diff options
Diffstat (limited to '2548-0.txt~')
| -rw-r--r-- | 2548-0.txt~ | 2467 |
1 files changed, 2467 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/2548-0.txt~ b/2548-0.txt~ new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d48b8f7 --- /dev/null +++ b/2548-0.txt~ @@ -0,0 +1,2467 @@ +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. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POOR CLARE *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. + +START: FULL LICENSE + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the +person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph +1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the +Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when +you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work +on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: + + 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. + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format +other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain +Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +provided that: + +* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation." + +* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm + works. + +* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + +* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at +www.gutenberg.org + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without +widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular +state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. + +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: www.gutenberg.org + +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + |