turned over 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
+a pure and tender heart and innocent life.  Mistress Clarke returned;
+she had been crying sadly.
+
+"Yes," said she, "it is as I feared:  she loves you so much that she
+is willing to run the fearful risk of telling you all herself--she
+acknowledges 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 you hope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of
+fear or repugnance you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted."
+
+I half smiled.  "Have no fear," I said.  It seemed too absurd to
+imagine my feeling dislike to Lucy.
+
+"Her father loved her well," said she, gravely, "yet he drove her out
+like some monstrous thing."
+
+Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden.
+It was Lucy's voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one
+side of the open casement--and as though she were suddenly stirred to
+merriment--merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings or
+sayings of some other person.  I can scarcely say why, but the sound
+jarred on me inexpressibly.  She knew the subject of our
+conversation, and must have been at least aware of the state of
+agitation her friend was in; she herself usually so gentle and quiet.
+I half rose to go to the window, and satisfy my instinctive curiosity
+as to what had provoked this burst of, ill-timed laughter; but Mrs.
+Clarke threw her whole weight and power upon the hand with which she
+pressed and kept me down.
+
+"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 we are 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
+have risen.  I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a
+shadow pass between the sun's warmth and me, and a strange shudder
+ran through my frame.  In a minute or two she released me.
+
+"Go," repeated she.  "Be warned, I ask you once more.  I do not think
+you can stand this knowledge that you seek.  If I had had my own way,
+Lucy should never have yielded, and promised to tell you all.  Who
+knows what may come of it?"
+
+"I am firm in my wish to know all.  I return at ten tomorrow morning,
+and then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself."
+
+I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to Mistress
+Clarke's sanity.
+
+Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable
+thoughts connected with that strange laughter, filled my mind.  I
+could hardly sleep.  I rose early; and long before the hour I had
+appointed, I was on the path over the common that led to the old
+farm-house where they lodged.  I suppose that Lucy had passed no
+better a night than I; for there she was also, slowly pacing with her
+even step, her eyes bent down, her whole look most saintly and pure.
+She started when I came close to her, and grew paler as I reminded
+her of my appointment, and spoke with something of the impatience of
+obstacles that, seeing her once more, had called up afresh in my
+mind.  All strange and terrible hints, and giddy merriment were
+forgotten.  My heart gave forth words of fire, and my tongue uttered
+them.  Her colour went and came, as she listened; but, when I had
+ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me, and
+said -
+
+"But you know that you have something to learn about me yet.  I only
+want to say this:  I shall not think less of you--less well of you, I
+mean--if you, too, fall away from me when you know all.  Stop!" said
+she, as if fearing another burst of mad words.  "Listen to me.  My
+father is a man of great wealth.  I never knew my mother; she must
+have died when I was very young.  When first I remember anything, I
+was living in a great, lonely house, with my dear and faithful
+Mistress Clarke.  My father, even, was not there; he was--he is--a
+soldier, and his duties lie aboard.  But he came from time to time,
+and every time I think he loved 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 his absences.  I can sit down and measure
+the depth of his lost love now, by such 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 he was an angry man at times, even
+then; but never with me.  He was very reckless, too; and, once or
+twice, I heard a whisper among the servants that a doom was over him,
+and that he knew it, and tried to drown his knowledge in wild
+activity, and even sometimes, sir, in wine.  So I grew up in this
+grand mansion, in that lonely place.  Everything around me seemed at
+my disposal, and I think every one loved me; I am sure I loved them.
+Till about two years ago--I remember it well--my father had come to
+England, to us; and he seemed so proud and so pleased with me and all
+I had done.  And one day his tongue seemed loosened with wine, and he
+told me much that I had not known till then,--how dearly he had loved
+my mother, yet how his wilful usage had caused her death; and then he
+went on to say how he loved me better than any creature on earth, and
+how, some day, he hoped to take me to foreign places, for that he
+could hardly bear these long absences from his only child.  Then he
+seemed to change suddenly, and said, in a strange, wild way, that I
+was not to believe what he said; that there was many a thing he loved
+better--his horse--his dog--I know not what.
+
+"And 'twas only the next morning that, when I came into his room to
+ask his blessing as was my wont, he received me with fierce and angry
+words.  'Why had I,' so he asked, 'been delighting myself in such
+wanton mischief--dancing over the tender plants in the flower-beds,
+all set with the famous Dutch bulbs he had brought from Holland?' I
+had never been out of doors that morning, sir, and I could not
+conceive what he meant, and so I said; and then he swore at me for a
+liar, and said I was of no true blood, for he had seen me doing all
+that mischief himself--with his own eyes.  What could I say?  He
+would not listen to me, and even my tears seemed only to irritate
+him.  That day was the beginning of my great sorrows.  Not long
+after, he reproached me for my undue familiarity--all unbecoming a
+gentlewoman--with his grooms.  I had been in the stable-yard,
+laughing and talking, he said.  Now, sir, I am something of a coward
+by nature, and I had always dreaded horses; be-sides that, my
+father's servants--those whom he brought with him from foreign parts-
+-were wild fellows, whom I had always avoided, and to whom I had
+never spoken, except as a lady must needs from time to time speak to
+her father's people.  Yet my father called me by names of which I
+hardly know the meaning, but my heart told me they were such as shame
+any 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 his
+hand; and, accusing me harshly of evil doings, of which I knew no
+more than you, sir, he was about to strike me, and I, all in
+bewildering tears, was ready to take his stripes as great kindness
+compared to his harder words, when suddenly he stopped his arm mid-
+way, gasped and staggered, crying out, 'The curse--the curse!'  I
+looked up in terror.  In the great mirror opposite I saw myself, and
+right behind, another wicked, fearful self, so like me that my soul
+seemed to quiver within me, as though not knowing to which similitude
+of body it belonged.  My father saw my double at the same moment,
+either in its dreadful reality, whatever that might be, or in the
+scarcely less terrible reflection in the mirror; but what came of it
+at that moment I cannot say, for I suddenly swooned away; and when I
+came to myself I was lying in my bed, and my faithful Clarke sitting
+by me.  I was in my bed for days; and even while I lay there my
+double was seen by all, flitting about the house and gardens, always
+about some mischievous or detestable work.  What wonder that every
+one shrank from me in dread--that my father drove me forth at length,
+when the disgrace of which I was the cause was past his patience to
+bear.  Mistress Clarke came with me; and here we try to live such a
+life of piety and prayer as may in time set me free from the curse."
+
+All the time she had been speaking, I had been weighing her story in
+my mind.  I had hitherto put cases of witchcraft on one side, as mere
+superstitions; and my uncle and I had had many an argument, he
+supporting himself by the opinion of his good friend Sir Matthew
+Hale.  Yet this sounded like the tale of one bewitched; or was it
+merely the effect of a life of extreme seclusion telling on the
+nerves of a sensitive girl?  My scepticism inclined me to the latter
+belief, and when she paused I said:
+
+"I fancy that some physician could have disabused your father of his
+belief in visions--"
+
+Just at that instant, standing as I was opposite to her in the full
+and perfect morning light, I saw behind her another figure--a ghastly
+resemblance, complete in likeness, so far as form and feature and
+minutest touch of dress could go, but with a loathsome demon soul
+looking out of the gray eyes, that were in turns mocking and
+voluptuous.  My heart stood still within me; every hair rose up
+erect; my flesh crept with horror.  I could not see the grave and
+tender Lucy--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; then my sight came back, and I saw Lucy 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
+an old harpsichord when the strings have ceased to vibrate.  She read
+her answer in my face, I suppose, for I could not speak.  Her look
+was one of intense 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:  she saw 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 budding
+heather--we dared not speak; for we could not tell but that the dread
+creature was listening, although unseen,--but that IT might appear
+and push us asunder.  I never loved her more fondly than now when--
+and that was the unspeakable misery--the idea of her was becoming so
+inextricably blended with the shuddering thought of IT.  She seemed
+to understand what I must be feeling.  She let go my hand, which she
+had kept clasped until then, when we reached the garden gate, and
+went forwards to meet her anxious friend, who was standing by the
+window looking for her.  I could not enter the house:  I needed
+silence, society, leisure, change--I knew not what--to shake off the
+sensation of that creature's presence.  Yet I lingered about the
+garden--I hardly know why; I partly suppose, because I feared to
+encounter the resemblance again on the solitary common, where it had
+vanished, and partly from a feeling of inexpressible compassion for
+Lucy.  In a few minutes Mistress Clarke came forth and joined me.  We
+walked 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 which
+stirred up all that was brave or good in me.
+
+"Not a whit," said I.  "Human flesh shrinks from encounter with the
+powers of darkness:  and, for some reason unknown to me, the pure and
+holy 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 surely
+know more--know all.  Tell me, I entreat you, madam, all that you can
+conjecture respecting this demoniac persecution of one so good."
+
+"I will; but not now.  I must go to Lucy now.  Come this afternoon, I
+will see you alone; and oh, sir!  I will trust that you may yet find
+some way to help us in our sore trouble!"
+
+I was miserably exhausted by the swooning affright which had taken
+possession of me.  When I reached the inn, I staggered in like one
+overcome by wine.  I went to my own private room.  It was some time
+before 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, It was from Sir Philip Tempest:  my letter of
+inquiry respecting Mary Fitzgerald had reached him at Liege, where it
+so happened that the Count de la Tour d'Auvergne was quartered at the
+very time.  He remembered his wife's beautiful attendant; she had had
+high words with the deceased countess, respecting her intercourse
+with an English gentleman of good standing, who was also in the
+foreign service.  The countess augured evil of his intentions; while
+Mary, proud and vehement, asserted that he would soon marry her, and
+resented her mistress's warnings as an insult.  The consequence was,
+that she had left Madame de la Tour d'Auvergne's service, and, as the
+Count believed, had gone to live with the Englishman; whether he had
+married her, or not, he could not say.  "But," added Sir Philip
+Tempest, you may easily hear what particulars you wish to know
+respecting Mary Fitzgerald from the Englishman himself, if, as I
+suspect, he is no other than my neighbour and former acquaintance,
+Mr. Gisborne, of Skipford Hall, in the West Riding.  I am led to the
+belief that he is no other, by several small particulars, none of
+which are in themselves conclusive, but which, taken together,
+furnish a mass of presumptive evidence.  As far as I could make out
+from the Count's foreign pronunciation, Gisborne was the name of the
+Englishman:  I know that Gisborne of Skipford was abroad and in the
+foreign service at that time--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 old Bridget Fitzgerald, of Coldholme,
+whom he once encountered while staying with me at Starkey Manor-
+house.  I remember that the meeting seemed to have produced some
+extraordinary effect upon his mind, as though he had suddenly
+discovered some connection which she might have had with his previous
+life.  I beg you to let me know if I can be of any further service to
+you.  Your uncle once rendered me a good turn, and I will 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
+many months 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 passed that very day.  Nothing was real but the unreal
+presence, which had come like an evil blast across my bodily eyes,
+and burnt itself down upon my brain.  Dinner came, and went away
+untouched.  Early in the afternoon I walked to the farm-house.  I
+found Mistress Clarke alone, and I was glad and relieved.  She was
+evidently prepared to tell me all I might wish to hear.
+
+"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 a man of note; although, being a Roman Catholic, he cannot take
+that rank in this country to which his station entitles him.  The
+consequence is 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
+three years old when I was engaged to take charge of her.  Her mother
+was dead."
+
+"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 be so well acquainted with it?  It was a mystery to the whole
+household at Skipford Court.  She was some beautiful young woman whom
+he lured away from her protectors while he was abroad.  I have heard
+said he practised some terrible deceit upon her, and when she came to
+know it, she was neither to have nor to hold, but rushed off from his
+very arms, and threw herself into a rapid stream and was drowned.  It
+stung him deep with remorse, but I used to think the remembrance of
+the mother's cruel death made him love the child yet dearer."
+
+I told her, as briefly as might be, of my researches after the
+descendant and heir of the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added--
+something of my old lawyer spirit returning into me for the moment--
+that I had no doubt but that we should prove Lucy to be by right
+possessed of large estates in Ireland.
+
+No flush came over her gray face; no light into her eyes.  "And what
+is all the wealth in the whole world to that poor girl?" she said.
+"It will not free her from the ghastly bewitchment which persecutes
+her.  As for money, what a pitiful thing it is! it cannot touch her."
+
+"No more can the Evil Creature harm her," I said.  "Her holy nature
+dwells apart, and cannot be defiled or stained by all the devilish
+arts in the whole world."
+
+"True! but it is a cruel fate to know that all shrink from her,
+sooner or 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
+the household at Skipford."
+
+"Tell me," I demanded.
+
+"They came from servants, who would fain account for every thing.
+They say that, many years ago, Mr. Gisborne killed a dog belonging to
+an old witch at Coldholme; that she cursed, with a dreadful and
+mysterious curse, the creature, whatever it might be, that he should
+love best; and that it struck so deeply into his heart that for years
+he kept himself aloof from any temptation to love aught.  But who
+could help loving Lucy?"
+
+"You never heard the witch's name?" I gasped.
+
+"Yes--they called her Bridget:  they said he would never go near the
+spot again for terror of her.  Yet he was a brave man!"
+
+"Listen," said I, taking hold of her arm, the better to arrest her
+full attention:  "if what I suspect holds true, that man stole
+Bridget's only child--the very Mary Fitzgerald who was Lucy's mother;
+if so, Bridget cursed him in ignorance of the deeper wrong he had
+done her.  To this hour she yearns after her lost child, and
+questions the saints whether she be living or not.  The roots of that
+curse lie deeper than she knows:  she unwittingly banned him for a
+deeper guilt than that of killing a dumb beast.  The sins of the
+fathers are indeed visited upon the children."
+
+"But," said Mistress Clarke, eagerly, "she would never let evil rest
+on her own grandchild?  Surely, sir, if what you say be true, there
+are hopes for Lucy.  Let us go--go at once, and tell this fearful
+woman all that you suspect, and beseech her to take off the spell she
+has put upon her innocent grandchild."
+
+It seemed to me, indeed, that something like this was the best course
+we could pursue.  But first it was necessary to ascertain more than
+what mere rumour or careless hearsay could tell.  My thoughts turned
+to my uncle--he could advise me wisely--he ought to know all.  I
+resolved to go to him without delay; but I did not choose to tell
+Mistress Clarke of all the visionary plans that flitted through my
+mind.  I simply declared my intention of proceeding straight to
+London on Lucy's affairs.  I bade her believe that my interest on the
+young lady's behalf was greater than ever, and that my whole time
+should be given up to her cause.  I saw that Mistress Clarke
+distrusted me, because my mind was too full of thoughts for my words
+to flow freely.  She sighed and shook her head, and said, "Well, it
+is all right!" in such a tone that it was an implied reproach.  But I
+was firm and constant in my heart, and I took confidence from that.
+
+I rode to London.  I rode long days drawn out into the lovely summer
+nights:  I could not rest.  I reached London.  I told my uncle all,
+though in the stir of the great city the horror had faded away, and I
+could hardly imagine that he would believe the account I gave him of
+the fearful double of Lucy which I had seen on the lonely moor-side.
+But my uncle had lived many years, and learnt many things; and, in
+the deep secrets of family history that had been confided to him, he
+had heard of cases of innocent people bewitched and taken possession
+of by evil spirits yet more fearful than Lucy's.  For, as he said, to
+judge from all I told him, that resemblance had no power over her--
+she was too pure and good to be tainted by its evil, haunting
+presence.  It had, in all probability, so my uncle conceived, tried
+to suggest wicked thoughts and to tempt to wicked actions but she, in
+her saintly maidenhood, had passed on undefiled by evil thought or
+deed.  It could not touch her soul:  but true, it set her apart from
+all sweet love or common human intercourse.  My uncle threw himself
+with an energy more like six-and-twenty than sixty into the
+consideration of the whole case.  He undertook the proving Lucy's
+descent, and volunteered to go and find out Mr. Gisborne, and obtain,
+firstly, the legal proofs of her descent from the Fitzgeralds of
+Kildoon, and, secondly, to try and hear all that he could respecting
+the working of the curse, and whether any and what means had been
+taken to exorcise that terrible appearance.  For he told me of
+instances where, by prayers and long fasting, the evil possessor had
+been driven forth with howling and many cries from the body which it
+had come to inhabit; he spoke of those strange New England cases
+which had happened not so long before; of Mr. Defoe, who had written
+a book, wherein he had named many modes of subduing apparitions, and
+sending them back whence they came; and, lastly, he spoke low of
+dreadful ways of compelling witches to undo their witchcraft.  But I
+could not endure to hear of those tortures and burnings.  I said that
+Bridget was rather a wild and savage woman than a malignant witch;
+and, above all, that Lucy was of her kith and kin; and that, in
+putting her to the trial, by water or by fire, we should be
+torturing--it might be to the death--the ancestress of her we sought
+to redeem.
+
+My uncle thought awhile, and then said, that in this last matter I
+was right--at any rate, it should not be tried, with his consent,
+till all other modes of remedy had failed; and he assented to my
+proposal that I should go myself and see Bridget, and tell her all.
+
+In accordance with this, I went down once more to the wayside inn
+near Coldholme.  It was late at night when I arrived there; and,
+while I supped, I inquired of the landlord more particulars as to
+Bridget's ways.  Solitary and savage had been her life for many
+years.  Wild and despotic were her words and manner to those few
+people who came across her path.  The country-folk did her imperious
+bidding, because they feared to disobey.  If they pleased her, they
+prospered; if, on the contrary, they neglected or traversed her
+behests, misfortune, small or great, fell on them and theirs.  It was
+not detestation so much as an indefinable terror that she excited.
+
+In the morning I went to see her.  She was standing on the green
+outside her cottage, and received me with the sullen grandeur of a
+throneless queen.  I read in her face that she recognized me, and
+that I was not unwelcome; but she stood silent till I had opened my
+errand.
+
+"I have news of your daughter," said I, resolved to speak straight to
+all 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
+of the door-post.
+
+"I knew that she was dead," said she, deep and low, and then was
+silent for an instant.  "My tears that should have flowed for her
+were burnt up long 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
+her more show of emotion than the intelligence of her daughter's
+death.  She broke in upon my speech:-
+
+"I had!  It was hers--the last thing I had of hers--and it was shot
+for wantonness!  It died in my arms.  The man who killed that dog
+rues it to this day.  For that dumb beast's blood, his best-beloved
+stands accursed."
+
+Her eyes distended, as if she were in a trance and saw the working of
+her 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
+she pierced through me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without
+another question or word, she threw herself on the ground with
+fearful vehemence, and clutched at the innocent daisies with
+convulsed hands.
+
+"Bone of my bone! flesh of my flesh! have I cursed thee--and art thou
+accursed?"
+
+So she moaned, as she lay prostrate in her great agony.  I stood
+aghast at my own work.  She did not hear my broken sentences; she
+asked no more, but the dumb confirmation which my sad looks had given
+that one fact, that her curse rested on her own daughter's child.
+The fear grew on me lest she should die in her strife of body and
+soul; and then might not Lucy remain under the spell as long as she
+lived?
+
+Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming through the woodland path that
+led to Bridget's cottage; Mistress Clarke was with her:  I felt at my
+heart that it was she, by the balmy peace which the look of her sent
+over me, as she slowly advanced, a glad surprise shining out of her
+soft quiet eyes.  That was as her gaze met mine.  As her looks fell
+on the woman lying stiff, convulsed on the earth, they became full of
+tender pity; and she came forward to try and lift her up.  Seating
+herself on the turf, she took Bridget's head into her lap; and, with
+gentle touches, she arranged the dishevelled gray hair streaming
+thick and 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 had
+recovered her wandering senses, and was kneeling with clasped hands
+before Lucy, gazing at that sweet sad face as though her troubled
+nature drank in health and peace from every moment's contemplation.
+A faint tinge on Lucy's pale cheeks showed me that she was aware of
+our return; otherwise it appeared as if she was conscious of her
+influence for good over the passionate and troubled woman kneeling
+before her, and would not willingly avert her grave and loving eyes
+from that wrinkled and careworn countenance.
+
+Suddenly--in the twinkling of an eye--the creature appeared, there,
+behind Lucy; fearfully the same as to outward semblance, but kneeling
+exactly as Bridget knelt, and clasping her hands in jesting mimicry
+as Bridget clasped hers in her ecstasy that was deepening into a
+prayer.  Mistress Clarke cried out--Bridget arose slowly, her gaze
+fixed on the creature beyond:  drawing her breath with a hissing
+sound, never moving her terrible eyes, that were steady as stone, she
+made a dart at the phantom, and caught, as I had done, a mere handful
+of empty air.  We saw no more of the creature--it vanished as
+suddenly as it came, but Bridget looked slowly on, as if watching
+some receding form.  Lucy sat still, white, trembling, drooping--I
+think she would have swooned if I had not been there to uphold her.
+While I was attending to her, Bridget passed us, without a word to
+any one, and, entering her cottage, she barred herself in, and left
+us without.
+
+All our endeavours were now directed to get Lucy back to the house
+where she had tarried the night before.  Mistress Clarke told me
+that, not hearing from me (some letter must have miscarried), she had
+grown impatient and despairing, and had urged Lucy to the enterprise
+of coming to seek her grandmother; not telling her, indeed, of the
+dread reputation she possessed, or how we suspected her of having so
+fearfully blighted that innocent girl; but, at the same time, hoping
+much from the mysterious stirring of blood, which Mistress Clarke
+trusted in for the removal of the curse.  They had come, by a
+different route from that which I had taken, to a village inn not far
+from Coldholme, only the night before.  This was the first interview
+between ancestress and descendant.
+
+All through the sultry noon I wandered along the tangled brush-wood
+of the old neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a
+matter so complicated and mysterious.  Meeting a countryman, I asked
+my way to the nearest clergyman, and went, hoping to obtain some
+counsel from him.  But he proved to be a coarse and common-minded
+man, giving no time or attention to the intricacies of a case, but
+dashing out a strong opinion involving immediate action.  For
+instance, as soon as I named Bridget Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:-
+
+"The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist!  I'd have had her ducked long
+since but for that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest.  He has had to
+threaten honest folk about here over and over again, or they'd have
+had her up before the justices for her black doings.  And it's the
+law of the 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 and Scripture.  I'd carry a faggot myself to rid the country
+of her!"
+
+Such a one could give me no help.  I rather drew back what I had
+already said; and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him
+to several pots of beer, in the village inn, to which we had
+adjourned for our conference at his suggestion.  I left him as soon
+as I could, and returned to Coldholme, shaping my way past deserted
+Starkey Manor-house, and coming upon it by the back.  At that side
+were the oblong remains of the old moat, the waters of which lay
+placid and motionless under the crimson rays of the setting sun; with
+the forest-trees lying straight along each side, and their deep-green
+foliage mirrored to blackness in the burnished surface of the moat
+below--and the broken sun-dial at the end nearest the hall--and the
+heron, standing on one leg at the water's edge, lazily looking down
+for fish--the lonely and desolate house scarce needed the broken
+windows, the weeds on the door-sill, the broken shutter softly
+flapping to and fro in the twilight breeze, to fill up the picture of
+desertion and decay.  I lingered about the place until the growing
+darkness warned me on.  And then I passed along the path, cut by the
+orders of the last lady of Starkey Manor-House, that led me to
+Bridget's cottage.  I resolved at once to see her; and, in spite of
+closed doors--it might be of resolved will--she should see me.  So I
+knocked at her door, gently, loudly, fiercely.  I shook it so
+vehemently that a length the old hinges gave way, and with a crash it
+fell inwards, leaving me suddenly face to face with Bridget--I, red,
+heated, agitated with my so long baffled efforts--she, stiff as any
+stone, standing right facing me, her eyes dilated with terror, her
+ashen lips trembling, but her body motionless.  In her hands she held
+her crucifix, as if by that holy symbol she sought to oppose my
+entrance.  At sight of me, her whole frame relaxed, and she sank back
+upon a chair.  Some mighty tension had given way.  Still her eyes
+looked fearfully into the gloom of the outer air, made more opaque by
+the glimmer of the lamp inside, which she had placed 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--
+has been looking in upon me through that window all day long.  I
+closed it up with my shawl; and then I saw her feet below the door,
+as long as it was light, and I knew she heard my very breathing--nay,
+worse, my very prayers; and I could not pray, for her listening
+choked the words ere they rose to my lips.  Tell me, who is she?--
+what means that double girl I saw this morning?  One had a look of my
+dead Mary; but the other curdled my blood, and yet it was the same!"
+
+She had taken hold of my arm, as if to secure herself some human
+companionship.  She shook all over with the slight, never-ceasing
+tremor of intense terror.  I told her my tale as I have told it you,
+sparing none of the details.
+
+How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had driven
+Lucy forth from her father's house--how I had disbelieved, until,
+with mine own eyes, I had seen another Lucy standing behind my Lucy,
+the same in form and feature, but with the demon-soul looking out of
+the eyes.  I told her all, I say, believing that she--whose curse was
+working so upon the life of her innocent grandchild--was the only
+person 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
+I shrink from her ever since that day on the moor-side.  And men must
+shrink 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 order
+that, by some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be
+reversed.
+
+"I will go and bring her to you," I exclaimed.  Bridget tightened her
+hold upon my arm.
+
+"Not so," said she, in a low, hoarse voice.  "It would kill me to see
+her again as I saw her this morning.  And I must live till I have
+worked my 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 fear
+was banished.  I lingered--why I can hardly tell--until once more she
+bade me begone.  As I went along the forest way, I looked back, and
+saw her 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 her
+prayers with ours.  The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze.  No
+human being was there:  the cross remained on the threshold, but
+Bridget was gone.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+
+
+What was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself.  As
+for Lucy, she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon
+her.  Her gentleness and piety, under the pressure of so horrible a
+life, seemed over-passive to me.  She never complained.  Mrs. Clarke
+complained more than ever.  As for me, I was more in love with the
+real Lucy than ever; but I shrunk from the false similitude with an
+intensity proportioned to my love.  I found out by instinct that Mrs.
+Clarke had occasional temptations to leave Lucy.  The good lady's
+nerves were shaken, and, from what she said, I could almost have
+concluded that the object of the Double was to drive away from Lucy
+this last, and almost earliest friend.  At times, I could scarcely
+bear to own it, but I myself felt inclined to turn recreant; and I
+would accuse Lucy of being too patient--too resigned.  One after
+another, she won the little children of Coldholme.  (Mrs. Clarke and
+she had resolved to stay there, for was it not as good a place as any
+other, to such as they? and did not all our faint hopes rest on
+Bridget--never seen or heard of now, but still we trusted to come
+back, or give some token?)  So, as I say, one after another, the
+little children came about my Lucy, won by her soft tones, and her
+gentle smiles, and kind actions.  Alas! one after another they fell
+away, and shrunk from her path with blanching terror; and we too
+surely guessed the reason why.  It was the last drop.  I could bear
+it no longer.  I resolved no more to linger around the spot, but to
+go back to my uncle, and among the learned divines of the city of
+London, seek for some power whereby to annul the curse.
+
+My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite testimonials
+relating to Lucy's descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and
+from Mr. Gisborne.  The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he
+was again serving in the Austrian army), a letter alternately
+passionately self-reproachful and stoically repellant.  It was
+evident that when he thought of Mary--her short life--how he had
+wronged her, and of her violent death, he could hardly find words
+severe enough for his own conduct; and from this point of view, the
+curse that Bridget had laid upon him and his, was regarded by him as
+a prophetic doom, to the utterance of which she was moved by a Higher
+Power, working for the fulfilment of a deeper vengeance than for the
+death of the poor dog.  But then, again, when he came to speak of his
+daughter, the repugnance which the conduct of the demoniac creature
+had produced in his mind, was but ill-disguised under a show of
+profound indifference as to Lucy's fate.  One almost felt as if he
+would have been as content to put her out of existence, as he would
+have been to destroy some disgusting reptile that had invaded his
+chamber or his couch.
+
+The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy's; and that was all--was
+nothing.
+
+My uncle and I sat in the gloom of a London November evening, in our
+house in Ormond Street.  I was out of health, and felt as if I were
+in an inextricable coil of misery.  Lucy and I wrote to each other,
+but that was little; and we dared not see each other for dread of the
+fearful Third, who had more than once taken her place at our
+meetings.  My uncle had, on the day I speak of, bidden prayers to be
+put up on the ensuing Sabbath in many a church and meeting-house in
+London, for one grievously tormented by an evil spirit.  He had faith
+in prayers--I had none; I was fast losing faith in all things.  So we
+sat, he trying to interest me in the old talk of other days, I
+oppressed by one thought--when our old servant, Anthony, opened the
+door, and, without speaking, showed in a very gentlemanly and
+prepossessing man, who had something remarkable about his dress,
+betraying his profession to be that of the Roman Catholic priesthood.
+He glanced at my uncle first, then at me.  It was to me he bowed.
+
+"I did not give my name," said he, "because you would hardly have
+recognised it; unless, sir, when, in the north, you heard of Father
+Bernard, the chaplain at Stoney Hurst?"
+
+I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I
+had utterly forgotten it; so I professed myself a complete stranger
+to him; while my ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as
+much as it was in his nature to hate anything, placed a chair for the
+visitor, and bade Anthony bring glasses, and a fresh jug of claret.
+
+Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful ease and
+pleasant acknowledgement which belongs to a man of the world.  Then
+he turned to scan me with his keen glance.  After some alight
+conversation, entered into on his part, I am certain, with an
+intention of discovering on what terms of confidence I stood with my
+uncle, he paused, and said gravely -
+
+"I am sent here with a message to you, sir, from a woman to whom you
+have shown kindness, and who is one of my penitents, in Antwerp--one
+Bridget Fitzgerald."
+
+"Bridget Fitzgerald!" exclaimed I.  "In Antwerp?  Tell me, sir, all
+that you can about her."
+
+"There is much to be said," he replied.  "But may I inquire if this
+gentleman--if your uncle is acquainted with the particulars of which
+you and I stand informed?"
+
+"All that I know, he knows," said I, eagerly laying my hand on my
+uncle's arm, as he made a motion as if to quit the room.
+
+"Then I have to speak before two gentlemen who, however they may
+differ from me in faith, are yet fully impressed with the fact that
+there are evil powers going about continually to take cognizance of
+our evil thoughts:  and, if their Master gives them power, to bring
+them into overt action.  Such is my theory of the nature of that sin,
+which I dare not disbelieve--as some sceptics would have us do--the
+sin of witchcraft.  Of this deadly sin, you and I are aware, Bridget
+Fitzgerald has been guilty.  Since you saw her last, many prayers
+have been offered in our churches, many masses sung, many penances
+undergone, in order that, if God and the holy saints so willed it,
+her sin might be blotted out.  But it has not been so willed."
+
+"Explain to me," said I, "who you are, and how you come connected
+with Bridget.  Why is she at Antwerp?  I pray you, sir, tell me more.
+If I am impatient, excuse me; I am ill and feverish, and in
+consequence bewildered."
+
+There was something to me inexpressibly soothing in the tone of voice
+with which he began to narrate, as it were from the beginning, his
+acquaintance with Bridget.
+
+"I had known Mr. and Mrs. Starkey during their residence abroad, and
+so it fell out naturally that, when I came as chaplain to the
+Sherburnes at Stoney Hurst, our acquaintance was renewed; and thus I
+became the confessor of the whole family, isolated as they were from
+the offices of the Church, Sherburne being their nearest neighbour
+who professed the true faith.  Of course, you are aware that facts
+revealed in confession are sealed as in the grave; but I learnt
+enough of Bridget's character to be convinced that I had to do with
+no common woman; one powerful for good as for evil.  I believe that I
+was able to give her spiritual assistance from time to time, and that
+she looked upon me as a servant of that Holy Church, which has such
+wonderful power of moving men's hearts, and relieving them of the
+burden of their sins.  I have known her cross the moors on the
+wildest nights of storm, to confess and be absolved; and then she
+would return, calmed and subdued, to her daily work about her
+mistress, no one witting where she had been during the hours that
+most passed in sleep upon their beds.  After her daughter's
+departure--after Mary's mysterious disappearance--I had to impose
+many a long penance, in order to wash away the sin of impatient
+repining that was fast leading her into the deeper guilt of
+blasphemy.  She set out on that long journey of which you have
+possibly heard--that fruitless journey in search of Mary--and during
+her absence, my superiors ordered my return to my former duties at
+Antwerp, and for many years I heard no more of Bridget.
+
+"Not many months ago, as I was passing homewards in the evening,
+along one of the streets near St. Jacques, leading into the Meer
+Straet, I saw a woman sitting crouched up under the shrine of the
+Holy Mother of Sorrows.  Her hood was drawn over her head, so that
+the shadow caused by the light of the lamp above fell deep over her
+face; her hands were clasped round her knees.  It was evident that
+she was some one in hopeless trouble, and as such it was my duty to
+stop and speak.  I naturally addressed her first in Flemish,
+believing her to be one of the lower class of inhabitants.  She shook
+her head, but did not look up.  Then I tried French, and she replied
+in that language, but speaking it so indifferently, that I was sure
+she was either English or Irish, and consequently spoke to her in my
+own native tongue.  She recognized my voice; and, starting up, caught
+at my robes, dragging me before the blessed shrine, and throwing
+herself down, and forcing me, as much by her evident desire as by her
+action, to kneel beside her, she exclaimed:
+
+"'O Holy Virgin! you will never hearken to me again, but hear him;
+for you know him of old, that he does your bidding, and strives to
+heal broken hearts.  Hear him!'
+
+"She turned to me.
+
+"'She will hear you, if you will only pray.  She never hears ME:  she
+and all the saints in heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the Evil One
+carries them off, as he carried that first away.  O, Father Bernard,
+pray for me!'
+
+"I prayed for one in sore distress, of what nature I could not say;
+but the Holy Virgin would know.  Bridget held me fast, gasping with
+eagerness at the sound of my words.  When I had ended, I rose, and,
+making the sign of the Cross over her, I was going to bless her in
+the name of the Holy Church, when she shrank away like some terrified
+creature, and said -
+
+"'I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven.'
+
+"'Arise, my daughter,' said I, 'and come with me.'  And I led the way
+into one of the confessionals of St. Jaques.
+
+"She knelt; I listened.  No words came.  The evil powers had stricken
+her dumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when she
+approached confession.
+
+"She was too poor to pay for the necessary forms of exorcism; and
+hitherto those priests to whom she had addressed herself were either
+so ignorant of the meaning of her broken French, or her Irish-
+English, or else esteemed her to be one crazed--as, indeed, her wild
+and excited manner might easily have led any one to think--that they
+had neglected the sole means of loosening her tongue, so that she
+might confess her deadly sin, and, after due penance, obtain
+absolution.  But I knew Bridget of old, and felt that she was a
+penitent sent to me.  I went through those holy offices appointed by
+our Church for the relief of such a case.  I was the more bound to do
+this, as I found that she had come to Antwerp for the sole purpose of
+discovering me, and making confession to me.  Of the nature of that
+fearful confession I am forbidden to speak.  Much of it you know;
+possibly all.
+
+"It now remains for her to free herself from mortal guilt, and to set
+others free from the consequences thereof.  No prayers, no masses,
+will ever do it, although they may strengthen her with that strength
+by which alone acts of deepest love and purest self-devotion may be
+performed.  Her words of passion, and cries for revenge--her unholy
+prayers could never reach the ears of the holy saints!  Other powers
+intercepted them, and wrought so that the curses thrown up to heaven
+have fallen on her own flesh and blood; and so, through her very
+strength of love, have brused and crushed her heart.  Henceforward
+her former self must be buried,--yea, buried quick, if need be,--but
+never more to make sign, or utter cry on earth!  She has become a
+Poor Clare, in order that, by perpetual penance and constant service
+of others, she may at length so act as to obtain final absolution and
+rest for her soul.  Until then, the innocent must suffer.  It is to
+plead for the innocent that I come to you; not in the name of the
+witch, Bridget Fitzgerald, but of the penitent and servant of all
+men, the Poor Clare, Sister Magdalen."
+
+"Sir," said I, "I listen to your request with respect; only I may
+tell you it is not needed to urge me to do all that I can on behalf
+of one, love for whom is part of my very life.  If for a time I have
+absented myself from her, it is to think and work for her redemption.
+I, a member of the English Church--my uncle, a Puritan--pray morning
+and night for her by name:  the congregations of London, on the next
+Sabbath, will pray for one unknown, that she may be set free from the
+Powers of Darkness.  Moreover, I must tell you, sir, that those evil
+ones touch not the great calm of her soul.  She lives her own pure
+and loving life, unharmed and untainted, though all men fall off from
+her.  I would I could have her faith!"
+
+My uncle now spoke.
+
+"Nephew," said he, "it seems to me that this gentleman, although
+professing what I consider an erroneous creed, has touched upon the
+right point in exhorting Bridget to acts of love and mercy, whereby
+to wipe out her sin of hate and vengeance.  Let us strive after our
+fashion, by almsgiving and visiting of the needy and fatherless, to
+make our prayers acceptable.  Meanwhile, I myself will go down into
+the north, and take charge of the maiden.  I am too old to be daunted
+by man or demon.  I will bring her to this house as to a home; and
+let the Double come if it will!  A company of godly divines shall
+give it the meeting, and we will try issue."
+
+The kindly, brave old man!  But Father Bernard sat on musing.
+
+"All hate," said he, "cannot be quenched in her heart; all Christian
+forgiveness cannot have entered into her soul, or the demon would
+have lost its power.  You said, I think, that her grandchild was
+still tormented?"
+
+"Still tormented!"  I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress Clarke's
+last letter--He rose to go.  We afterwards heard that the occasion of
+his coming to London was a secret political mission on behalf of the
+Jacobites.  Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man.
+
+Months and months passed away without any change.  Lucy entreated my
+uncle to leave her where she was,--dreading, as I learnt, lest if she
+came, with her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me,
+that my love could not stand the repeated shocks to which I should be
+doomed.  And this she thought from no distrust of the strength of my
+affection, but from a kind of pitying sympathy for the terror to the
+nerves which she clearly observed that the demoniac visitation caused
+in all.
+
+I was restless and miserable.  I devoted myself to good works; but I
+performed them from no spirit of love, but solely from the hope of
+reward and payment, and so the reward was never granted.  At length,
+I asked my uncle's leave to travel; and I went forth, a wanderer,
+with no distincter end than that of many another wanderer--to get
+away from myself.  A strange impulse led me to Antwerp, in spite of
+the wars and commotions then raging in the Low Countries--or rather,
+perhaps, the very craving to become interested in something external,
+led me into the thick of the struggle then going on with the
+Austrians.  The cities of Flanders were all full at that time of
+civil disturbances and rebellions, only kept down by force, and the
+presence of an Austrian garrison in every place.
+
+I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry for Father Bernard.  He was
+away in the country for a day or two.  Then I asked my way to the
+Convent of Poor Clares; but, being healthy and prosperous, I could
+only see the dim, pent-up, gray walls, shut closely in by narrow
+streets, in the lowest part of the town.  My landlord told me, that
+had I been stricken by some loathsome disease, or in desperate case
+of any kind, the Poor Clares would have taken me, and tended me.  He
+spoke of them as an order of mercy of the strictest kind, dressing
+scantily in the coarsest materials, going barefoot, living on what
+the inhabitants of Antwerp chose to bestow, and sharing even those
+fragments and crumbs with the poor and helpless that swarmed all
+around; receiving no letters or communication with the outer world;
+utterly dead to everything but the alleviation of suffering.  He
+smiled at my inquiring whether I could get speech of one of them; and
+told me that they were even forbidden to speak for the purposes of
+begging their daily food; while yet they lived, and fed others upon
+what was given in charity.
+
+"But," exclaimed I, "supposing all men forgot them!  Would they
+quietly lie down and die, without making sign of their extremity?"
+
+"If such were the rule the Poor Clares would willingly do it; but
+their founder appointed a remedy for such extreme cases as you
+suggest.  They have a bell--'tis but a small one, as I have heard,
+and has yet never been rung in the memory man:  when the Poor Clares
+have been without food for twenty-four hours, they may ring this
+bell, and then trust to our good people of Antwerp for rushing to the
+rescue of the Poor Clares, who have taken such blessed care of us in
+all our straits."
+
+It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did
+not say what I thought.  I rather turned the conversation, by asking
+my landlord if he knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain
+Sister Magdalen.
+
+"Yes," said he, rather under his breath, "news will creep out, even
+from a convent of Poor Clares.  Sister Magdalen is either a great
+sinner or a great saint.  She does more, as I have heard, than all
+the other nuns put together; yet, when last month they would fain
+have made her mother-superior, she begged rather that they would
+place her below all the rest, and make her the meanest servant of
+all."
+
+"You never saw her?" asked I.
+
+"Never," he replied.
+
+I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in
+Antwerp.  The political state of things became worse than ever,
+increased to its height by the scarcity of food consequent on many
+deficient harvests.  I saw groups of fierce, squalid men, at every
+corner of the street, glaring out with wolfish eyes at my sleek skin
+and handsome clothes.
+
+At last Father Bernard returned.  We had a long conversation, in
+which he told me that, curiously enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy's father,
+was serving in one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at
+Antwerp.  I asked Father Bernard if he would make us acquainted;
+which he consented to do.  But, a day or two afterwards, he told me
+that, on hearing my name, Mr. Gisborne had declined responding to any
+advances on my part, saying he had adjured his country, and hated his
+countrymen.
+
+Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his
+daughter Lucy.  Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of
+making his acquaintance.  Father Bernard confirmed me in my
+suspicions of the hidden fermentation, for some coming evil, working
+among the "blouses" of Antwerp, and he would fain have had me depart
+from out the city; but I rather craved the excitement of danger, and
+stubbornly refused to leave.
+
+One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to
+an Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral.
+
+"That is Mr. Gisborne," said he, as soon as the gentleman was past.
+
+I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer.  He
+carried himself in a stately manner, although he was past middle age,
+and from his years might have had some excuse for a slight stoop.  As
+I looked at the man, he turned round, his eyes met mine, and I saw
+his face.  Deeply lined, sallow, and scathed was that countenance;
+scarred by passion as well as by the fortunes of war.  'Twas but a
+moment our eyes met.  We each turned round, and went on our separate
+way.
+
+But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the
+thorough appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on
+it, made but an incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of
+his countenance.  Because he was Lucy's father, I sought
+instinctively to meet him everywhere.  At last he must have become
+aware of my pertinacity, for he gave me a haughty scowl whenever I
+passed him.  In one of these encounters, however, I chanced to be of
+some service to him.  He was turning the corner of a street, and came
+suddenly on one of the groups of discontented Flemings of whom I have
+spoken.  Some words were exchanged, when my gentleman out with his
+sword, and with a slight but skilful cut drew blood from one of those
+who had insulted him, as he fancied, though I was too far off to hear
+the words.  They would all have fallen upon him had I not rushed
+forwards and raised the cry, then well known in Antwerp, of rally, to
+the Austrian soldiers who were perpetually patrolling the streets,
+and who came in numbers to the rescue.  I think that neither Mr.
+Gisborne nor the mutinous group of plebeians owed me much gratitude
+for my interference.  He had planted himself against a wall, in a
+skilful attitude of fence, ready with his bright glancing rapier to
+do battle with all the heavy, fierce, unarmed men, some six or seven
+in number.  But when his own soldiers came up, he sheathed his sword;
+and, giving some careless word of command, sent them away again, and
+continued his saunter all alone down the street, the workmen snarling
+in his rear, and more than half-inclined to fall on me for my cry for
+rescue.  I cared not if they did, my life seemed so dreary a burden
+just then; and, perhaps, it was this daring loitering among them that
+prevented their attacking me.  Instead, they suffered me to fall into
+conversation with them; and I heard some of their grievances.  Sore
+and heavy to be borne were they, and no wonder the sufferers were
+savage and desperate.
+
+The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got
+out of me the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it.
+Another of the group heard his inquiry, and made answer--"I know the
+man.  He is one Gisborne, aide-de-camp to the General-Commandant.  I
+know him well."
+
+He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and
+muttering voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw
+excited their evil blood, and which they evidently wished me not to
+hear, I sauntered away and back to my lodgings.
+
+That night Antwerp was in open revolt.  The inhabitants rose in
+rebellion against their Austrian masters.  The Austrians, holding the
+gates of the city, remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel;
+only, from time to time, the boom of the great cannon swept sullenly
+over the town.  But if they expected the disturbance to die away, and
+spend itself in a few hours' fury, they were mistaken.  In a day or
+two, the rioters held possession of the principal municipal
+buildings.  Then the Austrians poured forth in bright flaming array,
+calm and smiling, as they marched to the posts assigned, as if the
+fierce mob were no more to them then the swarms of buzzing summer
+flies.  Their practised manoeuvres, their well-aimed shot, told with
+terrible effect; but in the place of one slain rioter, three sprang
+up of his blood to avenge his loss.  But a deadly foe, a ghastly ally
+of the Austrians, was at work.  Food, scarce and dear for months, was
+now hardly to be obtained at any price.  Desperate efforts were being
+made to bring provisions into the city, for the rioters had friends
+without.  Close to the city port, nearest to the Scheldt, a great
+struggle took place.  I was there, helping the rioters, whose cause I
+had adopted.  We had a savage encounter with the Austrians.  Numbers
+fell on both sides:  I saw them lie bleeding for a moment:  then a
+volley of smoke obscured them; and when it cleared away, they were
+dead--trampled upon or smothered, pressed down and hidden by the
+freshly-wounded whom those last guns had brought low.  And then a
+gray-robed and grey-veiled figure came right across the flashing guns
+and stooped over some one, whose life-blood was ebbing away;
+sometimes it was to give him drink from cans which they carried slung
+at their sides; sometimes I saw the cross held above a dying man, and
+rapid prayers were being uttered, unheard by men in that hellish din
+and clangour, but listened to by One above.  I saw all this as in a
+dream:  the reality of that stern time was battle and carnage.  But I
+knew that these gray figures, their bare feet all wet with blood, and
+their faces hidden by their veils, were the Poor Clares--sent forth
+now because dire agony was abroad and imminent danger at hand.
+Therefore, they left their cloistered shelter, and came into that
+thick and evil melee.
+
+Close to me--driven past me by the struggle of many fighters--came
+the Antwerp burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon his face; and in
+an instant more, he was thrown by the press upon the Austrian officer
+Gisborne, and ere either had recovered the shock, the burgess had
+recognized his opponent.
+
+"Ha! the Englishman Gisborne!" he cried, and threw himself upon him
+with redoubled fury.  He had struck him hard--the Englishman was
+down; when out of the smoke came a dark-gray figure, and threw
+herself right under the uplifted flashing sword.  The burgess's arm
+stood arrested.  Neither Austrians nor Anversois willingly harmed the
+Poor Clares.
+
+"Leave him to me!" said a low stern voice.  "He is mine enemy--mine
+for many years."
+
+Those words were the last I heard.  I myself was struck down by a
+bullet.  I remember nothing more for days.  When I came to myself, I
+was at the extremity of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit
+my strength.  My landlord sat watching me.  He, too, looked pinched
+and shrunken; he had heard of my wounded state, and sought me out.
+Yes! the struggle still continued, but the famine was sore:  and
+some, he had heard, had died for lack of food.  The tears stood in
+his eyes as he spoke.  But soon he shook off his weakness, and his
+natural cheerfulness returned.  Father Bernard had been to see me--no
+one else.  (Who should, indeed?) Father Bernard would come back that
+afternoon--he had promised.  But Father Bernard never came, although
+I was up and dressed, and looking eagerly for him.
+
+My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself:  of what
+it was composed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and with
+every mouthful I seemed to gain strength.  The good man sat looking
+at my evident enjoyment with a happy smile of sympathy; but, as my
+appetite became satisfied, I began to detect a certain wistfulness in
+his eyes, as if craving for the food I had so nearly devoured--for,
+indeed, at that time I was hardly aware of the extent of the famine.
+Suddenly, there was a sound of many rushing feet past our window.  My
+landlord opened one of the sides of it, the better to learn what was
+going on.  Then we heard a faint, cracked, tinkling bell, coming
+shrill upon the air, clear and distinct from all other sounds.  "Holy
+Mother!" exclaimed my landlord, "the Poor Clares!"
+
+He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into my
+hands, bidding me follow.  Down stairs he ran, clutching at more
+food, as the women of his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a
+moment we were in the street, moving along with the great current,
+all tending towards the Convent of the Poor Clares.  And still, as if
+piercing our ears with its inarticulate cry, came the shrill tinkle
+of the bell.  In that strange crowd were old men trembling and
+sobbing, as they carried their little pittance of food; women with
+tears running down their cheeks, who had snatched up what provisions
+they had in the vessels in which they stood, so that the burden of
+these was in many cases much greater than that which they contained;
+children, with flushed faces, grasping tight the morsel of bitten
+cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it safe to the help of the
+Poor Clares; strong men--yea, both Anversois and Austrians--pressing
+onward with set teeth, and no word spoken; and over all, and through
+all, came that sharp tinkle--that cry for help in extremity.
+
+We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and
+piteous faces:  they were issuing out of the convent to make way for
+the offerings of others.  "Haste, haste!" said they.  "A Poor Clare
+is dying!  A Poor Clare is dead for hunger!  God forgive us and our
+city!"
+
+We pressed on.  The stream bore us along where it would.  We were
+carried through refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over
+whose doors the conventual name of the occupant was written.  Thus it
+was that I, with others, was forced into Sister Magdalen's cell.  On
+her couch lay Gisborne, pale unto death, but not dead.  By his side
+was a cup of water, and a small morsel of mouldy bread, which he had
+pushed out of his reach, and could not move to obtain.  Over against
+his bed were these words, copied in the English version "Therefore,
+if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink."
+
+Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like
+some famished wild animal.  For now it was no longer the sharp
+tinkle, but that one solemn toll, which in all Christian countries
+tells of the passing of the spirit out of earthly life into eternity;
+and again a murmur gathered and grew, as of many people speaking with
+awed breath, "A Poor Clare is dying! a Poor Clare is dead!"
+
+Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried
+into the chapel belonging to the Poor Clares.  On a bier before the
+high altar, lay a woman--lay Sister Magdalen--lay Bridget Fitzgerald.
+By her side stood Father Bernard, in his robes of office, and holding
+the crucifix on high while he pronounced the solemn absolution of the
+Church, as to one who had newly confessed herself of deadly sin.  I
+pushed on with passionate force, till I stood close to the dying
+woman, as she received extreme unction amid the breathless and awed
+hush of the multitude around.  Her eyes were glazing, her limbs were
+stiffening; but when the rite was over and finished, she raised her
+gaunt figure slowly up, and her eyes brightened to a strange
+intensity of joy, as, with the gesture of her finger and the trance-
+like gleam of her eye, she seemed like one who watched the
+disappearance of some loathed and fearful creature.
+
+"She is freed from the curse!" said she, as she fell back dead.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of The Project Gutenberg Etext The Poor Clare, by Elizabeth Gaskell
+
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+The Project Gutenberg Etext The Poor Clare, by Elizabeth Gaskell
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+Title:  The Poor Clare
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+Author:  Elizabeth Gaskell
+
+March, 2001  [Etext #2548]
+
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+The Project Gutenberg Etext The Poor Clare, by Elizabeth Gaskell
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+
+This etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
+from the 1896 "Lizzie Leigh and Other Tales" Macmillan and Co. edition.
+Proofing was by Audrey Emmitt and Eugenia Corbo.
+
+
+
+
+
+THE POOR CLARE
+
+by Elizabeth Gaskell
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+
+
+December 12th, 1747.--My life has been strangely bound up with
+extraordinary incidents, some of which occurred before I had any
+connection with the principal actors in them, or indeed, before I
+even knew of their existence.  I suppose, most old men are, like me,
+more given to looking back upon their own career with a kind of fond
+interest and affectionate remembrance, than to watching the events--
+though these may have far more interest for the multitude--
+immediately passing before their eyes.  If this should be the case
+with the generality of old people, how much more so with me! . . . If
+I am to enter upon that strange story connected with poor Lucy, I
+must begin a long way back.  I myself only came to the knowledge of
+her family history after I knew her; but, to make the tale clear to
+any one else, I must arrange events in the order in which they
+occurred--not that in which I became acquainted with them.
+
+There is a great old hall in the north-east of Lancashire, in a part
+they called the Trough of Bolland, adjoining that other district
+named Craven.  Starkey Manor-house is rather like a number of rooms
+clustered round a gray, massive, old keep than a regularly-built
+hall.  Indeed, I suppose that the house only consisted of a great
+tower in the centre, in the days when the Scots made their raids
+terrible as far south as this; and that after the Stuarts came in,
+and there was a little more security of property in those parts, the
+Starkeys of that time added the lower building, which runs, two
+stories high, all round the base of the keep.  There has been a grand
+garden laid out in my days, on the southern slope near the house; but
+when I first knew the place, the kitchen-garden at the farm was the
+only piece of cultivated ground belonging to it.  The deer used to
+come within sight of the drawing-room windows, and might have browsed
+quite close up to the house if they had not been too wild and shy.
+Starkey Manor-house itself stood on a projection or peninsula of high
+land, jutting out from the abrupt hills that form the sides of the
+Trough of Bolland.  These hills were rocky and bleak enough towards
+their summit; lower down they were clothed with tangled copsewood and
+green depths of fern, out of which a gray giant of an ancient forest-
+tree would tower here and there, throwing up its ghastly white
+branches, as if in imprecation, to the sky.  These trees, they told
+me, were the remnants of that forest which existed in the days of the
+Heptarchy, and were even then noted as landmarks.  No wonder that
+their upper and more exposed branches were leafless, and that the
+dead bark had peeled away, from sapless old age.
+
+Not far from the house there were a few cottages, apparently, of the
+same date as the keep; probably built for some retainers of the
+family, who sought shelter--they and their families and their small
+flocks and herds--at the hands of their feudal lord.  Some of them
+had pretty much fallen to decay.  They were built in a strange
+fashion.  Strong beams had been sunk firm in the ground at the
+requisite distance, and their other ends had been fastened together,
+two and two, so as to form the shape of one of those rounded waggon-
+headed gipsy-tents, only very much larger.  The spaces between were
+filled with mud, stones, osiers, rubbish, mortar--anything to keep
+out the weather.  The fires were made in the centre of these rude
+dwellings, a hole in the roof forming the only chimney.  No Highland
+hut or Irish cabin could be of rougher construction.
+
+The owner of this property, at the beginning of the present century,
+was a Mr. Patrick Byrne Starkey.  His family had kept to the old
+faith, and were stanch Roman Catholics, esteeming it even a sin to
+marry any one of Protestant descent, however willing he or she might
+have been to embrace the Romish religion.  Mr. Patrick Starkey's
+father had been a follower of James the Second; and, during the
+disastrous Irish campaign of that monarch he had fallen in love with
+an Irish beauty, a Miss Byrne, as zealous for her religion and for
+the Stuarts as himself.  He had returned to Ireland after his escape
+to France, and married her, bearing her back to the court at St.
+Germains.  But some licence on the part of the disorderly gentlemen
+who surrounded King James in his exile, had insulted his beautiful
+wife, and disgusted him; so he removed from St. Germains to Antwerp,
+whence, in a few years' time, he quietly returned to Starkey Manor-
+house--some of his Lancashire neighbours having lent their good
+offices to reconcile him to the powers that were.  He was as firm a
+Catholic as ever, and as stanch an advocate for the Stuarts and the
+divine rights of kings; but his religion almost amounted to
+asceticism, and the conduct of these with whom he had been brought in
+such close contact at St. Germains would little bear the inspection
+of a stern moralist.  So he gave his allegiance where he could not
+give his esteem, and learned to respect sincerely the upright and
+moral character of one whom he yet regarded as an usurper.  King
+William's government had little need to fear such a one.  So he
+returned, as I have said, with a sobered heart and impoverished
+fortunes, to his ancestral house, which had fallen sadly to ruin
+while the owner had been a courtier, a soldier, and an exile.  The
+roads into the Trough of Bolland were little more than cart-ruts;
+indeed, the way up to the house lay along a ploughed field before you
+came to the deer-park.  Madam, as the country-folk used to call Mrs.
+Starkey, rode on a pillion behind her husband, holding on to him with
+a light hand by his leather riding-belt.  Little master (he that was
+afterwards Squire Patrick Byrne Starkey) was held on to his pony by a
+serving-man.  A woman past middle age walked, with a firm and strong
+step, by the cart that held much of the baggage; and high up on the
+mails and boxes, sat a girl of dazzling beauty, perched lightly on
+the topmost trunk, and swaying herself fearlessly to and fro, as the
+cart rocked and shook in the heavy roads of late autumn.  The girl
+wore the Antwerp faille, or black Spanish mantle over her head, and
+altogether her appearance was such that the old cottager, who
+described the possession to me many years after, said that all the
+country-folk took her for a foreigner.  Some dogs, and the boy who
+held them in charge, made up the company.  They rode silently along,
+looking with grave, serious eyes at the people, who came out of the
+scattered cottages to bow or curtsy to the real Squire, "come back at
+last," and gazed after the little procession with gaping wonder, not
+deadened by the sound of the foreign language in which the few
+necessary words that passed among them were spoken.  One lad, called
+from his staring by the Squire to come and help about the cart,
+accompanied them to the Manor-house.  He said that when the lady had
+descended from her pillion, the middle-aged woman whom I have
+described as walking while the others rode, stepped quickly forward,
+and taking Madam Starkey (who was of a slight and delicate figure) in
+her arms, she lifted her over the threshold, and set her down in her
+husband's house, at the same time uttering a passionate and
+outlandish blessing.  The Squire stood by, smiling gravely at first;
+but when the words of blessing were pronounced, he took off his fine
+feathered hat, and bent his head.  The girl with the black mantle
+stepped onward into the shadow of the dark hall, and kissed the
+lady's hand; and that was all the lad could tell to the group that
+gathered round him on his return, eager to hear everything, and to
+know how much the Squire had given him for his services.
+
+From all I could gather, the Manor-house, at the time of the Squire's
+return, was in the most dilapidated state.  The stout gray walls
+remained firm and entire; but the inner chambers had been used for
+all kinds of purposes.  The great withdrawing-room had been a barn;
+the state tapestry-chamber had held wool, and so on.  But, by-and-by,
+they were cleared out; and if the Squire had no money to spend on new
+furniture, he and his wife had the knack of making the best of the
+old.  He was no despicable joiner; she had a kind of grace in
+whatever she did, and imparted an air of elegant picturesqueness to
+whatever she touched.  Besides, they had brought many rare things
+from the Continent; perhaps I should rather say, things that were
+rare in that part of England--carvings, and crosses, and beautiful
+pictures.  And then, again, wood was plentiful in the Trough of
+Bolland, and great log-fires danced and glittered in all the dark,
+old rooms, and gave a look of home and comfort to everything.
+
+Why do I tell you all this?  I have little to do with the Squire and
+Madame Starkey; and yet I dwell upon them, as if I were unwilling to
+come to the real people with whom my life was so strangely mixed up.
+Madam had been nursed in Ireland by the very woman who lifted her in
+her arms, and welcomed her to her husband's home in Lancashire.
+Excepting for the short period of her own married life, Bridget
+Fitzgerald had never left her nursling.  Her marriage--to one above
+her in rank--had been unhappy.  Her husband had died, and left her in
+even greater poverty than that in which she was when he had first met
+with her.  She had one child, the beautiful daughter who came riding
+on the waggon-load of furniture that was brought to the Manor-house.
+Madame Starkey had taken her again into her service when she became a
+widow.  She and her daughter had followed "the mistress" in all her
+fortunes; they had lived at St. Germains and at Antwerp, and were now
+come to her home in Lancashire.  As soon as Bridget had arrived
+there, the Squire gave her a cottage of her own, and took more pains
+in furnishing it for her than he did in anything else out of his own
+house.  It was only nominally her residence.  She was constantly up
+at the great house; indeed, it was but a short cut across the woods
+from her own home to the home of her nursling.  Her daughter Mary, in
+like manner, moved from one house to the other at her own will.
+Madam loved both mother and child dearly.  They had great influence
+over her, and, through her, over her husband.  Whatever Bridget or
+Mary willed was sure to come to pass.  They were not disliked; for,
+though wild and passionate, they were also generous by nature.  But
+the other servants were afraid of them, as being in secret the ruling
+spirits of the household.  The Squire had lost his interest in all
+secular things; Madam was gentle, affectionate, and yielding.  Both
+husband and wife were tenderly attached to each other and to their
+boy; but they grew more and more to shun the trouble of decision on
+any point; and hence it was that Bridget could exert such despotic
+power.  But if everyone else yielded to her "magic of a superior
+mind," her daughter not unfrequently rebelled.  She and her mother
+were too much alike to agree.  There were wild quarrels between them,
+and wilder reconciliations.  There were times when, in the heat of
+passion, they could have stabbed each other.  At all other times they
+both--Bridget especially--would have willingly laid down their lives
+for one another.  Bridget's love for her child lay very deep--deeper
+than that daughter ever knew; or I should think she would never have
+wearied of home as she did, and prayed her mistress to obtain for her
+some situation--as waiting maid--beyond the seas, in that more
+cheerful continental life, among the scenes of which so many of her
+happiest years had been spent.  She thought, as youth thinks, that
+life would last for ever, and that two or three years were but a
+small portion of it to pass away from her mother, whose only child
+she was.  Bridget thought differently, but was too proud ever to show
+what she felt.  If her child wished to leave her, why--she should go.
+But people said Bridget 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 Mary wanted for a time to leave the place, and to
+seek some change, and would thankfully have taken her mother with
+her.  Indeed when Madam Starkey had gotten her a situation with some
+grand lady abroad, and the time drew near for her to go, it was Mary
+who clung to her mother with passionate embrace, and, with floods of
+tears, declared that she would never leave her; and it was Bridget,
+who at last loosened her arms, and, grave and tearless herself, bade
+her keep her word, and go forth into the wide world.  Sobbing aloud,
+and looking back continually, Mary went away.  Bridget was still as
+death, scarcely drawing her breath, or closing her stony eyes; till
+at last she turned back into her cottage, and heaved a ponderous old
+settle against the door.  There she sat, motionless, over the gray
+ashes of her extinguished fire, deaf to Madam's sweet voice, as she
+begged leave to enter and comfort her nurse.  Deaf, stony, and
+motionless, she sat for more than twenty hours; till, for the third
+time, Madam came across the snowy path from the great house, carrying
+with her a young spaniel, which had been Mary's pet up at the hall;
+and which had not ceased all night long to seek for its absent
+mistress, and to whine and moan after her.  With tears Madam told
+this story, through the closed door--tears excited by the terrible
+look of anguish, so steady, so immovable--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 it shivered with the cold.
+Bridget stirred; she moved--she listened.  Again that long whine; she
+thought it was for her daughter; and what she had denied to her
+nursling and mistress she granted to the dumb creature that Mary had
+cherished.  She opened the door, and took the dog from Madam's arms.
+Then Madam came in, and kissed and comforted the old woman, who took
+but little notice of her or anything.  And sending up Master Patrick
+to the hall for fire and food, the sweet young lady never left her
+nurse all that night.  Next day, the Squire himself came down,
+carrying a beautiful foreign picture--Our Lady of the Holy Heart, the
+Papists call it.  It is a picture of the Virgin, her heart pierced
+with arrows, each arrow representing one of her great woes.  That
+picture hung in Bridget's cottage 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
+her darling.  I have heard that she talked to it continually;
+although, to most people, she was so silent.  The Squire and Madam
+treated her with the greatest consideration, and well they might; for
+to them she was as devoted and faithful as ever.  Mary wrote pretty
+often, and seemed satisfied with her life.  But at length the letters
+ceased--I hardly know whether before or after a great and terrible
+sorrow came upon the house of the Starkeys.  The Squire sickened of a
+putrid fever; and Madam caught it in nursing him, and died.  You may
+be sure, Bridget let no other woman tend her but herself; and in the
+very arms that had received her at her birth, 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 the heart to smile
+again.  He fasted and prayed more than ever; and people did say that
+he tried to cut off the entail, and leave all the property away to
+found a monastery abroad, of which he prayed that some day little
+Squire 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 he could 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 the way it was to be held while he was a
+minor.  Of course, Bridget was not forgotten.  He sent for her as he
+lay on his death-bed, and asked her if she would rather have a sum
+down, or have a small annuity settled upon her.  She said at once she
+would have a sum down; for she thought of her daughter, and how she
+could bequeath the money to her, whereas an annuity would 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 a heart
+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
+left alone.
+
+I have said that she had not heard from Mary for some time.  In her
+last letter, she had told of travelling about with her mistress, who
+was the English wife of some great foreign officer, and had spoken of
+her chances of making a good marriage, without naming the gentleman's
+name, keeping it rather back as a pleasant surprise to her mother;
+his station and fortune being, as I had afterwards reason to know,
+far superior to anything she had a right to expect.  Then came a long
+silence; and Madam was dead, and the Squire was dead; and Bridget's
+heart was gnawed by anxiety, and she knew not whom to ask for news of
+her child.  She could not write, and the Squire had managed her
+communication with her daughter.  She walked off to Hurst; and got a
+good priest there--one whom she had known at Antwerp--to write for
+her.  But no answer came.  It was like crying into the' awful
+stillness of night.
+
+One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been
+accustomed to mark her goings-out and comings-in.  She had never been
+sociable with any 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, and her house-door remained closed, her window
+dead from any glitter, or light 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 through the blank unshuttered
+window.  But, at last, they summoned up courage; and then saw that
+Bridget's absence from their little world was not the result of
+accident or death, but of premeditation.  Such small articles of
+furniture as could be secured from the effects of time and damp by
+being packed up, were stowed away in boxes.  The picture of the
+Madonna was taken down, and gone.  In a word, Bridget had stolen away
+from her home, 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 her lost daughter.  She was too illiterate to have faith
+in letters, even had she had the means of writing and sending many.
+But she had faith in her own strong love, and believed that her
+passionate instinct would guide her to her child.  Besides, foreign
+travel was no new thing to her, and she could speak enough of French
+to explain the object of her journey, and had, moreover, the
+advantage of being, from her faith, a welcome object of charitable
+hospitality at many a distant convent.  But the country people round
+Starkey Manor-house knew nothing of all this.  They wondered what had
+become of her, in a torpid, lazy fashion, and then left off thinking
+of her altogether.  Several years passed.  Both Manor-house and
+cottage were deserted.  The young Squire lived far away under the
+direction of his guardians.  There were inroads of wool and corn into
+the sitting-rooms of the Hall; and there was some low talk, from time
+to time, among the hinds and country people whether it would not be
+as well to break into old Bridget's cottage, and save such of her
+goods as were left from the moth and rust which must be making sad
+havoc.  But this idea was always quenched by the recollection of her
+strong character and passionate anger; and tales of her masterful
+spirit, and vehement force of will, were whispered about, till the
+very thought of offending her, by touching any article of hers,
+became invested with a kind of horror:  it was believed that, dead or
+alive, she would not fail to avenge it.
+
+Suddenly she came home; with as little noise or note of preparation
+as she had departed.  One day some one noticed a thin, blue curl of
+smoke ascending from her chimney.  Her door stood open to the noonday
+sun; and, ere many hours had elapsed, some one had seen an old
+travel-and-sorrow-stained woman dipping her pitcher in the well; and
+said, that the dark, solemn eyes that looked up at him were more like
+Bridget Fitzgerald's than any one else's in this world; and yet, if
+it were she, she looked as if she had been scorched in the flames of
+hell, so brown, and scared, and fierce a creature did she seem.  By-
+and-by many saw her; and those who met her eye once cared not to be
+caught looking at her again.  She had got into the habit of
+perpetually talking to herself; nay, more, answering herself, and
+varying her tones according to the side she took at the moment.  It
+was no wonder that those who dared to listen outside her door at
+night believed that she held converse with some spirit; in short, she
+was unconsciously earning for herself the dreadful reputation of a
+witch.
+
+Her little dog, which had wandered half over the Continent with her,
+was her only companion; a dumb remembrancer of happier days.  Once he
+was ill; and she carried him more than three miles, to ask about his
+management from one who had been groom to the last Squire, and had
+then been noted for his skill in all diseases of animals.  Whatever
+this man did, the dog recovered; and they who heard her thanks,
+intermingled with blessings (that were rather promises of good
+fortune than prayers), looked grave at his good luck when, next year,
+his ewes twinned, and his meadow-grass was heavy and thick.
+
+Now it so happened that, about the year seventeen hundred and eleven,
+one of the guardians of the young squire, a certain Sir Philip
+Tempest, bethought him of the good shooting there must be on his
+ward's property; and in consequence he brought down four or five
+gentlemen, of his friends, to stay for a week or two at the Hall.
+From all accounts, they roystered and spent pretty freely.  I never
+heard any of their names but one, and that was Squire Gisborne's.  He
+was hardly a middle-aged man then; he had been much abroad, and
+there, I believe, he had known Sir Philip Tempest, and done him some
+service.  He was a daring and dissolute fellow in those days:
+careless and fearless, and one who would rather be in a quarrel than
+out of it.  He had his fits of ill-temper besides, when he would
+spare neither man nor beast.  Otherwise, those who knew him well,
+used to say he had a good heart, when he was neither drunk, nor
+angry, nor in any way vexed.  He had altered much when I came to know
+him.
+
+One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but little
+success, I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had none, and was in a black
+humour accordingly.  He was coming home, having his gun loaded,
+sportsman-like, when little Mignon crossed his path, just as he
+turned out of the wood by Bridget's cottage.  Partly for wantonness,
+partly to vent his spleen upon some living creature.  Mr. Gisborne
+took his gun, and fired--he had better have never fired gun again,
+than aimed that unlucky shot, he hit Mignon, and at the creature's
+sudden cry, Bridget came out, and saw at a glance what had been done.
+She took Mignon up in her arms, and looked hard at the wound; the
+poor dog looked at her with his glazing eyes, and tried to wag his
+tail and lick her hand, all covered with blood.  Mr. Gisborne spoke
+in a kind of sullen penitence:
+
+"You should have kept the dog out of my way--a little poaching
+varmint."
+
+At this very moment, Mignon stretched out his legs, and stiffened in
+her arms--her lost Mary's dog, who had wandered and sorrowed with her
+for years.  She walked right into Mr. Gisborne's path, and fixed his
+unwilling, sullen look, with her dark and terrible eye.
+
+"Those never throve that did me harm," said she.  "I'm alone in the
+world, and helpless; the more do the saints in heaven hear my
+prayers.  Hear me, ye blessed ones! hear me while I ask for sorrow on
+this bad, cruel man.  He has killed the only creature that loved me--
+the dumb beast that I loved.  Bring down heavy sorrow on his head for
+it, O ye saints!  He thought that I was helpless, because he saw me
+lonely and poor; but are not the armies of heaven for the like of
+me?"
+
+"Come, come," said he, half remorseful, but not one whit afraid.
+"Here's a crown to buy thee another dog.  Take it, and leave off
+cursing!  I care none for thy threats."
+
+"Don't you?" said she, coming a step closer, and changing her
+imprecatory cry for a whisper which made the gamekeeper's lad,
+following Mr. Gisborne, creep all over.  "You shall live to see the
+creature you love best, and who alone loves you--ay, a human
+creature, but as innocent and fond as my poor, dead darling--you
+shall see this creature, for whom death would be too happy, become a
+terror and a loathing to all, for this blood's sake.  Hear me, O holy
+saints, who never fail them that have no other help!"
+
+She threw up her right hand, filled with poor Mignon's life-drops;
+they spirted, one or two of them, on his shooting-dress,--an ominous
+sight to the follower.  But the master only laughed a little, forced,
+scornful laugh, and went on to the Hall.  Before he got there,
+however, he took out a gold piece, and bade the boy carry it to the
+old woman on his return to the village.  The lad was "afeared," as he
+told me in after years; he came to the cottage, and hovered about,
+not daring to enter.  He peeped through the window at last; and by
+the flickering wood-flame, he saw Bridget kneeling before the picture
+of Our Lady of the Holy Heart, with dead Mignon lying between her and
+the Madonna.  She was praying wildly, as her outstretched arms
+betokened.  The lad shrunk away in redoubled terror; and contented
+himself with slipping the gold piece under the ill-fitting door.  The
+next day it was thrown out upon the midden; and there it lay, no one
+daring to touch it.
+
+Meanwhile Mr. Gisborne, half curious, half uneasy, thought to lessen
+his uncomfortable feelings by asking Sir Philip who Bridget was?  He
+could only describe her--he did not know her name.  Sir Philip was
+equally at a loss.  But an old servant of the Starkeys, who had
+resumed his livery at the Hall on this occasion--a scoundrel whom
+Bridget had saved from dismissal more than once during her palmy
+days--said:-
+
+"It will be the old witch, that his worship means.  She needs a
+ducking, if ever a woman did, does that Bridget Fitzgerald."
+
+"Fitzgerald!" said both the gentlemen at once.  But Sir Philip was
+the first to continue:-
+
+"I must have no talk of ducking her, Dickon.  Why, she must be the
+very woman poor Starkey bade me have a care of; but when I came here
+last she was gone, no one knew where.  I'll go and see her to-morrow.
+But mind you, sirrah, if any harm comes to her, or any more talk of
+her being a witch--I've a pack of hounds at home, who can follow the
+scent of a lying knave as well as ever they followed a dog-fox; so
+take care how you talk about ducking a faithful old servant of your
+dead master's."
+
+"Had she ever a daughter?" asked Mr. Gisborne, after a while.
+
+"I don't know--yes!  I've a notion she had; a kind of waiting woman
+to Madam Starkey."
+
+"Please your worship," said humbled Dickon, "Mistress Bridget had a
+daughter--one Mistress Mary--who went abroad, and has never been
+heard on since; and folk do say that has crazed her mother."
+
+Mr. Gisborne shaded his eyes with his hand.
+
+"I could wish she had not cursed me," he muttered.  "She may have
+power--no one else could."  After a while, he said aloud, no one
+understanding rightly what he meant, "Tush! it is impossible!"--and
+called for claret; and he and the other gentlemen set-to to a
+drinking-bout.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+
+
+I now come to the time in which I myself was mixed up with the people
+that I have been writing about.  And to make you understand how I
+became connected with them, I must give you some little account of
+myself.  My father was the younger son of a Devonshire gentleman of
+moderate property; my eldest uncle succeeded to the estate of his
+forefathers, my second became an eminent attorney in London, and my
+father took orders.  Like most poor clergymen, he had a large family;
+and I have no doubt was glad enough when my London uncle, who was a
+bachelor, offered to 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
+from Gray's Inn, and to be treated and esteemed as his son, and to
+labour with him in his office.  I was very fond of the old gentleman.
+He was the confidential agent of many country squires, and had
+attained to his present position as much by knowledge of human nature
+as by knowledge of law; though he was learned enough in the latter.
+He used to say his business was law, his pleasure heraldry.  From his
+intimate acquaintance with family history, and all the tragic courses
+of life therein involved, to hear him talk, at leisure times, about
+any coat of arms that came across his path was as good as a play or a
+romance.  Many cases of disputed property, dependent on a love of
+genealogy, were brought to him, as to a great authority on such
+points.  If the lawyer who came to consult him was young, he would
+take no fee, only give him a long lecture on the importance of
+attending to heraldry; if the lawyer was of mature age and good
+standing, he would mulct him pretty well, and abuse him to me
+afterwards as negligent of one great branch of the profession.  His
+house was in a stately new street called Ormond Street, and in it he
+had a handsome library; but all the books treated of things that were
+past; none of them planned or looked forward into the 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 of practice in which
+he himself took such delight.  I suspect I worked too hard; at any
+rate, in seventeen hundred and eighteen I was far from well, and my
+good uncle was disturbed by my ill looks.
+
+One day, he rang the bell twice into the clerk's room at the dingy
+office in Grey's Inn Lane.  It was the summons for me, and I went
+into his private room just as a gentleman--whom I knew well enough by
+sight as an Irish lawyer of more reputation than he deserved--was
+leaving.
+
+My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering.  I
+was there two or three minutes before he spoke.  Then he told me that
+I must pack up my portmanteau that very afternoon, and start that
+night by post-horse for West Chester.  I should get there, if all
+went well, at the end of five days' time, and must then wait for a
+packet to cross over to Dublin; from thence I must proceed to a
+certain town named Kildoon, and in that neighbourhood I was to
+remain, making certain inquiries as to the existence of any
+descendants of the younger branch of a family to whom some valuable
+estates had descended in the female line.  The Irish lawyer whom I
+had seen was weary of the case, and would willingly have given up the
+property, without further ado, to a man who appeared to claim them;
+but on laying his tables and trees before my uncle, the latter had
+foreseen so many possible prior claimants, that the lawyer had begged
+him to undertake the management of the whole business.  In his youth,
+my uncle would have liked nothing better than going over to Ireland
+himself, and ferreting out every scrap of paper or parchment, and
+every word of tradition respecting the family.  As it was, old and
+gouty, he deputed me.
+
+Accordingly, I went to Kildoon.  I suspect I had something of my
+uncle's delight in following up a genealogical scent, for I very soon
+found out, when on the spot, that Mr. Rooney, the Irish lawyer, would
+have got both himself and the first claimant into a terrible scrape,
+if he had pronounced his opinion that the estates ought to be given
+up to him.  There were three poor Irish fellows, each nearer of kin
+to the last possessor; but, a generation before, there was a still
+nearer relation, who had never been accounted for, nor his existence
+ever discovered by the lawyers, I venture to think, till I routed him
+out from the memory of some of the old dependants of the family.
+What had become of him?  I travelled backwards and forwards; I
+crossed over to France, and came back again with a slight clue, which
+ended in my discovering that, wild and dissipated himself, he had
+left one child, a son, of yet worse character than his father; that
+this same Hugh Fitzgerald had married a very beautiful serving-woman
+of the Byrnes--a person below him in hereditary rank, but above him
+in character; that he had died soon after his marriage, leaving one
+child, whether a boy or a girl I could not learn, and that the mother
+had returned to live in the family of the Byrnes.  Now, the chief of
+this latter family was serving in the Duke of Berwick's regiment, and
+it was long before I could 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, an Irishman's hatred for an Englishman, an
+exiled Jacobite's jealousy of one who prospered and lived tranquilly
+under the government he looked upon as an usurpation.  "Bridget
+Fitzgerald," he said, "had been faithful to the fortunes of his
+sister--had followed her abroad, and to England when Mrs. Starkey had
+thought fit to return.  Both his sister and her husband were dead, he
+knew nothing of Bridget Fitzgerald at the present time:  probably Sir
+Philip Tempest, his nephew's guardian, might be able to give me some
+information."  I have not given the little contemptuous terms; the
+way in which faithful service was meant to imply more than it said--
+all that has nothing to do with my story.  Sir Philip, when applied
+to, told me that he paid an annuity regularly to an old woman named
+Fitzgerald, living at Coldholme (the village near Starkey Manor-
+house).  Whether she had any descendants he could not say.
+
+One bleak March evening, I came in sight of the places described at
+the beginning of my story.  I could hardly understand the rude
+dialect in which the direction to old Bridget's house was given.
+
+"Yo' see yon furleets," all run together, gave me no idea that I was
+to guide myself by the distant lights that shone in the windows of
+the Hall, 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 grand tour.  However, at last, I reached Bridget's cottage--a
+low, moss-grown place:  the palings that had once surrounded it were
+broken and gone; and the underwood of the forest came up to the
+walls, and must have darkened the windows.  It was about seven
+o'clock--not late to my London notions--but, after knocking for some
+time at the door and receiving no reply, I was driven to conjecture
+that the occupant of the house was gone to bed.  So I betook myself
+to the nearest church I had seen, three miles back on the road I had
+come, sure that close to that I should find an inn of some kind; and
+early the next morning I set off back to Coldholme, by a field-path
+which my host assured me I should find a shorter 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 that covered the ground;
+nevertheless, I saw an old woman, whom I instinctively suspected to
+be the object of my search, in a sheltered covert on one side of my
+path.  I lingered and watched her.  She must have been considerably
+above the middle size in her prime, for when she raised 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 something on the
+ground, as, with bent head, she turned off from the spot where I
+gazed upon her, and was lost to my sight.  I fancy I missed my way,
+and made a round in spite of the landlord's directions; for by the
+time I had reached Bridget's cottage she was there, with no semblance
+of hurried walk or discomposure of any kind.  The door was slightly
+ajar.  I knocked, and the majestic figure stood before me, silently
+awaiting the explanation of my errand.  Her teeth were all gone, so
+the nose and chin were brought near together; the gray eyebrows were
+straight, and almost hung over her deep, cavernous eyes, and the
+thick white hair lay in silvery masses over the low, wide, wrinkled
+forehead.  For a moment, I stood uncertain how to shape my answer to
+the solemn questioning of her silence.
+
+"Your name is Bridget Fitzgerald, I believe?"
+
+She bowed her head in assent.
+
+"I have something to say to you.  May I come in?  I am unwilling to
+keep you standing."
+
+"You cannot tire me," she said, and at first she seemed inclined to
+deny me the shelter of her roof.  But the next moment--she had
+searched the very soul in me with her eyes during that instant--she
+led me in, and dropped the shadowing hood of her gray, draping cloak,
+which had previously hid part of the character of her countenance.
+The cottage was rude and bare enough.  But before the picture of the
+Virgin, of which I have made mention, there stood a little cup filled
+with fresh primroses.  While she paid her reverence to the Madonna, I
+understood why she had been out seeking through the clumps of green
+in the sheltered copse.  Then she turned round, and bade me be
+seated.  The expression of her face, which all this time I was
+studying, was not bad, as the stories of my last night's landlord had
+led me to expect; it was a wild, stern, fierce, indomitable
+countenance, seamed and scarred by agonies of solitary weeping; but
+it was neither cunning nor malignant.
+
+"My name is Bridget Fitzgerald," said she, by way of opening our
+conversation.
+
+"And your husband was Hugh Fitzgerald, of Knock Mahon, near Kildoon,
+in Ireland?"
+
+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
+could see; but something rose in her throat, and choked her, and
+until she could 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 nature mastered her strong will, and
+she cried out, with a trembling 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 my eyes.  There she read, as I suppose, my utter ignorance of what
+had become of her child; for she went blindly back to her chair, and
+sat rocking herself and softly moaning, as if I were not there; I not
+daring to speak to the lone and awful woman.  After a little pause,
+she knelt down before the picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart, and
+spoke to 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 ye no
+comfort for my sore heart?  Am I for ever to hope?  Grant me at least
+despair!"--and so on she went, heedless of my presence.  Her prayers
+grew wilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the
+borders of madness 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
+the flesh.  No tongue ever told me; but I know she is dead.  I have
+yearned so to see her, and my heart's will is fearful and strong:  it
+would have drawn her to me before now, if she had been a wanderer on
+the other side of the world.  I wonder often it has not drawn her out
+of the grave to come 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,
+but I could not help feeling for the desolate woman; and she must
+have read the unusual sympathy with her wistful eyes.
+
+"Yes, sir, we did.  She never knew how I loved her; and we parted
+unfriends; and I fear me that I wished her voyage might not turn out
+well, only meaning,--O, blessed Virgin! you know I only meant that
+she should 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 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
+hoped she might be alive.  Listen to me," and I told her the tale I
+have already told you, giving it all in the driest manner, for I
+wanted to recall the clear sense that I felt almost sure she had
+possessed in her younger days, and by keeping up her attention to
+details, restrain the vague wildness of her grief.
+
+She listened with deep attention, putting from time to time such
+questions as convinced me I had to do with no common intelligence,
+however dimmed and shorn by solitude and mysterious sorrow.  Then she
+took up her tale; and in few brief words, told me of her wanderings
+abroad in vain search after her daughter; sometimes in the wake of
+armies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in city.  The lady, whose
+waiting-woman Mary had gone to be, had died soon after the date of
+her last letter home; her husband, the foreign officer, had been
+serving in Hungary, whither Bridget had followed him, but too late to
+find him.  Vague rumours reached her that Mary had made a great
+marriage:  and this sting of doubt was added,--whether the mother
+might not be close to her child under her new name, and even hearing
+of her every day; and yet never recognizing the lost one under the
+appellation she then bore.  At length the thought took possession of
+her, that it was possible that all this 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, to her desolate hearth, and
+empty cottage.  Here she had thought it safest to remain; if Mary was
+in life, it was here she would seek for her mother.
+
+I noted down one or two particulars out of Bridget's narrative that I
+thought might be of use to me:  for I was stimulated to further
+search in a strange and extraordinary manner.  It seemed as if it
+were impressed upon 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 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 of my will only 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, or pains, or wit can discover.  It is true she may be long
+dead:  but she may have left a child."
+
+"A child!" she cried, as if for the first time this idea had struck
+her mind.  "Hear him, Blessed Virgin! he says she may have left a
+child.  And you have never told me, though I have prayed so for a
+sign, waking or sleeping!"
+
+"Nay," said I, "I know nothing but what you tell me.  You say you
+heard of her marriage."
+
+But she caught nothing of what I said.  She was praying to the Virgin
+in a kind of ecstasy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my
+very presence.
+
+From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest's.  The wife of the
+foreign officer had been a cousin of his father's, and from him I
+thought I might gain some particulars as to the existence of the
+Count de la Tour d'Auvergne, and where I could find him; for I knew
+questions de vive voix aid the flagging recollection, and I was
+determined to lose no chance for want of trouble.  But Sir Philip had
+gone abroad, and it would be some time before I could receive an
+answer.  So I followed my uncle's advice, to whom I had mentioned how
+wearied I felt, both in body and mind, by my will-o'-the-wisp search.
+He immediately told me to go to Harrogate, there to await Sir
+Philip's reply.  I should be near to one of the places connected with
+my search, Coldholme; not far from Sir Philip Tempest, in case he
+returned, and I wished to ask him any further questions; and, in
+conclusion, my uncle bade me try to forget all about my business for
+a time.
+
+This was far easier said than done.  I have seen a child on a common
+blown along by a high wind, without power of standing still and
+resisting the tempestuous force.  I was somewhat in the same
+predicament as regarded my mental state.  Something resistless seemed
+to urge my thoughts on, through every possible course by which there
+was a chance of attaining to my object.  I did not see the sweeping
+moors when I walked out:  when I held a book in my hand, and read the
+words, their sense did not 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 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 it compelled me to live in the present suffering,
+and not in the visionary researches I had been continually making
+before.  My kind uncle came to nurse me; and after the immediate
+danger was over, my life seemed to slip away in delicious languor for
+two or three months.  I did not ask--so much did I dread falling into
+the old channel of thought--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 midsummer,
+and then returned to his business in London; leaving me perfectly
+well, although not completely strong.  I was to follow him in a
+fortnight; when, as he said, "we would look over letters, and talk
+about several things."  I knew what this little speech alluded to,
+and shrank from the train of thought it suggested, which was so
+intimately connected with my first feelings of illness.  However, I
+had a fortnight more to roam on those invigorating Yorkshire moors.
+
+In those days, there was one large, rambling inn, at Harrogate, close
+to the Medicinal Spring; but it was already becoming too small for
+the accommodation of the influx of visitors, and many lodged round
+about, in the farm-houses of the district.  It was so early in the
+season, that I had the inn pretty much to myself; and, indeed, felt
+rather like a visitor in a private house, so intimate had the
+landlord and landlady become with me during my long illness.  She
+would chide me for being out so late on the moors, or for having been
+too long without food, quite in a motherly way; while he consulted me
+about vintages and wines, and taught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle
+about horses.  In my walks I met other strangers from time to time.
+Even before my uncle had left me, I had noticed, with half-torpid
+curiosity, a young lady of very striking appearance, who went about
+always accompanied by an elderly companion,--hardly a gentlewoman,
+but with something in her look that prepossessed me in her favour.
+The younger lady always put her veil down when any one approached; so
+it had been only once or twice, when I had come upon her at a sudden
+turn in the path, that I had even had a glimpse at her face.  I am
+not sure if it was beautiful, though in after-life I grew to think it
+so.  But it was at this time overshadowed by a sadness that never
+varied:  a pale, quiet, resigned look of intense suffering, that
+irresistibly attracted me,--not with love, but with a sense of
+infinite compassion for one so young yet so hopelessly unhappy.  The
+companion wore something of the same look:  quiet melancholy,
+hopeless, yet resigned.  I asked my landlord who they were.  He said
+they were called Clarke, 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 that there was any such relationship between them.
+They had been in the neighbourhood of Harrogate for some time,
+lodging in a remote farm-house.  The people there would tell nothing
+about them; saying that they paid handsomely, and never did any harm;
+so why should they be speaking of any strange things that might
+happen?  That, as the landlord shrewdly observed, showed there was
+something out of the common way he had heard that the elderly woman
+was a cousin of the farmer's where they lodged, and so the regard
+existing between relations might help to keep 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,
+for all as quiet as she seemed, played strange pranks at times."  He
+shook his head when I asked him for more particulars, and refused to
+give them, which made me doubt if he knew any, for he was in general
+a talkative and communicative man.  In default of other interests,
+after my uncle left, I set myself to watch these two people.  I
+hovered about their walks drawn towards them with a strange
+fascination, which was not diminished by their evident annoyance at
+so frequently meeting me.  One day, I had the sudden good fortune to
+be at hand when they were alarmed by the attack of a bull, which, in
+those unenclosed grazing districts, was a particularly dangerous
+occurrence.  I have other and more important things to relate, than
+to tell of the accident which gave me an opportunity of rescuing
+them, it is enough to say, that this event was the beginning of an
+acquaintance, reluctantly acquiesced in by them, but eagerly
+prosecuted by me.  I can hardly tell when intense curiosity became
+merged in love, but in less than ten days after my uncle's departure
+I was passionately enamoured of Mistress Lucy, as her attendant
+called her; carefully--for this I noted well--avoiding any address
+which appeared as if there was an equality of station between them.
+I noticed also that Mrs. Clarke, the elderly woman, after her first
+reluctance to allow me to pay them any attentions had been overcome,
+was cheered by my evident attachment to the young girl; it seemed to
+lighten her heavy burden of care, and she evidently favoured my
+visits to the farmhouse where they lodged.  It was not so with Lucy.
+A more attractive person I never saw, in spite of her depression of
+manner, and shrinking avoidance of me.  I felt sure at once, that
+whatever 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, for a moment or two, I beguiled her into talk, I could see a
+rare intelligence in her face, and a grave, trusting look in the
+soft, gray eyes that were raised for a minute to mine.  I made every
+excuse I possibly 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, in hopes 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 dome above.
+
+It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some
+motive which I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but
+then 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 (I loved so dearly) I could have begged her to spare herself,
+even though the happiness of my whole life should have been the
+sacrifice; for her complexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more
+hopeless, her delicate frame yet slighter.  During this period I had
+written, I should say, to my uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong
+my stay at Harrogate, not giving any reason; but such was his
+tenderness towards me, that in a few days I heard from him, giving me
+a willing permission, and only charging me to take care of myself,
+and not use too much exertion during the hot weather.
+
+One sultry evening I drew near the farm.  The windows of their
+parlour were open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the
+house, as I passed the first window (there were two windows in their
+little ground-floor room).  I saw Lucy distinctly; but when I had
+knocked at their door--the house-door stood always ajar--she was
+gone, and I saw only Mrs. Clarke, turning over the work-things lying
+on the table, in a nervous and purposeless manner.  I felt by
+instinct that a conversation of some importance was coming on, in
+which I should be expected to say what was my object in paying these
+frequent visits.  I was glad of the opportunity.  My uncle had
+several times alluded to the pleasant possibility of my bringing home
+a young wife, to cheer and adorn the old house in Ormond Street.  He
+was rich, and I was to succeed him, and had, as I knew, a fair
+reputation for so young a lawyer.  So on my side I saw no obstacle.
+It was true that Lucy was shrouded in mystery; her name (I was
+convinced it was not Clarke), birth, parentage, and previous life
+were unknown to me.  But I was sure of her goodness and sweet
+innocence, and although I knew that there must be something painful
+to be told, to account for her mournful sadness, yet I was willing 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 the
+subject.
+
+"We have thought, sir--at least I have thought--that you knew very
+little of us, nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant the
+intimate acquaintance 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 no rudeness; but I must say straight out that I--we--think it
+would be better 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,
+glad of the opportunity of explaining myself.  "I come, I own,
+because I have learnt 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 hold
+sacred, teach her to love you!  If I am too late, and you love her
+already, forget her,--forget these last few weeks.  O!  I should
+never have allowed you to come!" she went on passionately; "but what
+am I to do?  We are forsaken by all, except the great God, and even
+He permits a strange and evil power to afflict us--what am I to do!
+Where is it to end?" She wrung her hands in her distress; then she
+turned to me:  "Go away, sir! go away, before you learn to care any
+more for her.  I ask it for your own sake--I implore!  You have been
+good and kind to us, and we shall always recollect you with
+gratitude; but go away now, and never come back to cross our fatal
+path!"
+
+"Indeed, madam," said I, "I shall do no such thing.  You urge it for
+my own 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 last fortnight, without acknowledging her goodness and
+innocence; and without seeing--pardon me, madam--that for some reason
+you are two very lonely women, in some mysterious sorrow and
+distress.  Now, though I am not powerful myself, yet I have friends
+who are so wise and kind that they may be said to possess power.
+Tell me some particulars.  Why are you in grief--what is your secret-
+-why are you here?  I declare solemnly that nothing you have said has
+daunted me in my wish to become Lucy's husband; nor will I shrink
+from any difficulty that, as such an aspirant, I may have to
+encounter.  You say you are friendless--why cast away 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.  I do not
+shun inquiry."
+
+She shook her head again.  "You had better go away, sir.  You know
+nothing about us."
+
+"I know your names," said I, "and I have heard you allude to the part
+of the country from which you came, which I happen to know as a wild
+and lonely place.  There are so few people living in it that, if I
+chose to go there, I could easily ascertain all about you; but I
+would rather hear it from yourself."  You see I wanted to pique her
+into telling me something definite.
+
+"You do not know our true names, sir," said she, hastily.
+
+"Well, I may have conjectured as much.  But tell me, then, I conjure
+you.  Give me your reasons for distrusting my willingness to stand by
+what I have said with regard to Mistress Lucy."
+
+"Oh, what can I do?" exclaimed she.  "If I am turning away a true
+friend, as he says?--Stay!" coming to a sudden decision--" I will
+tell you something--I cannot tell you all--you would not believe it.
+But, perhaps, I can tell you enough to prevent your going on in your
+hopeless 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
+child of her father.  But he is cruelly turned against her; and her
+mother is long dead; and for a terrible reason, she has no other
+creature to keep constant to her but me.  She--only two years ago--
+such a darling and such a pride in her father's house!  Why, sir,
+there is a mystery that might happen in connection with her any
+moment; and then you would go away like all the rest; and, when you
+next heard her name, you would loathe 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, she would die!"
+
+The good woman was stopped by her crying.  I confess, I was a little
+stunned by her last words; but only for a moment.  At any rate, till
+I knew definitely what was this mysterious stain upon one so simple
+and pure, as Lucy seemed, I would not desert her, and so I said; and
+she made me answer:-
+
+"If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir,
+after knowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but
+I am so foolish and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain
+hope to find a friend in you.  I cannot help trusting that, although
+you may no longer feel toward her as a lover, you will have pity upon
+us; and perhaps, by your learning you can tell us where to go for
+aid."
+
+"I implore you to tell me what this mystery is," I cried, almost
+maddened by this suspense.
+
+"I cannot," said she, solemnly.  "I am under a deep vow of secrecy.
+If you are to be told, it must be by her."  She left the room, and I
+remained to ponder over this strange interview.  I mechanically
+turned over 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
+a pure and tender heart and innocent life.  Mistress Clarke returned;
+she had been crying sadly.
+
+"Yes," said she, "it is as I feared:  she loves you so much that she
+is willing to run the fearful risk of telling you all herself--she
+acknowledges 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 you hope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of
+fear or repugnance you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted."
+
+I half smiled.  "Have no fear," I said.  It seemed too absurd to
+imagine my feeling dislike to Lucy.
+
+"Her father loved her well," said she, gravely, "yet he drove her out
+like some monstrous thing."
+
+Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden.
+It was Lucy's voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one
+side of the open casement--and as though she were suddenly stirred to
+merriment--merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings or
+sayings of some other person.  I can scarcely say why, but the sound
+jarred on me inexpressibly.  She knew the subject of our
+conversation, and must have been at least aware of the state of
+agitation her friend was in; she herself usually so gentle and quiet.
+I half rose to go to the window, and satisfy my instinctive curiosity
+as to what had provoked this burst of, ill-timed laughter; but Mrs.
+Clarke threw her whole weight and power upon the hand with which she
+pressed and kept me down.
+
+"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 we are 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
+have risen.  I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a
+shadow pass between the sun's warmth and me, and a strange shudder
+ran through my frame.  In a minute or two she released me.
+
+"Go," repeated she.  "Be warned, I ask you once more.  I do not think
+you can stand this knowledge that you seek.  If I had had my own way,
+Lucy should never have yielded, and promised to tell you all.  Who
+knows what may come of it?"
+
+"I am firm in my wish to know all.  I return at ten tomorrow morning,
+and then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself."
+
+I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to Mistress
+Clarke's sanity.
+
+Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable
+thoughts connected with that strange laughter, filled my mind.  I
+could hardly sleep.  I rose early; and long before the hour I had
+appointed, I was on the path over the common that led to the old
+farm-house where they lodged.  I suppose that Lucy had passed no
+better a night than I; for there she was also, slowly pacing with her
+even step, her eyes bent down, her whole look most saintly and pure.
+She started when I came close to her, and grew paler as I reminded
+her of my appointment, and spoke with something of the impatience of
+obstacles that, seeing her once more, had called up afresh in my
+mind.  All strange and terrible hints, and giddy merriment were
+forgotten.  My heart gave forth words of fire, and my tongue uttered
+them.  Her colour went and came, as she listened; but, when I had
+ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me, and
+said -
+
+"But you know that you have something to learn about me yet.  I only
+want to say this:  I shall not think less of you--less well of you, I
+mean--if you, too, fall away from me when you know all.  Stop!" said
+she, as if fearing another burst of mad words.  "Listen to me.  My
+father is a man of great wealth.  I never knew my mother; she must
+have died when I was very young.  When first I remember anything, I
+was living in a great, lonely house, with my dear and faithful
+Mistress Clarke.  My father, even, was not there; he was--he is--a
+soldier, and his duties lie aboard.  But he came from time to time,
+and every time I think he loved 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 his absences.  I can sit down and measure
+the depth of his lost love now, by such 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 he was an angry man at times, even
+then; but never with me.  He was very reckless, too; and, once or
+twice, I heard a whisper among the servants that a doom was over him,
+and that he knew it, and tried to drown his knowledge in wild
+activity, and even sometimes, sir, in wine.  So I grew up in this
+grand mansion, in that lonely place.  Everything around me seemed at
+my disposal, and I think every one loved me; I am sure I loved them.
+Till about two years ago--I remember it well--my father had come to
+England, to us; and he seemed so proud and so pleased with me and all
+I had done.  And one day his tongue seemed loosened with wine, and he
+told me much that I had not known till then,--how dearly he had loved
+my mother, yet how his wilful usage had caused her death; and then he
+went on to say how he loved me better than any creature on earth, and
+how, some day, he hoped to take me to foreign places, for that he
+could hardly bear these long absences from his only child.  Then he
+seemed to change suddenly, and said, in a strange, wild way, that I
+was not to believe what he said; that there was many a thing he loved
+better--his horse--his dog--I know not what.
+
+"And 'twas only the next morning that, when I came into his room to
+ask his blessing as was my wont, he received me with fierce and angry
+words.  'Why had I,' so he asked, 'been delighting myself in such
+wanton mischief--dancing over the tender plants in the flower-beds,
+all set with the famous Dutch bulbs he had brought from Holland?' I
+had never been out of doors that morning, sir, and I could not
+conceive what he meant, and so I said; and then he swore at me for a
+liar, and said I was of no true blood, for he had seen me doing all
+that mischief himself--with his own eyes.  What could I say?  He
+would not listen to me, and even my tears seemed only to irritate
+him.  That day was the beginning of my great sorrows.  Not long
+after, he reproached me for my undue familiarity--all unbecoming a
+gentlewoman--with his grooms.  I had been in the stable-yard,
+laughing and talking, he said.  Now, sir, I am something of a coward
+by nature, and I had always dreaded horses; be-sides that, my
+father's servants--those whom he brought with him from foreign parts-
+-were wild fellows, whom I had always avoided, and to whom I had
+never spoken, except as a lady must needs from time to time speak to
+her father's people.  Yet my father called me by names of which I
+hardly know the meaning, but my heart told me they were such as shame
+any 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 his
+hand; and, accusing me harshly of evil doings, of which I knew no
+more than you, sir, he was about to strike me, and I, all in
+bewildering tears, was ready to take his stripes as great kindness
+compared to his harder words, when suddenly he stopped his arm mid-
+way, gasped and staggered, crying out, 'The curse--the curse!'  I
+looked up in terror.  In the great mirror opposite I saw myself, and
+right behind, another wicked, fearful self, so like me that my soul
+seemed to quiver within me, as though not knowing to which similitude
+of body it belonged.  My father saw my double at the same moment,
+either in its dreadful reality, whatever that might be, or in the
+scarcely less terrible reflection in the mirror; but what came of it
+at that moment I cannot say, for I suddenly swooned away; and when I
+came to myself I was lying in my bed, and my faithful Clarke sitting
+by me.  I was in my bed for days; and even while I lay there my
+double was seen by all, flitting about the house and gardens, always
+about some mischievous or detestable work.  What wonder that every
+one shrank from me in dread--that my father drove me forth at length,
+when the disgrace of which I was the cause was past his patience to
+bear.  Mistress Clarke came with me; and here we try to live such a
+life of piety and prayer as may in time set me free from the curse."
+
+All the time she had been speaking, I had been weighing her story in
+my mind.  I had hitherto put cases of witchcraft on one side, as mere
+superstitions; and my uncle and I had had many an argument, he
+supporting himself by the opinion of his good friend Sir Matthew
+Hale.  Yet this sounded like the tale of one bewitched; or was it
+merely the effect of a life of extreme seclusion telling on the
+nerves of a sensitive girl?  My scepticism inclined me to the latter
+belief, and when she paused I said:
+
+"I fancy that some physician could have disabused your father of his
+belief in visions--"
+
+Just at that instant, standing as I was opposite to her in the full
+and perfect morning light, I saw behind her another figure--a ghastly
+resemblance, complete in likeness, so far as form and feature and
+minutest touch of dress could go, but with a loathsome demon soul
+looking out of the gray eyes, that were in turns mocking and
+voluptuous.  My heart stood still within me; every hair rose up
+erect; my flesh crept with horror.  I could not see the grave and
+tender Lucy--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; then my sight came back, and I saw Lucy 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
+an old harpsichord when the strings have ceased to vibrate.  She read
+her answer in my face, I suppose, for I could not speak.  Her look
+was one of intense 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:  she saw 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 budding
+heather--we dared not speak; for we could not tell but that the dread
+creature was listening, although unseen,--but that IT might appear
+and push us asunder.  I never loved her more fondly than now when--
+and that was the unspeakable misery--the idea of her was becoming so
+inextricably blended with the shuddering thought of IT.  She seemed
+to understand what I must be feeling.  She let go my hand, which she
+had kept clasped until then, when we reached the garden gate, and
+went forwards to meet her anxious friend, who was standing by the
+window looking for her.  I could not enter the house:  I needed
+silence, society, leisure, change--I knew not what--to shake off the
+sensation of that creature's presence.  Yet I lingered about the
+garden--I hardly know why; I partly suppose, because I feared to
+encounter the resemblance again on the solitary common, where it had
+vanished, and partly from a feeling of inexpressible compassion for
+Lucy.  In a few minutes Mistress Clarke came forth and joined me.  We
+walked 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 which
+stirred up all that was brave or good in me.
+
+"Not a whit," said I.  "Human flesh shrinks from encounter with the
+powers of darkness:  and, for some reason unknown to me, the pure and
+holy 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 surely
+know more--know all.  Tell me, I entreat you, madam, all that you can
+conjecture respecting this demoniac persecution of one so good."
+
+"I will; but not now.  I must go to Lucy now.  Come this afternoon, I
+will see you alone; and oh, sir!  I will trust that you may yet find
+some way to help us in our sore trouble!"
+
+I was miserably exhausted by the swooning affright which had taken
+possession of me.  When I reached the inn, I staggered in like one
+overcome by wine.  I went to my own private room.  It was some time
+before 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, It was from Sir Philip Tempest:  my letter of
+inquiry respecting Mary Fitzgerald had reached him at Liege, where it
+so happened that the Count de la Tour d'Auvergne was quartered at the
+very time.  He remembered his wife's beautiful attendant; she had had
+high words with the deceased countess, respecting her intercourse
+with an English gentleman of good standing, who was also in the
+foreign service.  The countess augured evil of his intentions; while
+Mary, proud and vehement, asserted that he would soon marry her, and
+resented her mistress's warnings as an insult.  The consequence was,
+that she had left Madame de la Tour d'Auvergne's service, and, as the
+Count believed, had gone to live with the Englishman; whether he had
+married her, or not, he could not say.  "But," added Sir Philip
+Tempest, you may easily hear what particulars you wish to know
+respecting Mary Fitzgerald from the Englishman himself, if, as I
+suspect, he is no other than my neighbour and former acquaintance,
+Mr. Gisborne, of Skipford Hall, in the West Riding.  I am led to the
+belief that he is no other, by several small particulars, none of
+which are in themselves conclusive, but which, taken together,
+furnish a mass of presumptive evidence.  As far as I could make out
+from the Count's foreign pronunciation, Gisborne was the name of the
+Englishman:  I know that Gisborne of Skipford was abroad and in the
+foreign service at that time--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 old Bridget Fitzgerald, of Coldholme,
+whom he once encountered while staying with me at Starkey Manor-
+house.  I remember that the meeting seemed to have produced some
+extraordinary effect upon his mind, as though he had suddenly
+discovered some connection which she might have had with his previous
+life.  I beg you to let me know if I can be of any further service to
+you.  Your uncle once rendered me a good turn, and I will 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
+many months 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 passed that very day.  Nothing was real but the unreal
+presence, which had come like an evil blast across my bodily eyes,
+and burnt itself down upon my brain.  Dinner came, and went away
+untouched.  Early in the afternoon I walked to the farm-house.  I
+found Mistress Clarke alone, and I was glad and relieved.  She was
+evidently prepared to tell me all I might wish to hear.
+
+"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 a man of note; although, being a Roman Catholic, he cannot take
+that rank in this country to which his station entitles him.  The
+consequence is 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
+three years old when I was engaged to take charge of her.  Her mother
+was dead."
+
+"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 be so well acquainted with it?  It was a mystery to the whole
+household at Skipford Court.  She was some beautiful young woman whom
+he lured away from her protectors while he was abroad.  I have heard
+said he practised some terrible deceit upon her, and when she came to
+know it, she was neither to have nor to hold, but rushed off from his
+very arms, and threw herself into a rapid stream and was drowned.  It
+stung him deep with remorse, but I used to think the remembrance of
+the mother's cruel death made him love the child yet dearer."
+
+I told her, as briefly as might be, of my researches after the
+descendant and heir of the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added--
+something of my old lawyer spirit returning into me for the moment--
+that I had no doubt but that we should prove Lucy to be by right
+possessed of large estates in Ireland.
+
+No flush came over her gray face; no light into her eyes.  "And what
+is all the wealth in the whole world to that poor girl?" she said.
+"It will not free her from the ghastly bewitchment which persecutes
+her.  As for money, what a pitiful thing it is! it cannot touch her."
+
+"No more can the Evil Creature harm her," I said.  "Her holy nature
+dwells apart, and cannot be defiled or stained by all the devilish
+arts in the whole world."
+
+"True! but it is a cruel fate to know that all shrink from her,
+sooner or 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
+the household at Skipford."
+
+"Tell me," I demanded.
+
+"They came from servants, who would fain account for every thing.
+They say that, many years ago, Mr. Gisborne killed a dog belonging to
+an old witch at Coldholme; that she cursed, with a dreadful and
+mysterious curse, the creature, whatever it might be, that he should
+love best; and that it struck so deeply into his heart that for years
+he kept himself aloof from any temptation to love aught.  But who
+could help loving Lucy?"
+
+"You never heard the witch's name?" I gasped.
+
+"Yes--they called her Bridget:  they said he would never go near the
+spot again for terror of her.  Yet he was a brave man!"
+
+"Listen," said I, taking hold of her arm, the better to arrest her
+full attention:  "if what I suspect holds true, that man stole
+Bridget's only child--the very Mary Fitzgerald who was Lucy's mother;
+if so, Bridget cursed him in ignorance of the deeper wrong he had
+done her.  To this hour she yearns after her lost child, and
+questions the saints whether she be living or not.  The roots of that
+curse lie deeper than she knows:  she unwittingly banned him for a
+deeper guilt than that of killing a dumb beast.  The sins of the
+fathers are indeed visited upon the children."
+
+"But," said Mistress Clarke, eagerly, "she would never let evil rest
+on her own grandchild?  Surely, sir, if what you say be true, there
+are hopes for Lucy.  Let us go--go at once, and tell this fearful
+woman all that you suspect, and beseech her to take off the spell she
+has put upon her innocent grandchild."
+
+It seemed to me, indeed, that something like this was the best course
+we could pursue.  But first it was necessary to ascertain more than
+what mere rumour or careless hearsay could tell.  My thoughts turned
+to my uncle--he could advise me wisely--he ought to know all.  I
+resolved to go to him without delay; but I did not choose to tell
+Mistress Clarke of all the visionary plans that flitted through my
+mind.  I simply declared my intention of proceeding straight to
+London on Lucy's affairs.  I bade her believe that my interest on the
+young lady's behalf was greater than ever, and that my whole time
+should be given up to her cause.  I saw that Mistress Clarke
+distrusted me, because my mind was too full of thoughts for my words
+to flow freely.  She sighed and shook her head, and said, "Well, it
+is all right!" in such a tone that it was an implied reproach.  But I
+was firm and constant in my heart, and I took confidence from that.
+
+I rode to London.  I rode long days drawn out into the lovely summer
+nights:  I could not rest.  I reached London.  I told my uncle all,
+though in the stir of the great city the horror had faded away, and I
+could hardly imagine that he would believe the account I gave him of
+the fearful double of Lucy which I had seen on the lonely moor-side.
+But my uncle had lived many years, and learnt many things; and, in
+the deep secrets of family history that had been confided to him, he
+had heard of cases of innocent people bewitched and taken possession
+of by evil spirits yet more fearful than Lucy's.  For, as he said, to
+judge from all I told him, that resemblance had no power over her--
+she was too pure and good to be tainted by its evil, haunting
+presence.  It had, in all probability, so my uncle conceived, tried
+to suggest wicked thoughts and to tempt to wicked actions but she, in
+her saintly maidenhood, had passed on undefiled by evil thought or
+deed.  It could not touch her soul:  but true, it set her apart from
+all sweet love or common human intercourse.  My uncle threw himself
+with an energy more like six-and-twenty than sixty into the
+consideration of the whole case.  He undertook the proving Lucy's
+descent, and volunteered to go and find out Mr. Gisborne, and obtain,
+firstly, the legal proofs of her descent from the Fitzgeralds of
+Kildoon, and, secondly, to try and hear all that he could respecting
+the working of the curse, and whether any and what means had been
+taken to exorcise that terrible appearance.  For he told me of
+instances where, by prayers and long fasting, the evil possessor had
+been driven forth with howling and many cries from the body which it
+had come to inhabit; he spoke of those strange New England cases
+which had happened not so long before; of Mr. Defoe, who had written
+a book, wherein he had named many modes of subduing apparitions, and
+sending them back whence they came; and, lastly, he spoke low of
+dreadful ways of compelling witches to undo their witchcraft.  But I
+could not endure to hear of those tortures and burnings.  I said that
+Bridget was rather a wild and savage woman than a malignant witch;
+and, above all, that Lucy was of her kith and kin; and that, in
+putting her to the trial, by water or by fire, we should be
+torturing--it might be to the death--the ancestress of her we sought
+to redeem.
+
+My uncle thought awhile, and then said, that in this last matter I
+was right--at any rate, it should not be tried, with his consent,
+till all other modes of remedy had failed; and he assented to my
+proposal that I should go myself and see Bridget, and tell her all.
+
+In accordance with this, I went down once more to the wayside inn
+near Coldholme.  It was late at night when I arrived there; and,
+while I supped, I inquired of the landlord more particulars as to
+Bridget's ways.  Solitary and savage had been her life for many
+years.  Wild and despotic were her words and manner to those few
+people who came across her path.  The country-folk did her imperious
+bidding, because they feared to disobey.  If they pleased her, they
+prospered; if, on the contrary, they neglected or traversed her
+behests, misfortune, small or great, fell on them and theirs.  It was
+not detestation so much as an indefinable terror that she excited.
+
+In the morning I went to see her.  She was standing on the green
+outside her cottage, and received me with the sullen grandeur of a
+throneless queen.  I read in her face that she recognized me, and
+that I was not unwelcome; but she stood silent till I had opened my
+errand.
+
+"I have news of your daughter," said I, resolved to speak straight to
+all 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
+of the door-post.
+
+"I knew that she was dead," said she, deep and low, and then was
+silent for an instant.  "My tears that should have flowed for her
+were burnt up long 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
+her more show of emotion than the intelligence of her daughter's
+death.  She broke in upon my speech:-
+
+"I had!  It was hers--the last thing I had of hers--and it was shot
+for wantonness!  It died in my arms.  The man who killed that dog
+rues it to this day.  For that dumb beast's blood, his best-beloved
+stands accursed."
+
+Her eyes distended, as if she were in a trance and saw the working of
+her 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
+she pierced through me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without
+another question or word, she threw herself on the ground with
+fearful vehemence, and clutched at the innocent daisies with
+convulsed hands.
+
+"Bone of my bone! flesh of my flesh! have I cursed thee--and art thou
+accursed?"
+
+So she moaned, as she lay prostrate in her great agony.  I stood
+aghast at my own work.  She did not hear my broken sentences; she
+asked no more, but the dumb confirmation which my sad looks had given
+that one fact, that her curse rested on her own daughter's child.
+The fear grew on me lest she should die in her strife of body and
+soul; and then might not Lucy remain under the spell as long as she
+lived?
+
+Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming through the woodland path that
+led to Bridget's cottage; Mistress Clarke was with her:  I felt at my
+heart that it was she, by the balmy peace which the look of her sent
+over me, as she slowly advanced, a glad surprise shining out of her
+soft quiet eyes.  That was as her gaze met mine.  As her looks fell
+on the woman lying stiff, convulsed on the earth, they became full of
+tender pity; and she came forward to try and lift her up.  Seating
+herself on the turf, she took Bridget's head into her lap; and, with
+gentle touches, she arranged the dishevelled gray hair streaming
+thick and 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 had
+recovered her wandering senses, and was kneeling with clasped hands
+before Lucy, gazing at that sweet sad face as though her troubled
+nature drank in health and peace from every moment's contemplation.
+A faint tinge on Lucy's pale cheeks showed me that she was aware of
+our return; otherwise it appeared as if she was conscious of her
+influence for good over the passionate and troubled woman kneeling
+before her, and would not willingly avert her grave and loving eyes
+from that wrinkled and careworn countenance.
+
+Suddenly--in the twinkling of an eye--the creature appeared, there,
+behind Lucy; fearfully the same as to outward semblance, but kneeling
+exactly as Bridget knelt, and clasping her hands in jesting mimicry
+as Bridget clasped hers in her ecstasy that was deepening into a
+prayer.  Mistress Clarke cried out--Bridget arose slowly, her gaze
+fixed on the creature beyond:  drawing her breath with a hissing
+sound, never moving her terrible eyes, that were steady as stone, she
+made a dart at the phantom, and caught, as I had done, a mere handful
+of empty air.  We saw no more of the creature--it vanished as
+suddenly as it came, but Bridget looked slowly on, as if watching
+some receding form.  Lucy sat still, white, trembling, drooping--I
+think she would have swooned if I had not been there to uphold her.
+While I was attending to her, Bridget passed us, without a word to
+any one, and, entering her cottage, she barred herself in, and left
+us without.
+
+All our endeavours were now directed to get Lucy back to the house
+where she had tarried the night before.  Mistress Clarke told me
+that, not hearing from me (some letter must have miscarried), she had
+grown impatient and despairing, and had urged Lucy to the enterprise
+of coming to seek her grandmother; not telling her, indeed, of the
+dread reputation she possessed, or how we suspected her of having so
+fearfully blighted that innocent girl; but, at the same time, hoping
+much from the mysterious stirring of blood, which Mistress Clarke
+trusted in for the removal of the curse.  They had come, by a
+different route from that which I had taken, to a village inn not far
+from Coldholme, only the night before.  This was the first interview
+between ancestress and descendant.
+
+All through the sultry noon I wandered along the tangled brush-wood
+of the old neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a
+matter so complicated and mysterious.  Meeting a countryman, I asked
+my way to the nearest clergyman, and went, hoping to obtain some
+counsel from him.  But he proved to be a coarse and common-minded
+man, giving no time or attention to the intricacies of a case, but
+dashing out a strong opinion involving immediate action.  For
+instance, as soon as I named Bridget Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:-
+
+"The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist!  I'd have had her ducked long
+since but for that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest.  He has had to
+threaten honest folk about here over and over again, or they'd have
+had her up before the justices for her black doings.  And it's the
+law of the 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 and Scripture.  I'd carry a faggot myself to rid the country
+of her!"
+
+Such a one could give me no help.  I rather drew back what I had
+already said; and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him
+to several pots of beer, in the village inn, to which we had
+adjourned for our conference at his suggestion.  I left him as soon
+as I could, and returned to Coldholme, shaping my way past deserted
+Starkey Manor-house, and coming upon it by the back.  At that side
+were the oblong remains of the old moat, the waters of which lay
+placid and motionless under the crimson rays of the setting sun; with
+the forest-trees lying straight along each side, and their deep-green
+foliage mirrored to blackness in the burnished surface of the moat
+below--and the broken sun-dial at the end nearest the hall--and the
+heron, standing on one leg at the water's edge, lazily looking down
+for fish--the lonely and desolate house scarce needed the broken
+windows, the weeds on the door-sill, the broken shutter softly
+flapping to and fro in the twilight breeze, to fill up the picture of
+desertion and decay.  I lingered about the place until the growing
+darkness warned me on.  And then I passed along the path, cut by the
+orders of the last lady of Starkey Manor-House, that led me to
+Bridget's cottage.  I resolved at once to see her; and, in spite of
+closed doors--it might be of resolved will--she should see me.  So I
+knocked at her door, gently, loudly, fiercely.  I shook it so
+vehemently that a length the old hinges gave way, and with a crash it
+fell inwards, leaving me suddenly face to face with Bridget--I, red,
+heated, agitated with my so long baffled efforts--she, stiff as any
+stone, standing right facing me, her eyes dilated with terror, her
+ashen lips trembling, but her body motionless.  In her hands she held
+her crucifix, as if by that holy symbol she sought to oppose my
+entrance.  At sight of me, her whole frame relaxed, and she sank back
+upon a chair.  Some mighty tension had given way.  Still her eyes
+looked fearfully into the gloom of the outer air, made more opaque by
+the glimmer of the lamp inside, which she had placed 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--
+has been looking in upon me through that window all day long.  I
+closed it up with my shawl; and then I saw her feet below the door,
+as long as it was light, and I knew she heard my very breathing--nay,
+worse, my very prayers; and I could not pray, for her listening
+choked the words ere they rose to my lips.  Tell me, who is she?--
+what means that double girl I saw this morning?  One had a look of my
+dead Mary; but the other curdled my blood, and yet it was the same!"
+
+She had taken hold of my arm, as if to secure herself some human
+companionship.  She shook all over with the slight, never-ceasing
+tremor of intense terror.  I told her my tale as I have told it you,
+sparing none of the details.
+
+How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had driven
+Lucy forth from her father's house--how I had disbelieved, until,
+with mine own eyes, I had seen another Lucy standing behind my Lucy,
+the same in form and feature, but with the demon-soul looking out of
+the eyes.  I told her all, I say, believing that she--whose curse was
+working so upon the life of her innocent grandchild--was the only
+person 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
+I shrink from her ever since that day on the moor-side.  And men must
+shrink 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 order
+that, by some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be
+reversed.
+
+"I will go and bring her to you," I exclaimed.  Bridget tightened her
+hold upon my arm.
+
+"Not so," said she, in a low, hoarse voice.  "It would kill me to see
+her again as I saw her this morning.  And I must live till I have
+worked my 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 fear
+was banished.  I lingered--why I can hardly tell--until once more she
+bade me begone.  As I went along the forest way, I looked back, and
+saw her 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 her
+prayers with ours.  The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze.  No
+human being was there:  the cross remained on the threshold, but
+Bridget was gone.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+
+
+What was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself.  As
+for Lucy, she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon
+her.  Her gentleness and piety, under the pressure of so horrible a
+life, seemed over-passive to me.  She never complained.  Mrs. Clarke
+complained more than ever.  As for me, I was more in love with the
+real Lucy than ever; but I shrunk from the false similitude with an
+intensity proportioned to my love.  I found out by instinct that Mrs.
+Clarke had occasional temptations to leave Lucy.  The good lady's
+nerves were shaken, and, from what she said, I could almost have
+concluded that the object of the Double was to drive away from Lucy
+this last, and almost earliest friend.  At times, I could scarcely
+bear to own it, but I myself felt inclined to turn recreant; and I
+would accuse Lucy of being too patient--too resigned.  One after
+another, she won the little children of Coldholme.  (Mrs. Clarke and
+she had resolved to stay there, for was it not as good a place as any
+other, to such as they? and did not all our faint hopes rest on
+Bridget--never seen or heard of now, but still we trusted to come
+back, or give some token?)  So, as I say, one after another, the
+little children came about my Lucy, won by her soft tones, and her
+gentle smiles, and kind actions.  Alas! one after another they fell
+away, and shrunk from her path with blanching terror; and we too
+surely guessed the reason why.  It was the last drop.  I could bear
+it no longer.  I resolved no more to linger around the spot, but to
+go back to my uncle, and among the learned divines of the city of
+London, seek for some power whereby to annul the curse.
+
+My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite testimonials
+relating to Lucy's descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and
+from Mr. Gisborne.  The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he
+was again serving in the Austrian army), a letter alternately
+passionately self-reproachful and stoically repellant.  It was
+evident that when he thought of Mary--her short life--how he had
+wronged her, and of her violent death, he could hardly find words
+severe enough for his own conduct; and from this point of view, the
+curse that Bridget had laid upon him and his, was regarded by him as
+a prophetic doom, to the utterance of which she was moved by a Higher
+Power, working for the fulfilment of a deeper vengeance than for the
+death of the poor dog.  But then, again, when he came to speak of his
+daughter, the repugnance which the conduct of the demoniac creature
+had produced in his mind, was but ill-disguised under a show of
+profound indifference as to Lucy's fate.  One almost felt as if he
+would have been as content to put her out of existence, as he would
+have been to destroy some disgusting reptile that had invaded his
+chamber or his couch.
+
+The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy's; and that was all--was
+nothing.
+
+My uncle and I sat in the gloom of a London November evening, in our
+house in Ormond Street.  I was out of health, and felt as if I were
+in an inextricable coil of misery.  Lucy and I wrote to each other,
+but that was little; and we dared not see each other for dread of the
+fearful Third, who had more than once taken her place at our
+meetings.  My uncle had, on the day I speak of, bidden prayers to be
+put up on the ensuing Sabbath in many a church and meeting-house in
+London, for one grievously tormented by an evil spirit.  He had faith
+in prayers--I had none; I was fast losing faith in all things.  So we
+sat, he trying to interest me in the old talk of other days, I
+oppressed by one thought--when our old servant, Anthony, opened the
+door, and, without speaking, showed in a very gentlemanly and
+prepossessing man, who had something remarkable about his dress,
+betraying his profession to be that of the Roman Catholic priesthood.
+He glanced at my uncle first, then at me.  It was to me he bowed.
+
+"I did not give my name," said he, "because you would hardly have
+recognised it; unless, sir, when, in the north, you heard of Father
+Bernard, the chaplain at Stoney Hurst?"
+
+I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I
+had utterly forgotten it; so I professed myself a complete stranger
+to him; while my ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as
+much as it was in his nature to hate anything, placed a chair for the
+visitor, and bade Anthony bring glasses, and a fresh jug of claret.
+
+Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful ease and
+pleasant acknowledgement which belongs to a man of the world.  Then
+he turned to scan me with his keen glance.  After some alight
+conversation, entered into on his part, I am certain, with an
+intention of discovering on what terms of confidence I stood with my
+uncle, he paused, and said gravely -
+
+"I am sent here with a message to you, sir, from a woman to whom you
+have shown kindness, and who is one of my penitents, in Antwerp--one
+Bridget Fitzgerald."
+
+"Bridget Fitzgerald!" exclaimed I.  "In Antwerp?  Tell me, sir, all
+that you can about her."
+
+"There is much to be said," he replied.  "But may I inquire if this
+gentleman--if your uncle is acquainted with the particulars of which
+you and I stand informed?"
+
+"All that I know, he knows," said I, eagerly laying my hand on my
+uncle's arm, as he made a motion as if to quit the room.
+
+"Then I have to speak before two gentlemen who, however they may
+differ from me in faith, are yet fully impressed with the fact that
+there are evil powers going about continually to take cognizance of
+our evil thoughts:  and, if their Master gives them power, to bring
+them into overt action.  Such is my theory of the nature of that sin,
+which I dare not disbelieve--as some sceptics would have us do--the
+sin of witchcraft.  Of this deadly sin, you and I are aware, Bridget
+Fitzgerald has been guilty.  Since you saw her last, many prayers
+have been offered in our churches, many masses sung, many penances
+undergone, in order that, if God and the holy saints so willed it,
+her sin might be blotted out.  But it has not been so willed."
+
+"Explain to me," said I, "who you are, and how you come connected
+with Bridget.  Why is she at Antwerp?  I pray you, sir, tell me more.
+If I am impatient, excuse me; I am ill and feverish, and in
+consequence bewildered."
+
+There was something to me inexpressibly soothing in the tone of voice
+with which he began to narrate, as it were from the beginning, his
+acquaintance with Bridget.
+
+"I had known Mr. and Mrs. Starkey during their residence abroad, and
+so it fell out naturally that, when I came as chaplain to the
+Sherburnes at Stoney Hurst, our acquaintance was renewed; and thus I
+became the confessor of the whole family, isolated as they were from
+the offices of the Church, Sherburne being their nearest neighbour
+who professed the true faith.  Of course, you are aware that facts
+revealed in confession are sealed as in the grave; but I learnt
+enough of Bridget's character to be convinced that I had to do with
+no common woman; one powerful for good as for evil.  I believe that I
+was able to give her spiritual assistance from time to time, and that
+she looked upon me as a servant of that Holy Church, which has such
+wonderful power of moving men's hearts, and relieving them of the
+burden of their sins.  I have known her cross the moors on the
+wildest nights of storm, to confess and be absolved; and then she
+would return, calmed and subdued, to her daily work about her
+mistress, no one witting where she had been during the hours that
+most passed in sleep upon their beds.  After her daughter's
+departure--after Mary's mysterious disappearance--I had to impose
+many a long penance, in order to wash away the sin of impatient
+repining that was fast leading her into the deeper guilt of
+blasphemy.  She set out on that long journey of which you have
+possibly heard--that fruitless journey in search of Mary--and during
+her absence, my superiors ordered my return to my former duties at
+Antwerp, and for many years I heard no more of Bridget.
+
+"Not many months ago, as I was passing homewards in the evening,
+along one of the streets near St. Jacques, leading into the Meer
+Straet, I saw a woman sitting crouched up under the shrine of the
+Holy Mother of Sorrows.  Her hood was drawn over her head, so that
+the shadow caused by the light of the lamp above fell deep over her
+face; her hands were clasped round her knees.  It was evident that
+she was some one in hopeless trouble, and as such it was my duty to
+stop and speak.  I naturally addressed her first in Flemish,
+believing her to be one of the lower class of inhabitants.  She shook
+her head, but did not look up.  Then I tried French, and she replied
+in that language, but speaking it so indifferently, that I was sure
+she was either English or Irish, and consequently spoke to her in my
+own native tongue.  She recognized my voice; and, starting up, caught
+at my robes, dragging me before the blessed shrine, and throwing
+herself down, and forcing me, as much by her evident desire as by her
+action, to kneel beside her, she exclaimed:
+
+"'O Holy Virgin! you will never hearken to me again, but hear him;
+for you know him of old, that he does your bidding, and strives to
+heal broken hearts.  Hear him!'
+
+"She turned to me.
+
+"'She will hear you, if you will only pray.  She never hears ME:  she
+and all the saints in heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the Evil One
+carries them off, as he carried that first away.  O, Father Bernard,
+pray for me!'
+
+"I prayed for one in sore distress, of what nature I could not say;
+but the Holy Virgin would know.  Bridget held me fast, gasping with
+eagerness at the sound of my words.  When I had ended, I rose, and,
+making the sign of the Cross over her, I was going to bless her in
+the name of the Holy Church, when she shrank away like some terrified
+creature, and said -
+
+"'I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven.'
+
+"'Arise, my daughter,' said I, 'and come with me.'  And I led the way
+into one of the confessionals of St. Jaques.
+
+"She knelt; I listened.  No words came.  The evil powers had stricken
+her dumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when she
+approached confession.
+
+"She was too poor to pay for the necessary forms of exorcism; and
+hitherto those priests to whom she had addressed herself were either
+so ignorant of the meaning of her broken French, or her Irish-
+English, or else esteemed her to be one crazed--as, indeed, her wild
+and excited manner might easily have led any one to think--that they
+had neglected the sole means of loosening her tongue, so that she
+might confess her deadly sin, and, after due penance, obtain
+absolution.  But I knew Bridget of old, and felt that she was a
+penitent sent to me.  I went through those holy offices appointed by
+our Church for the relief of such a case.  I was the more bound to do
+this, as I found that she had come to Antwerp for the sole purpose of
+discovering me, and making confession to me.  Of the nature of that
+fearful confession I am forbidden to speak.  Much of it you know;
+possibly all.
+
+"It now remains for her to free herself from mortal guilt, and to set
+others free from the consequences thereof.  No prayers, no masses,
+will ever do it, although they may strengthen her with that strength
+by which alone acts of deepest love and purest self-devotion may be
+performed.  Her words of passion, and cries for revenge--her unholy
+prayers could never reach the ears of the holy saints!  Other powers
+intercepted them, and wrought so that the curses thrown up to heaven
+have fallen on her own flesh and blood; and so, through her very
+strength of love, have brused and crushed her heart.  Henceforward
+her former self must be buried,--yea, buried quick, if need be,--but
+never more to make sign, or utter cry on earth!  She has become a
+Poor Clare, in order that, by perpetual penance and constant service
+of others, she may at length so act as to obtain final absolution and
+rest for her soul.  Until then, the innocent must suffer.  It is to
+plead for the innocent that I come to you; not in the name of the
+witch, Bridget Fitzgerald, but of the penitent and servant of all
+men, the Poor Clare, Sister Magdalen."
+
+"Sir," said I, "I listen to your request with respect; only I may
+tell you it is not needed to urge me to do all that I can on behalf
+of one, love for whom is part of my very life.  If for a time I have
+absented myself from her, it is to think and work for her redemption.
+I, a member of the English Church--my uncle, a Puritan--pray morning
+and night for her by name:  the congregations of London, on the next
+Sabbath, will pray for one unknown, that she may be set free from the
+Powers of Darkness.  Moreover, I must tell you, sir, that those evil
+ones touch not the great calm of her soul.  She lives her own pure
+and loving life, unharmed and untainted, though all men fall off from
+her.  I would I could have her faith!"
+
+My uncle now spoke.
+
+"Nephew," said he, "it seems to me that this gentleman, although
+professing what I consider an erroneous creed, has touched upon the
+right point in exhorting Bridget to acts of love and mercy, whereby
+to wipe out her sin of hate and vengeance.  Let us strive after our
+fashion, by almsgiving and visiting of the needy and fatherless, to
+make our prayers acceptable.  Meanwhile, I myself will go down into
+the north, and take charge of the maiden.  I am too old to be daunted
+by man or demon.  I will bring her to this house as to a home; and
+let the Double come if it will!  A company of godly divines shall
+give it the meeting, and we will try issue."
+
+The kindly, brave old man!  But Father Bernard sat on musing.
+
+"All hate," said he, "cannot be quenched in her heart; all Christian
+forgiveness cannot have entered into her soul, or the demon would
+have lost its power.  You said, I think, that her grandchild was
+still tormented?"
+
+"Still tormented!"  I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress Clarke's
+last letter--He rose to go.  We afterwards heard that the occasion of
+his coming to London was a secret political mission on behalf of the
+Jacobites.  Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man.
+
+Months and months passed away without any change.  Lucy entreated my
+uncle to leave her where she was,--dreading, as I learnt, lest if she
+came, with her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me,
+that my love could not stand the repeated shocks to which I should be
+doomed.  And this she thought from no distrust of the strength of my
+affection, but from a kind of pitying sympathy for the terror to the
+nerves which she clearly observed that the demoniac visitation caused
+in all.
+
+I was restless and miserable.  I devoted myself to good works; but I
+performed them from no spirit of love, but solely from the hope of
+reward and payment, and so the reward was never granted.  At length,
+I asked my uncle's leave to travel; and I went forth, a wanderer,
+with no distincter end than that of many another wanderer--to get
+away from myself.  A strange impulse led me to Antwerp, in spite of
+the wars and commotions then raging in the Low Countries--or rather,
+perhaps, the very craving to become interested in something external,
+led me into the thick of the struggle then going on with the
+Austrians.  The cities of Flanders were all full at that time of
+civil disturbances and rebellions, only kept down by force, and the
+presence of an Austrian garrison in every place.
+
+I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry for Father Bernard.  He was
+away in the country for a day or two.  Then I asked my way to the
+Convent of Poor Clares; but, being healthy and prosperous, I could
+only see the dim, pent-up, gray walls, shut closely in by narrow
+streets, in the lowest part of the town.  My landlord told me, that
+had I been stricken by some loathsome disease, or in desperate case
+of any kind, the Poor Clares would have taken me, and tended me.  He
+spoke of them as an order of mercy of the strictest kind, dressing
+scantily in the coarsest materials, going barefoot, living on what
+the inhabitants of Antwerp chose to bestow, and sharing even those
+fragments and crumbs with the poor and helpless that swarmed all
+around; receiving no letters or communication with the outer world;
+utterly dead to everything but the alleviation of suffering.  He
+smiled at my inquiring whether I could get speech of one of them; and
+told me that they were even forbidden to speak for the purposes of
+begging their daily food; while yet they lived, and fed others upon
+what was given in charity.
+
+"But," exclaimed I, "supposing all men forgot them!  Would they
+quietly lie down and die, without making sign of their extremity?"
+
+"If such were the rule the Poor Clares would willingly do it; but
+their founder appointed a remedy for such extreme cases as you
+suggest.  They have a bell--'tis but a small one, as I have heard,
+and has yet never been rung in the memory man:  when the Poor Clares
+have been without food for twenty-four hours, they may ring this
+bell, and then trust to our good people of Antwerp for rushing to the
+rescue of the Poor Clares, who have taken such blessed care of us in
+all our straits."
+
+It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did
+not say what I thought.  I rather turned the conversation, by asking
+my landlord if he knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain
+Sister Magdalen.
+
+"Yes," said he, rather under his breath, "news will creep out, even
+from a convent of Poor Clares.  Sister Magdalen is either a great
+sinner or a great saint.  She does more, as I have heard, than all
+the other nuns put together; yet, when last month they would fain
+have made her mother-superior, she begged rather that they would
+place her below all the rest, and make her the meanest servant of
+all."
+
+"You never saw her?" asked I.
+
+"Never," he replied.
+
+I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in
+Antwerp.  The political state of things became worse than ever,
+increased to its height by the scarcity of food consequent on many
+deficient harvests.  I saw groups of fierce, squalid men, at every
+corner of the street, glaring out with wolfish eyes at my sleek skin
+and handsome clothes.
+
+At last Father Bernard returned.  We had a long conversation, in
+which he told me that, curiously enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy's father,
+was serving in one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at
+Antwerp.  I asked Father Bernard if he would make us acquainted;
+which he consented to do.  But, a day or two afterwards, he told me
+that, on hearing my name, Mr. Gisborne had declined responding to any
+advances on my part, saying he had adjured his country, and hated his
+countrymen.
+
+Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his
+daughter Lucy.  Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of
+making his acquaintance.  Father Bernard confirmed me in my
+suspicions of the hidden fermentation, for some coming evil, working
+among the "blouses" of Antwerp, and he would fain have had me depart
+from out the city; but I rather craved the excitement of danger, and
+stubbornly refused to leave.
+
+One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to
+an Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral.
+
+"That is Mr. Gisborne," said he, as soon as the gentleman was past.
+
+I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer.  He
+carried himself in a stately manner, although he was past middle age,
+and from his years might have had some excuse for a slight stoop.  As
+I looked at the man, he turned round, his eyes met mine, and I saw
+his face.  Deeply lined, sallow, and scathed was that countenance;
+scarred by passion as well as by the fortunes of war.  'Twas but a
+moment our eyes met.  We each turned round, and went on our separate
+way.
+
+But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the
+thorough appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on
+it, made but an incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of
+his countenance.  Because he was Lucy's father, I sought
+instinctively to meet him everywhere.  At last he must have become
+aware of my pertinacity, for he gave me a haughty scowl whenever I
+passed him.  In one of these encounters, however, I chanced to be of
+some service to him.  He was turning the corner of a street, and came
+suddenly on one of the groups of discontented Flemings of whom I have
+spoken.  Some words were exchanged, when my gentleman out with his
+sword, and with a slight but skilful cut drew blood from one of those
+who had insulted him, as he fancied, though I was too far off to hear
+the words.  They would all have fallen upon him had I not rushed
+forwards and raised the cry, then well known in Antwerp, of rally, to
+the Austrian soldiers who were perpetually patrolling the streets,
+and who came in numbers to the rescue.  I think that neither Mr.
+Gisborne nor the mutinous group of plebeians owed me much gratitude
+for my interference.  He had planted himself against a wall, in a
+skilful attitude of fence, ready with his bright glancing rapier to
+do battle with all the heavy, fierce, unarmed men, some six or seven
+in number.  But when his own soldiers came up, he sheathed his sword;
+and, giving some careless word of command, sent them away again, and
+continued his saunter all alone down the street, the workmen snarling
+in his rear, and more than half-inclined to fall on me for my cry for
+rescue.  I cared not if they did, my life seemed so dreary a burden
+just then; and, perhaps, it was this daring loitering among them that
+prevented their attacking me.  Instead, they suffered me to fall into
+conversation with them; and I heard some of their grievances.  Sore
+and heavy to be borne were they, and no wonder the sufferers were
+savage and desperate.
+
+The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got
+out of me the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it.
+Another of the group heard his inquiry, and made answer--"I know the
+man.  He is one Gisborne, aide-de-camp to the General-Commandant.  I
+know him well."
+
+He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and
+muttering voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw
+excited their evil blood, and which they evidently wished me not to
+hear, I sauntered away and back to my lodgings.
+
+That night Antwerp was in open revolt.  The inhabitants rose in
+rebellion against their Austrian masters.  The Austrians, holding the
+gates of the city, remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel;
+only, from time to time, the boom of the great cannon swept sullenly
+over the town.  But if they expected the disturbance to die away, and
+spend itself in a few hours' fury, they were mistaken.  In a day or
+two, the rioters held possession of the principal municipal
+buildings.  Then the Austrians poured forth in bright flaming array,
+calm and smiling, as they marched to the posts assigned, as if the
+fierce mob were no more to them then the swarms of buzzing summer
+flies.  Their practised manoeuvres, their well-aimed shot, told with
+terrible effect; but in the place of one slain rioter, three sprang
+up of his blood to avenge his loss.  But a deadly foe, a ghastly ally
+of the Austrians, was at work.  Food, scarce and dear for months, was
+now hardly to be obtained at any price.  Desperate efforts were being
+made to bring provisions into the city, for the rioters had friends
+without.  Close to the city port, nearest to the Scheldt, a great
+struggle took place.  I was there, helping the rioters, whose cause I
+had adopted.  We had a savage encounter with the Austrians.  Numbers
+fell on both sides:  I saw them lie bleeding for a moment:  then a
+volley of smoke obscured them; and when it cleared away, they were
+dead--trampled upon or smothered, pressed down and hidden by the
+freshly-wounded whom those last guns had brought low.  And then a
+gray-robed and grey-veiled figure came right across the flashing guns
+and stooped over some one, whose life-blood was ebbing away;
+sometimes it was to give him drink from cans which they carried slung
+at their sides; sometimes I saw the cross held above a dying man, and
+rapid prayers were being uttered, unheard by men in that hellish din
+and clangour, but listened to by One above.  I saw all this as in a
+dream:  the reality of that stern time was battle and carnage.  But I
+knew that these gray figures, their bare feet all wet with blood, and
+their faces hidden by their veils, were the Poor Clares--sent forth
+now because dire agony was abroad and imminent danger at hand.
+Therefore, they left their cloistered shelter, and came into that
+thick and evil melee.
+
+Close to me--driven past me by the struggle of many fighters--came
+the Antwerp burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon his face; and in
+an instant more, he was thrown by the press upon the Austrian officer
+Gisborne, and ere either had recovered the shock, the burgess had
+recognized his opponent.
+
+"Ha! the Englishman Gisborne!" he cried, and threw himself upon him
+with redoubled fury.  He had struck him hard--the Englishman was
+down; when out of the smoke came a dark-gray figure, and threw
+herself right under the uplifted flashing sword.  The burgess's arm
+stood arrested.  Neither Austrians nor Anversois willingly harmed the
+Poor Clares.
+
+"Leave him to me!" said a low stern voice.  "He is mine enemy--mine
+for many years."
+
+Those words were the last I heard.  I myself was struck down by a
+bullet.  I remember nothing more for days.  When I came to myself, I
+was at the extremity of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit
+my strength.  My landlord sat watching me.  He, too, looked pinched
+and shrunken; he had heard of my wounded state, and sought me out.
+Yes! the struggle still continued, but the famine was sore:  and
+some, he had heard, had died for lack of food.  The tears stood in
+his eyes as he spoke.  But soon he shook off his weakness, and his
+natural cheerfulness returned.  Father Bernard had been to see me--no
+one else.  (Who should, indeed?) Father Bernard would come back that
+afternoon--he had promised.  But Father Bernard never came, although
+I was up and dressed, and looking eagerly for him.
+
+My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself:  of what
+it was composed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and with
+every mouthful I seemed to gain strength.  The good man sat looking
+at my evident enjoyment with a happy smile of sympathy; but, as my
+appetite became satisfied, I began to detect a certain wistfulness in
+his eyes, as if craving for the food I had so nearly devoured--for,
+indeed, at that time I was hardly aware of the extent of the famine.
+Suddenly, there was a sound of many rushing feet past our window.  My
+landlord opened one of the sides of it, the better to learn what was
+going on.  Then we heard a faint, cracked, tinkling bell, coming
+shrill upon the air, clear and distinct from all other sounds.  "Holy
+Mother!" exclaimed my landlord, "the Poor Clares!"
+
+He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into my
+hands, bidding me follow.  Down stairs he ran, clutching at more
+food, as the women of his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a
+moment we were in the street, moving along with the great current,
+all tending towards the Convent of the Poor Clares.  And still, as if
+piercing our ears with its inarticulate cry, came the shrill tinkle
+of the bell.  In that strange crowd were old men trembling and
+sobbing, as they carried their little pittance of food; women with
+tears running down their cheeks, who had snatched up what provisions
+they had in the vessels in which they stood, so that the burden of
+these was in many cases much greater than that which they contained;
+children, with flushed faces, grasping tight the morsel of bitten
+cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it safe to the help of the
+Poor Clares; strong men--yea, both Anversois and Austrians--pressing
+onward with set teeth, and no word spoken; and over all, and through
+all, came that sharp tinkle--that cry for help in extremity.
+
+We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and
+piteous faces:  they were issuing out of the convent to make way for
+the offerings of others.  "Haste, haste!" said they.  "A Poor Clare
+is dying!  A Poor Clare is dead for hunger!  God forgive us and our
+city!"
+
+We pressed on.  The stream bore us along where it would.  We were
+carried through refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over
+whose doors the conventual name of the occupant was written.  Thus it
+was that I, with others, was forced into Sister Magdalen's cell.  On
+her couch lay Gisborne, pale unto death, but not dead.  By his side
+was a cup of water, and a small morsel of mouldy bread, which he had
+pushed out of his reach, and could not move to obtain.  Over against
+his bed were these words, copied in the English version "Therefore,
+if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink."
+
+Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like
+some famished wild animal.  For now it was no longer the sharp
+tinkle, but that one solemn toll, which in all Christian countries
+tells of the passing of the spirit out of earthly life into eternity;
+and again a murmur gathered and grew, as of many people speaking with
+awed breath, "A Poor Clare is dying! a Poor Clare is dead!"
+
+Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried
+into the chapel belonging to the Poor Clares.  On a bier before the
+high altar, lay a woman--lay Sister Magdalen--lay Bridget Fitzgerald.
+By her side stood Father Bernard, in his robes of office, and holding
+the crucifix on high while he pronounced the solemn absolution of the
+Church, as to one who had newly confessed herself of deadly sin.  I
+pushed on with passionate force, till I stood close to the dying
+woman, as she received extreme unction amid the breathless and awed
+hush of the multitude around.  Her eyes were glazing, her limbs were
+stiffening; but when the rite was over and finished, she raised her
+gaunt figure slowly up, and her eyes brightened to a strange
+intensity of joy, as, with the gesture of her finger and the trance-
+like gleam of her eye, she seemed like one who watched the
+disappearance of some loathed and fearful creature.
+
+"She is freed from the curse!" said she, as she fell back dead.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of The Project Gutenberg Etext The Poor Clare, by Elizabeth Gaskell
+
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