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diff --git a/2548-h/2548-h.htm b/2548-h/2548-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..381c2e5 --- /dev/null +++ b/2548-h/2548-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2973 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + The Poor Clare | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> /* <![CDATA[ */ + + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + + </style> +</head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poor Clare, by Elizabeth Gaskell</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Poor Clare</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Elizabeth Gaskell</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 21, 2000 [eBook #2548]<br> +[Most recently updated: February 5, 2024]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price, Audrey Emmitt and Eugenia Corbo</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POOR CLARE ***</div> + +<h1>THE POOR CLARE</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Elizabeth Gaskell</h2> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<p> +December 12th, 1747.—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. +</p> + +<p> +There is a great old hall in the north-east of Lancashire, in a part they +called the Trough of Bolland, adjoining that other district named Craven. +Starkey Manor-house is rather like a number of rooms clustered round a gray, +massive, old keep than a regularly-built hall. Indeed, I suppose that the house +only consisted of a great tower in the centre, in the days when the Scots made +their raids terrible as far south as this; and that after the Stuarts came in, +and there was a little more security of property in those parts, the Starkeys +of that time added the lower building, which runs, two stories high, all round +the base of the keep. There has been a grand garden laid out in my days, on the +southern slope near the house; but when I first knew the place, the +kitchen-garden at the farm was the only piece of cultivated ground belonging to +it. The deer used to come within sight of the drawing-room windows, and might +have browsed quite close up to the house if they had not been too wild and shy. +Starkey Manor-house itself stood on a projection or peninsula of high land, +jutting out from the abrupt hills that form the sides of the Trough of Bolland. +These hills were rocky and bleak enough towards their summit; lower down they +were clothed with tangled copsewood and green depths of fern, out of which a +gray giant of an ancient forest-tree would tower here and there, throwing up +its ghastly white branches, as if in imprecation, to the sky. These trees, they +told me, were the remnants of that forest which existed in the days of the +Heptarchy, and were even then noted as landmarks. No wonder that their upper +and more exposed branches were leafless, and that the dead bark had peeled +away, from sapless old age. +</p> + +<p> +Not far from the house there were a few cottages, apparently, of the same date +as the keep; probably built for some retainers of the family, who sought +shelter—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. +</p> + +<p> +The owner of this property, at the beginning of the present century, was a Mr. +Patrick Byrne Starkey. His family had kept to the old faith, and were stanch +Roman Catholics, esteeming it even a sin to marry any one of Protestant +descent, however willing he or she might have been to embrace the Romish +religion. Mr. Patrick Starkey’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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Why do I tell you all this? I have little to do with the Squire and Madame +Starkey; and yet I dwell upon them, as if I were unwilling to come to the real +people with whom my life was so strangely mixed up. Madam had been nursed in +Ireland by the very woman who lifted her in her arms, and welcomed her to her +husband’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. +</p> + +<p> +Years went on. Mary was still abroad. Bridget was still and stern, instead of +active and passionate. The little dog, Mignon, was indeed her darling. I have +heard that she talked to it continually; although, to most people, she was so +silent. The Squire and Madam treated her with the greatest consideration, and +well they might; for to them she was as devoted and faithful as ever. Mary +wrote pretty often, and seemed satisfied with her life. But at length the +letters ceased—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. +</p> + +<p> +I have said that she had not heard from Mary for some time. In her last letter, +she had told of travelling about with her mistress, who was the English wife of +some great foreign officer, and had spoken of her chances of making a good +marriage, without naming the gentleman’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. +</p> + +<p> +One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been accustomed to mark +her goings-out and comings-in. She had never been sociable with any of them; +but the sight of her had become a part of their daily lives, and slow wonder +arose in their minds, as morning after morning came, and her house-door +remained closed, her window dead from any glitter, or light of fire within. At +length, some one tried the door; it was locked. Two or three laid their heads +together, before daring to look in through the blank unshuttered window. But, +at last, they summoned up courage; and then saw that Bridget’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. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly she came home; with as little noise or note of preparation as she had +departed. One day some one noticed a thin, blue curl of smoke ascending from +her chimney. Her door stood open to the noonday sun; and, ere many hours had +elapsed, some one had seen an old travel-and-sorrow-stained woman dipping her +pitcher in the well; and said, that the dark, solemn eyes that looked up at him +were more like Bridget Fitzgerald’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. +</p> + +<p> +Her little dog, which had wandered half over the Continent with her, was her +only companion; a dumb remembrancer of happier days. Once he was ill; and she +carried him more than three miles, to ask about his management from one who had +been groom to the last Squire, and had then been noted for his skill in all +diseases of animals. Whatever this man did, the dog recovered; and they who +heard her thanks, intermingled with blessings (that were rather promises of +good fortune than prayers), looked grave at his good luck when, next year, his +ewes twinned, and his meadow-grass was heavy and thick. +</p> + +<p> +Now it so happened that, about the year seventeen hundred and eleven, one of +the guardians of the young squire, a certain Sir Philip Tempest, bethought him +of the good shooting there must be on his ward’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. +</p> + +<p> +One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but little success, +I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had none, and was in a black humour +accordingly. He was coming home, having his gun loaded, sportsman-like, when +little Mignon crossed his path, just as he turned out of the wood by +Bridget’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: +</p> + +<p> +“You should have kept the dog out of my way—a little poaching +varmint.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Mr. Gisborne, half curious, half uneasy, thought to lessen his +uncomfortable feelings by asking Sir Philip who Bridget was? He could only +describe her—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:— +</p> + +<p> +“It will be the old witch, that his worship means. She needs a ducking, +if ever a woman did, does that Bridget Fitzgerald.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fitzgerald!” said both the gentlemen at once. But Sir Philip was +the first to continue:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Had she ever a daughter?” asked Mr. Gisborne, after a while. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know—yes! I’ve a notion she had; a kind of +waiting woman to Madam Starkey.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gisborne shaded his eyes with his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<p> +I now come to the time in which I myself was mixed up with the people that I +have been writing about. And to make you understand how I became connected with +them, I must give you some little account of myself. My father was the younger +son of a Devonshire gentleman of moderate property; my eldest uncle succeeded +to the estate of his forefathers, my second became an eminent attorney in +London, and my father took orders. Like most poor clergymen, he had a large +family; and I have no doubt was glad enough when my London uncle, who was a +bachelor, offered to take charge of me, and bring me up to be his successor in +business. +</p> + +<p> +In this way I came to live in London, in my uncle’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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering. I was there two +or three minutes before he spoke. Then he told me that I must pack up my +portmanteau that very afternoon, and start that night by post-horse for West +Chester. I should get there, if all went well, at the end of five days’ +time, and must then wait for a packet to cross over to Dublin; from thence I +must proceed to a certain town named Kildoon, and in that neighbourhood I was +to remain, making certain inquiries as to the existence of any descendants of +the younger branch of a family to whom some valuable estates had descended in +the female line. The Irish lawyer whom I had seen was weary of the case, and +would willingly have given up the property, without further ado, to a man who +appeared to claim them; but on laying his tables and trees before my uncle, the +latter had foreseen so many possible prior claimants, that the lawyer had +begged him to undertake the management of the whole business. In his youth, my +uncle would have liked nothing better than going over to Ireland himself, and +ferreting out every scrap of paper or parchment, and every word of tradition +respecting the family. As it was, old and gouty, he deputed me. +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, I went to Kildoon. I suspect I had something of my uncle’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. +</p> + +<p> +One bleak March evening, I came in sight of the places described at the +beginning of my story. I could hardly understand the rude dialect in which the +direction to old Bridget’s house was given. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Your name is Bridget Fitzgerald, I believe?” +</p> + +<p> +She bowed her head in assent. +</p> + +<p> +“I have something to say to you. May I come in? I am unwilling to keep +you standing.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“My name is Bridget Fitzgerald,” said she, by way of opening our +conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“And your husband was Hugh Fitzgerald, of Knock Mahon, near Kildoon, in +Ireland?” +</p> + +<p> +A faint light came into the dark gloom of her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“He was.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I ask if you had any children by him?” +</p> + +<p> +The light in her eyes grew quick and red. She tried to speak, I could see; but +something rose in her throat, and choked her, and until she could speak calmly, +she would fain not speak at all before a stranger. In a minute or so she +said—“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She rose from her seat, and came and clutched at my arm, and looked in my eyes. +There she read, as I suppose, my utter ignorance of what had become of her +child; for she went blindly back to her chair, and sat rocking herself and +softly moaning, as if I were not there; I not daring to speak to the lone and +awful woman. After a little pause, she knelt down before the picture of Our +Lady of the Holy Heart, and spoke to her by all the fanciful and poetic names +of the Litany. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you any reason to think that your daughter is dead?” +</p> + +<p> +She rose from her knees, and came and stood before me. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +She listened with deep attention, putting from time to time such questions as +convinced me I had to do with no common intelligence, however dimmed and shorn +by solitude and mysterious sorrow. Then she took up her tale; and in few brief +words, told me of her wanderings abroad in vain search after her daughter; +sometimes in the wake of armies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in city. The +lady, whose waiting-woman Mary had gone to be, had died soon after the date of +her last letter home; her husband, the foreign officer, had been serving in +Hungary, whither Bridget had followed him, but too late to find him. Vague +rumours reached her that Mary had made a great marriage: and this sting of +doubt was added,—whether the mother might not be close to her child under +her new name, and even hearing of her every day; and yet never recognizing the +lost one under the appellation she then bore. At length the thought took +possession of her, that it was possible that all this time Mary might be at +home at Coldholme, in the Trough of Bolland, in Lancashire, in England; and +home came Bridget, in that vain hope, to her desolate hearth, and empty +cottage. Here she had thought it safest to remain; if Mary was in life, it was +here she would seek for her mother. +</p> + +<p> +I noted down one or two particulars out of Bridget’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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” said I, “I know nothing but what you tell me. You say +you heard of her marriage.” +</p> + +<p> +But she caught nothing of what I said. She was praying to the Virgin in a kind +of ecstasy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my very presence. +</p> + +<p> +From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest’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 <i>de vive +voix</i> aid the flagging recollection, and I was determined to lose no chance +for want of trouble. But Sir Philip had gone abroad, and it would be some time +before I could receive an answer. So I followed my uncle’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. +</p> + +<p> +This was far easier said than done. I have seen a child on a common blown along +by a high wind, without power of standing still and resisting the tempestuous +force. I was somewhat in the same predicament as regarded my mental state. +Something resistless seemed to urge my thoughts on, through every possible +course by which there was a chance of attaining to my object. I did not see the +sweeping moors when I walked out: when I held a book in my hand, and read the +words, their sense did not penetrate to my brain. If I slept, I went on with +the same ideas, always flowing in the same direction. This could not last long +without having a bad effect on the body. I had an illness, which, although I +was racked with pain, was a positive relief to me, as it compelled me to live +in the present suffering, and not in the visionary researches I had been +continually making before. My kind uncle came to nurse me; and after the +immediate danger was over, my life seemed to slip away in delicious languor for +two or three months. I did not ask—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. +</p> + +<p> +In those days, there was one large, rambling inn, at Harrogate, close to the +Medicinal Spring; but it was already becoming too small for the accommodation +of the influx of visitors, and many lodged round about, in the farm-houses of +the district. It was so early in the season, that I had the inn pretty much to +myself; and, indeed, felt rather like a visitor in a private house, so intimate +had the landlord and landlady become with me during my long illness. She would +chide me for being out so late on the moors, or for having been too long +without food, quite in a motherly way; while he consulted me about vintages and +wines, and taught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle about horses. In my walks I met +other strangers from time to time. Even before my uncle had left me, I had +noticed, with half-torpid curiosity, a young lady of very striking appearance, +who went about always accompanied by an elderly companion,—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. +</p> + +<p> +“What did he think, then, was the reason for their extreme +seclusion?” asked I. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some motive which +I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but then again I saw, or +fancied I saw, that her heart spoke in my favour, and that there was a struggle +going on in her mind, which at times (I loved so dearly) I could have begged +her to spare herself, even though the happiness of my whole life should have +been the sacrifice; for her complexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more +hopeless, her delicate frame yet slighter. During this period I had written, I +should say, to my uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong my stay at Harrogate, +not giving any reason; but such was his tenderness towards me, that in a few +days I heard from him, giving me a willing permission, and only charging me to +take care of myself, and not use too much exertion during the hot weather. +</p> + +<p> +One sultry evening I drew near the farm. The windows of their parlour were +open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the house, as I passed the +first window (there were two windows in their little ground-floor room). I saw +Lucy distinctly; but when I had knocked at their door—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. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clarke began, as if it was a relief to her to plunge into the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Clarke shook her head, and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head again. “You had better go away, sir. You know nothing +about us.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You do not know our true names, sir,” said she, hastily. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I conjectured,” I said. “Go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +The good woman was stopped by her crying. I confess, I was a little stunned by +her last words; but only for a moment. At any rate, till I knew definitely what +was this mysterious stain upon one so simple and pure, as Lucy seemed, I would +not desert her, and so I said; and she made me answer:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I implore you to tell me what this mystery is,” I cried, almost +maddened by this suspense. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +When I got home at night, I remembered how all these trifles spoke of a pure +and tender heart and innocent life. Mistress Clarke returned; she had been +crying sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I half smiled. “Have no fear,” I said. It seemed too absurd to +imagine my feeling dislike to Lucy. +</p> + +<p> +“Her father loved her well,” said she, gravely, “yet he drove +her out like some monstrous thing.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am firm in my wish to know all. I return at ten to-morrow morning, and +then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself.” +</p> + +<p> +I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to Mistress +Clarke’s sanity. +</p> + +<p> +Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable thoughts +connected with that strange laughter, filled my mind. I could hardly sleep. I +rose early; and long before the hour I had appointed, I was on the path over +the common that led to the old farm-house where they lodged. I suppose that +Lucy had passed no better a night than I; for there she was also, slowly pacing +with her even step, her eyes bent down, her whole look most saintly and pure. +She started when I came close to her, and grew paler as I reminded her of my +appointment, and spoke with something of the impatience of obstacles that, +seeing her once more, had called up afresh in my mind. All strange and terrible +hints, and giddy merriment were forgotten. My heart gave forth words of fire, +and my tongue uttered them. Her colour went and came, as she listened; but, +when I had ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me, and +said— +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +All the time she had been speaking, I had been weighing her story in my mind. I +had hitherto put cases of witchcraft on one side, as mere superstitions; and my +uncle and I had had many an argument, he supporting himself by the opinion of +his good friend Sir Matthew Hale. Yet this sounded like the tale of one +bewitched; or was it merely the effect of a life of extreme seclusion telling +on the nerves of a sensitive girl? My scepticism inclined me to the latter +belief, and when she paused I said: +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy that some physician could have disabused your father of his +belief in visions—” +</p> + +<p> +Just at that instant, standing as I was opposite to her in the full and perfect +morning light, I saw behind her another figure—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. +</p> + +<p> +“I<small>T</small> has been near me?” she said, as if asking a +question. +</p> + +<p> +The sound seemed taken out of her voice; it was husky as the notes on an old +harpsichord when the strings have ceased to vibrate. She read her answer in my +face, I suppose, for I could not speak. Her look was one of intense fear, but +that died away into an aspect of most humble patience. At length she seemed to +force herself to face behind and around her: she saw the purple moors, the blue +distant hills, quivering in the sunlight, but nothing else. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you take me home?” she said, meekly. +</p> + +<p> +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 <small>IT</small> 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 +<small>IT</small>. She seemed to understand what I must be feeling. She let go +my hand, which she had kept clasped until then, when we reached the garden +gate, and went forwards to meet her anxious friend, who was standing by the +window looking for her. I could not enter the house: I needed silence, society, +leisure, change—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. +</p> + +<p> +“You know all now,” said she, solemnly. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw <small>IT</small>,” said I, below my breath. +</p> + +<p> +“And you shrink from us, now,” she said, with a hopelessness which +stirred up all that was brave or good in me. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children,” she +said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +I was miserably exhausted by the swooning affright which had taken possession +of me. When I reached the inn, I staggered in like one overcome by wine. I went +to my own private room. It was some time before I saw that the weekly post had +come in, and brought me my letters. There was one from my uncle, one from my +home in Devonshire, and one, re-directed over the first address, sealed with a +great coat of arms, It was from Sir Philip Tempest: my letter of inquiry +respecting Mary Fitzgerald had reached him at 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.” +</p> + +<p> +I was now apparently close on the discovery which I had striven so many months +to attain. But success had lost its zest. I put my letters down, and seemed to +forget them all in thinking of the morning I had passed that very day. Nothing +was real but the unreal presence, which had come like an evil blast across my +bodily eyes, and burnt itself down upon my brain. Dinner came, and went away +untouched. Early in the afternoon I walked to the farm-house. I found Mistress +Clarke alone, and I was glad and relieved. She was evidently prepared to tell +me all I might wish to hear. +</p> + +<p> +“You asked me for Mistress Lucy’s true name; it is Gisborne,” +she began. +</p> + +<p> +“Not Gisborne of Skipford?” I exclaimed, breathless with +anticipation. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Lucy’s mother?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you know her name?—you can tell if it was Mary +Fitzgerald?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +I told her, as briefly as might be, of my researches after the descendant and +heir of the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added—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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“True! but it is a cruel fate to know that all shrink from her, sooner or +later, as from one possessed—accursed.” +</p> + +<p> +“How came it to pass?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I know not. Old rumours there are, that were bruited through the +household at Skipford.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” I demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You never heard the witch’s name?” I gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to me, indeed, that something like this was the best course we could +pursue. But first it was necessary to ascertain more than what mere rumour or +careless hearsay could tell. My thoughts turned to my uncle—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. +</p> + +<p> +I rode to London. I rode long days drawn out into the lovely summer nights: I +could not rest. I reached London. I told my uncle all, though in the stir of +the great city the horror had faded away, and I could hardly imagine that he +would believe the account I gave him of the fearful double of Lucy which I had +seen on the lonely moor-side. But my uncle had lived many years, and learnt +many things; and, in the deep secrets of family history that had been confided +to him, he had heard of cases of innocent people bewitched and taken possession +of by evil spirits yet more fearful than Lucy’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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In accordance with this, I went down once more to the wayside inn near +Coldholme. It was late at night when I arrived there; and, while I supped, I +inquired of the landlord more particulars as to Bridget’s ways. Solitary +and savage had been her life for many years. Wild and despotic were her words +and manner to those few people who came across her path. The country-folk did +her imperious bidding, because they feared to disobey. If they pleased her, +they prospered; if, on the contrary, they neglected or traversed her behests, +misfortune, small or great, fell on them and theirs. It was not detestation so +much as an indefinable terror that she excited. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning I went to see her. She was standing on the green outside her +cottage, and received me with the sullen grandeur of a throneless queen. I read +in her face that she recognized me, and that I was not unwelcome; but she stood +silent till I had opened my errand. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +The stern figure scarcely trembled, but her hand sought the support of the +door-post. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet,” said I, having a strange power given me of confronting +one, whom, nevertheless, in my secret soul I dreaded. +</p> + +<p> +“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:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes distended, as if she were in a trance and saw the working of her +curse. Again I spoke:— +</p> + +<p> +“O, woman!” I said, “that best-beloved, standing accursed +before men, is your dead daughter’s child.” +</p> + +<p> +The life, the energy, the passion, came back to the eyes with which she pierced +through me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without another question or word, +she threw herself on the ground with fearful vehemence, and clutched at the +innocent daisies with convulsed hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Bone of my bone! flesh of my flesh! have I cursed thee—and art +thou accursed?” +</p> + +<p> +So she moaned, as she lay prostrate in her great agony. I stood aghast at my +own work. She did not hear my broken sentences; she asked no more, but the dumb +confirmation which my sad looks had given that one fact, that her curse rested +on her own daughter’s child. The fear grew on me lest she should die in +her strife of body and soul; and then might not Lucy remain under the spell as +long as she lived? +</p> + +<p> +Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming through the woodland path that led to +Bridget’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. +</p> + +<p> +“God help her!” murmured Lucy. “How she suffers!” +</p> + +<p> +At her desire we sought for water; but when we returned, Bridget had recovered +her wandering senses, and was kneeling with clasped hands before Lucy, gazing +at that sweet sad face as though her troubled nature drank in health and peace +from every moment’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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +All our endeavours were now directed to get Lucy back to the house where she +had tarried the night before. Mistress Clarke told me that, not hearing from me +(some letter must have miscarried), she had grown impatient and despairing, and +had urged Lucy to the enterprise of coming to seek her grandmother; not telling +her, indeed, of the dread reputation she possessed, or how we suspected her of +having so fearfully blighted that innocent girl; but, at the same time, hoping +much from the mysterious stirring of blood, which Mistress Clarke trusted in +for the removal of the curse. They had come, by a different route from that +which I had taken, to a village inn not far from Coldholme, only the night +before. This was the first interview between ancestress and descendant. +</p> + +<p> +All through the sultry noon I wandered along the tangled brush-wood of the old +neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a matter so complicated +and mysterious. Meeting a countryman, I asked my way to the nearest clergyman, +and went, hoping to obtain some counsel from him. But he proved to be a coarse +and common-minded man, giving no time or attention to the intricacies of a +case, but dashing out a strong opinion involving immediate action. For +instance, as soon as I named Bridget Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:— +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Such a one could give me no help. I rather drew back what I had already said; +and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him to several pots of +beer, in the village inn, to which we had adjourned for our conference at his +suggestion. I left him as soon as I could, and returned to Coldholme, shaping +my way past deserted Starkey Manor-house, and coming upon it by the back. At +that side were the oblong remains of the old moat, the waters of which lay +placid and motionless under the crimson rays of the setting sun; with the +forest-trees lying straight along each side, and their deep-green foliage +mirrored to blackness in the burnished surface of the moat below—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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she there?” asked Bridget, hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +“No! Who? I am alone. You remember me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +She had taken hold of my arm, as if to secure herself some human companionship. +She shook all over with the slight, never-ceasing tremor of intense terror. I +told her my tale as I have told it you, sparing none of the details. +</p> + +<p> +How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had driven Lucy forth +from her father’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. +</p> + +<p> +“You love Mary’s child?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is she?” +</p> + +<p> +I eagerly caught at the idea that her presence was needed, in order that, by +some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be reversed. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go and bring her to you,” I exclaimed. Bridget tightened +her hold upon my arm. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning Lucy and I went to seek her, to bid her join her prayers with +ours. The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze. No human being was there: +the cross remained on the threshold, but Bridget was gone. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<p> +What was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself. As for Lucy, +she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon her. Her gentleness and +piety, under the pressure of so horrible a life, seemed over-passive to me. She +never complained. Mrs. Clarke complained more than ever. As for me, I was more +in love with the real Lucy than ever; but I shrunk from the false similitude +with an intensity proportioned to my love. I found out by instinct that Mrs. +Clarke had occasional temptations to leave Lucy. The good lady’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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy’s; and that was all—was +nothing. +</p> + +<p> +My uncle and I sat in the gloom of a London November evening, in our house in +Ormond Street. I was out of health, and felt as if I were in an inextricable +coil of misery. Lucy and I wrote to each other, but that was little; and we +dared not see each other for dread of the fearful Third, who had more than once +taken her place at our meetings. My uncle had, on the day I speak of, bidden +prayers to be put up on the ensuing Sabbath in many a church and meeting-house +in London, for one grievously tormented by an evil spirit. He had faith in +prayers—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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I had utterly +forgotten it; so I professed myself a complete stranger to him; while my +ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as much as it was in his nature +to hate anything, placed a chair for the visitor, and bade Anthony bring +glasses, and a fresh jug of claret. +</p> + +<p> +Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful ease and pleasant +acknowledgement which belongs to a man of the world. Then he turned to scan me +with his keen glance. After some alight conversation, entered into on his part, +I am certain, with an intention of discovering on what terms of confidence I +stood with my uncle, he paused, and said gravely— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bridget Fitzgerald!” exclaimed I. “In Antwerp? Tell me, sir, +all that you can about her.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +There was something to me inexpressibly soothing in the tone of voice with +which he began to narrate, as it were from the beginning, his acquaintance with +Bridget. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not many months ago, as I was passing homewards in the evening, along +one of the streets near St. Jacques, leading into the Meer Straet, I saw a +woman sitting crouched up under the shrine of the Holy Mother of Sorrows. Her +hood was drawn over her head, so that the shadow caused by the light of the +lamp above fell deep over her face; her hands were clasped round her knees. It +was evident that she was some one in hopeless trouble, and as such it was my +duty to stop and speak. I naturally addressed her first in Flemish, believing +her to be one of the lower class of inhabitants. She shook her head, but did +not look up. Then I tried French, and she replied in that language, but +speaking it so indifferently, that I was sure she was either English or Irish, +and consequently spoke to her in my own native tongue. She recognized my voice; +and, starting up, caught at my robes, dragging me before the blessed shrine, +and throwing herself down, and forcing me, as much by her evident desire as by +her action, to kneel beside her, she exclaimed: +</p> + +<p> +“‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +“She turned to me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘She will hear you, if you will only pray. She never hears +<i>me</i>: she and all the saints in heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the +Evil One carries them off, as he carried that first away. O, Father Bernard, +pray for me!’ +</p> + +<p> +“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— +</p> + +<p> +“‘I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Arise, my daughter,’ said I, ‘and come with +me.’ And I led the way into one of the confessionals of St. Jaques. +</p> + +<p> +“She knelt; I listened. No words came. The evil powers had stricken her +dumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when she approached +confession. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +My uncle now spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The kindly, brave old man! But Father Bernard sat on musing. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Still tormented!” I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress +Clarke’s last letter.</p> +<p>He rose to go. We afterwards heard that the +occasion of his coming to London was a secret political mission on behalf of +the Jacobites. Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man. +</p> + +<p> +Months and months passed away without any change. Lucy entreated my uncle to +leave her where she was,—dreading, as I learnt, lest if she came, with +her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me, that my love could +not stand the repeated shocks to which I should be doomed. And this she thought +from no distrust of the strength of my affection, but from a kind of pitying +sympathy for the terror to the nerves which she clearly observed that the +demoniac visitation caused in all. +</p> + +<p> +I was restless and miserable. I devoted myself to good works; but I performed +them from no spirit of love, but solely from the hope of reward and payment, +and so the reward was never granted. At length, I asked my uncle’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. +</p> + +<p> +I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry for Father Bernard. He was away in the +country for a day or two. Then I asked my way to the Convent of Poor Clares; +but, being healthy and prosperous, I could only see the dim, pent-up, gray +walls, shut closely in by narrow streets, in the lowest part of the town. My +landlord told me, that had I been stricken by some loathsome disease, or in +desperate case of any kind, the Poor Clares would have taken me, and tended me. +He spoke of them as an order of mercy of the strictest kind, dressing scantily +in the coarsest materials, going barefoot, living on what the inhabitants of +Antwerp chose to bestow, and sharing even those fragments and crumbs with the +poor and helpless that swarmed all around; receiving no letters or +communication with the outer world; utterly dead to everything but the +alleviation of suffering. He smiled at my inquiring whether I could get speech +of one of them; and told me that they were even forbidden to speak for the +purposes of begging their daily food; while yet they lived, and fed others upon +what was given in charity. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” exclaimed I, “supposing all men forgot them! Would +they quietly lie down and die, without making sign of their extremity?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did not say +what I thought. I rather turned the conversation, by asking my landlord if he +knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain Sister Magdalen. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You never saw her?” asked I. +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in Antwerp. The +political state of things became worse than ever, increased to its height by +the scarcity of food consequent on many deficient harvests. I saw groups of +fierce, squalid men, at every corner of the street, glaring out with wolfish +eyes at my sleek skin and handsome clothes. +</p> + +<p> +At last Father Bernard returned. We had a long conversation, in which he told +me that, curiously enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy’s father, was serving in +one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at Antwerp. I asked Father +Bernard if he would make us acquainted; which he consented to do. But, a day or +two afterwards, he told me that, on hearing my name, Mr. Gisborne had declined +responding to any advances on my part, saying he had adjured his country, and +hated his countrymen. +</p> + +<p> +Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his daughter Lucy. +Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of making his acquaintance. +Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of the hidden fermentation, for +some coming evil, working among the “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. +</p> + +<p> +One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to an +Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral. +</p> + +<p> +“That is Mr. Gisborne,” said he, as soon as the gentleman was past. +</p> + +<p> +I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer. He carried himself +in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and from his years might +have had some excuse for a slight stoop. As I looked at the man, he turned +round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face. Deeply lined, sallow, and scathed +was that countenance; scarred by passion as well as by the fortunes of war. +’Twas but a moment our eyes met. We each turned round, and went on our +separate way. +</p> + +<p> +But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the thorough +appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on it, made but an +incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of his countenance. Because +he was Lucy’s father, I sought instinctively to meet him everywhere. At +last he must have become aware of my pertinacity, for he gave me a haughty +scowl whenever I passed him. In one of these encounters, however, I chanced to +be of some service to him. He was turning the corner of a street, and came +suddenly on one of the groups of discontented Flemings of whom I have spoken. +Some words were exchanged, when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a +slight but skilful cut drew blood from one of those who had insulted him, as he +fancied, though I was too far off to hear the words. They would all have fallen +upon him had I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, then well known in +Antwerp, of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who were perpetually patrolling the +streets, and who came in numbers to the rescue. I think that neither Mr. +Gisborne nor the mutinous group of plebeians owed me much gratitude for my +interference. He had planted himself against a wall, in a skilful attitude of +fence, ready with his bright glancing rapier to do battle with all the heavy, +fierce, unarmed men, some six or seven in number. But when his own soldiers +came up, he sheathed his sword; and, giving some careless word of command, sent +them away again, and continued his saunter all alone down the street, the +workmen snarling in his rear, and more than half-inclined to fall on me for my +cry for rescue. I cared not if they did, my life seemed so dreary a burden just +then; and, perhaps, it was this daring loitering among them that prevented +their attacking me. Instead, they suffered me to fall into conversation with +them; and I heard some of their grievances. Sore and heavy to be borne were +they, and no wonder the sufferers were savage and desperate. +</p> + +<p> +The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got out of me +the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it. Another of the group heard +his inquiry, and made answer—“I know the man. He is one Gisborne, +aide-de-camp to the General-Commandant. I know him well.” +</p> + +<p> +He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and muttering +voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excited their evil blood, +and which they evidently wished me not to hear, I sauntered away and back to my +lodgings. +</p> + +<p> +That night Antwerp was in open revolt. The inhabitants rose in rebellion +against their Austrian masters. The Austrians, holding the gates of the city, +remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel; only, from time to time, the +boom of the great cannon swept sullenly over the town. But if they expected the +disturbance to die away, and spend itself in a few hours’ 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Leave him to me!” said a low stern voice. “He is mine +enemy—mine for many years.” +</p> + +<p> +Those words were the last I heard. I myself was struck down by a bullet. I +remember nothing more for days. When I came to myself, I was at the extremity +of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit my strength. My landlord sat +watching me. He, too, looked pinched and shrunken; he had heard of my wounded +state, and sought me out. Yes! the struggle still continued, but the famine was +sore: and some, he had heard, had died for lack of food. The tears stood in his +eyes as he spoke. But soon he shook off his weakness, and his natural +cheerfulness returned. Father Bernard had been to see me—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. +</p> + +<p> +My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself: of what it was +composed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and with every mouthful I +seemed to gain strength. The good man sat looking at my evident enjoyment with +a happy smile of sympathy; but, as my appetite became satisfied, I began to +detect a certain wistfulness in his eyes, as if craving for the food I had so +nearly devoured—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!” +</p> + +<p> +He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into my hands, +bidding me follow. Down stairs he ran, clutching at more food, as the women of +his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a moment we were in the street, +moving along with the great current, all tending towards the Convent of the +Poor Clares. And still, as if piercing our ears with its inarticulate cry, came +the shrill tinkle of the bell. In that strange crowd were old men trembling and +sobbing, as they carried their little pittance of food; women with tears +running down their cheeks, who had snatched up what provisions they had in the +vessels in which they stood, so that the burden of these was in many cases much +greater than that which they contained; children, with flushed faces, grasping +tight the morsel of bitten cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it safe +to the help of the Poor Clares; strong men—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. +</p> + +<p> +We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and piteous faces: +they were issuing out of the convent to make way for the offerings of others. +“Haste, haste!” said they. “A Poor Clare is dying! A Poor +Clare is dead for hunger! God forgive us and our city!” +</p> + +<p> +We pressed on. The stream bore us along where it would. We were carried through +refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over whose doors the conventual +name of the occupant was written. Thus it was that I, with others, was forced +into Sister Magdalen’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.” +</p> + +<p> +Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like some +famished wild animal. For now it was no longer the sharp tinkle, but that one +solemn toll, which in all Christian countries tells of the passing of the +spirit out of earthly life into eternity; and again a murmur gathered and grew, +as of many people speaking with awed breath, “A Poor Clare is dying! a +Poor Clare is dead!” +</p> + +<p> +Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried into the +chapel belonging to the Poor Clares. On a bier before the high altar, lay a +woman—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. +</p> + +<p> +“She is freed from the curse!” said she, as she fell back dead. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POOR CLARE ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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. 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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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Poor Clare</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Elizabeth Gaskell</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 21, 2000 [eBook #2548]<br> +[Most recently updated: February 5, 2024]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price, Audrey Emmitt and Eugenia Corbo</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POOR CLARE ***</div> + +<h1>THE POOR CLARE</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Elizabeth Gaskell</h2> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<p> +December 12th, 1747.—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. +</p> + +<p> +There is a great old hall in the north-east of Lancashire, in a part they +called the Trough of Bolland, adjoining that other district named Craven. +Starkey Manor-house is rather like a number of rooms clustered round a gray, +massive, old keep than a regularly-built hall. Indeed, I suppose that the house +only consisted of a great tower in the centre, in the days when the Scots made +their raids terrible as far south as this; and that after the Stuarts came in, +and there was a little more security of property in those parts, the Starkeys +of that time added the lower building, which runs, two stories high, all round +the base of the keep. There has been a grand garden laid out in my days, on the +southern slope near the house; but when I first knew the place, the +kitchen-garden at the farm was the only piece of cultivated ground belonging to +it. The deer used to come within sight of the drawing-room windows, and might +have browsed quite close up to the house if they had not been too wild and shy. +Starkey Manor-house itself stood on a projection or peninsula of high land, +jutting out from the abrupt hills that form the sides of the Trough of Bolland. +These hills were rocky and bleak enough towards their summit; lower down they +were clothed with tangled copsewood and green depths of fern, out of which a +gray giant of an ancient forest-tree would tower here and there, throwing up +its ghastly white branches, as if in imprecation, to the sky. These trees, they +told me, were the remnants of that forest which existed in the days of the +Heptarchy, and were even then noted as landmarks. No wonder that their upper +and more exposed branches were leafless, and that the dead bark had peeled +away, from sapless old age. +</p> + +<p> +Not far from the house there were a few cottages, apparently, of the same date +as the keep; probably built for some retainers of the family, who sought +shelter—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. +</p> + +<p> +The owner of this property, at the beginning of the present century, was a Mr. +Patrick Byrne Starkey. His family had kept to the old faith, and were stanch +Roman Catholics, esteeming it even a sin to marry any one of Protestant +descent, however willing he or she might have been to embrace the Romish +religion. Mr. Patrick Starkey’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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Why do I tell you all this? I have little to do with the Squire and Madame +Starkey; and yet I dwell upon them, as if I were unwilling to come to the real +people with whom my life was so strangely mixed up. Madam had been nursed in +Ireland by the very woman who lifted her in her arms, and welcomed her to her +husband’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. +</p> + +<p> +Years went on. Mary was still abroad. Bridget was still and stern, instead of +active and passionate. The little dog, Mignon, was indeed her darling. I have +heard that she talked to it continually; although, to most people, she was so +silent. The Squire and Madam treated her with the greatest consideration, and +well they might; for to them she was as devoted and faithful as ever. Mary +wrote pretty often, and seemed satisfied with her life. But at length the +letters ceased—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. +</p> + +<p> +I have said that she had not heard from Mary for some time. In her last letter, +she had told of travelling about with her mistress, who was the English wife of +some great foreign officer, and had spoken of her chances of making a good +marriage, without naming the gentleman’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. +</p> + +<p> +One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been accustomed to mark +her goings-out and comings-in. She had never been sociable with any of them; +but the sight of her had become a part of their daily lives, and slow wonder +arose in their minds, as morning after morning came, and her house-door +remained closed, her window dead from any glitter, or light of fire within. At +length, some one tried the door; it was locked. Two or three laid their heads +together, before daring to look in through the blank unshuttered window. But, +at last, they summoned up courage; and then saw that Bridget’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. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly she came home; with as little noise or note of preparation as she had +departed. One day some one noticed a thin, blue curl of smoke ascending from +her chimney. Her door stood open to the noonday sun; and, ere many hours had +elapsed, some one had seen an old travel-and-sorrow-stained woman dipping her +pitcher in the well; and said, that the dark, solemn eyes that looked up at him +were more like Bridget Fitzgerald’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. +</p> + +<p> +Her little dog, which had wandered half over the Continent with her, was her +only companion; a dumb remembrancer of happier days. Once he was ill; and she +carried him more than three miles, to ask about his management from one who had +been groom to the last Squire, and had then been noted for his skill in all +diseases of animals. Whatever this man did, the dog recovered; and they who +heard her thanks, intermingled with blessings (that were rather promises of +good fortune than prayers), looked grave at his good luck when, next year, his +ewes twinned, and his meadow-grass was heavy and thick. +</p> + +<p> +Now it so happened that, about the year seventeen hundred and eleven, one of +the guardians of the young squire, a certain Sir Philip Tempest, bethought him +of the good shooting there must be on his ward’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. +</p> + +<p> +One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but little success, +I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had none, and was in a black humour +accordingly. He was coming home, having his gun loaded, sportsman-like, when +little Mignon crossed his path, just as he turned out of the wood by +Bridget’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: +</p> + +<p> +“You should have kept the dog out of my way—a little poaching +varmint.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Mr. Gisborne, half curious, half uneasy, thought to lessen his +uncomfortable feelings by asking Sir Philip who Bridget was? He could only +describe her—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:— +</p> + +<p> +“It will be the old witch, that his worship means. She needs a ducking, +if ever a woman did, does that Bridget Fitzgerald.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fitzgerald!” said both the gentlemen at once. But Sir Philip was +the first to continue:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Had she ever a daughter?” asked Mr. Gisborne, after a while. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know—yes! I’ve a notion she had; a kind of +waiting woman to Madam Starkey.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gisborne shaded his eyes with his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<p> +I now come to the time in which I myself was mixed up with the people that I +have been writing about. And to make you understand how I became connected with +them, I must give you some little account of myself. My father was the younger +son of a Devonshire gentleman of moderate property; my eldest uncle succeeded +to the estate of his forefathers, my second became an eminent attorney in +London, and my father took orders. Like most poor clergymen, he had a large +family; and I have no doubt was glad enough when my London uncle, who was a +bachelor, offered to take charge of me, and bring me up to be his successor in +business. +</p> + +<p> +In this way I came to live in London, in my uncle’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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering. I was there two +or three minutes before he spoke. Then he told me that I must pack up my +portmanteau that very afternoon, and start that night by post-horse for West +Chester. I should get there, if all went well, at the end of five days’ +time, and must then wait for a packet to cross over to Dublin; from thence I +must proceed to a certain town named Kildoon, and in that neighbourhood I was +to remain, making certain inquiries as to the existence of any descendants of +the younger branch of a family to whom some valuable estates had descended in +the female line. The Irish lawyer whom I had seen was weary of the case, and +would willingly have given up the property, without further ado, to a man who +appeared to claim them; but on laying his tables and trees before my uncle, the +latter had foreseen so many possible prior claimants, that the lawyer had +begged him to undertake the management of the whole business. In his youth, my +uncle would have liked nothing better than going over to Ireland himself, and +ferreting out every scrap of paper or parchment, and every word of tradition +respecting the family. As it was, old and gouty, he deputed me. +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, I went to Kildoon. I suspect I had something of my uncle’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. +</p> + +<p> +One bleak March evening, I came in sight of the places described at the +beginning of my story. I could hardly understand the rude dialect in which the +direction to old Bridget’s house was given. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Your name is Bridget Fitzgerald, I believe?” +</p> + +<p> +She bowed her head in assent. +</p> + +<p> +“I have something to say to you. May I come in? I am unwilling to keep +you standing.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“My name is Bridget Fitzgerald,” said she, by way of opening our +conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“And your husband was Hugh Fitzgerald, of Knock Mahon, near Kildoon, in +Ireland?” +</p> + +<p> +A faint light came into the dark gloom of her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“He was.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I ask if you had any children by him?” +</p> + +<p> +The light in her eyes grew quick and red. She tried to speak, I could see; but +something rose in her throat, and choked her, and until she could speak calmly, +she would fain not speak at all before a stranger. In a minute or so she +said—“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She rose from her seat, and came and clutched at my arm, and looked in my eyes. +There she read, as I suppose, my utter ignorance of what had become of her +child; for she went blindly back to her chair, and sat rocking herself and +softly moaning, as if I were not there; I not daring to speak to the lone and +awful woman. After a little pause, she knelt down before the picture of Our +Lady of the Holy Heart, and spoke to her by all the fanciful and poetic names +of the Litany. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you any reason to think that your daughter is dead?” +</p> + +<p> +She rose from her knees, and came and stood before me. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +She listened with deep attention, putting from time to time such questions as +convinced me I had to do with no common intelligence, however dimmed and shorn +by solitude and mysterious sorrow. Then she took up her tale; and in few brief +words, told me of her wanderings abroad in vain search after her daughter; +sometimes in the wake of armies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in city. The +lady, whose waiting-woman Mary had gone to be, had died soon after the date of +her last letter home; her husband, the foreign officer, had been serving in +Hungary, whither Bridget had followed him, but too late to find him. Vague +rumours reached her that Mary had made a great marriage: and this sting of +doubt was added,—whether the mother might not be close to her child under +her new name, and even hearing of her every day; and yet never recognizing the +lost one under the appellation she then bore. At length the thought took +possession of her, that it was possible that all this time Mary might be at +home at Coldholme, in the Trough of Bolland, in Lancashire, in England; and +home came Bridget, in that vain hope, to her desolate hearth, and empty +cottage. Here she had thought it safest to remain; if Mary was in life, it was +here she would seek for her mother. +</p> + +<p> +I noted down one or two particulars out of Bridget’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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” said I, “I know nothing but what you tell me. You say +you heard of her marriage.” +</p> + +<p> +But she caught nothing of what I said. She was praying to the Virgin in a kind +of ecstasy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my very presence. +</p> + +<p> +From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest’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 <i>de vive +voix</i> aid the flagging recollection, and I was determined to lose no chance +for want of trouble. But Sir Philip had gone abroad, and it would be some time +before I could receive an answer. So I followed my uncle’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. +</p> + +<p> +This was far easier said than done. I have seen a child on a common blown along +by a high wind, without power of standing still and resisting the tempestuous +force. I was somewhat in the same predicament as regarded my mental state. +Something resistless seemed to urge my thoughts on, through every possible +course by which there was a chance of attaining to my object. I did not see the +sweeping moors when I walked out: when I held a book in my hand, and read the +words, their sense did not penetrate to my brain. If I slept, I went on with +the same ideas, always flowing in the same direction. This could not last long +without having a bad effect on the body. I had an illness, which, although I +was racked with pain, was a positive relief to me, as it compelled me to live +in the present suffering, and not in the visionary researches I had been +continually making before. My kind uncle came to nurse me; and after the +immediate danger was over, my life seemed to slip away in delicious languor for +two or three months. I did not ask—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. +</p> + +<p> +In those days, there was one large, rambling inn, at Harrogate, close to the +Medicinal Spring; but it was already becoming too small for the accommodation +of the influx of visitors, and many lodged round about, in the farm-houses of +the district. It was so early in the season, that I had the inn pretty much to +myself; and, indeed, felt rather like a visitor in a private house, so intimate +had the landlord and landlady become with me during my long illness. She would +chide me for being out so late on the moors, or for having been too long +without food, quite in a motherly way; while he consulted me about vintages and +wines, and taught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle about horses. In my walks I met +other strangers from time to time. Even before my uncle had left me, I had +noticed, with half-torpid curiosity, a young lady of very striking appearance, +who went about always accompanied by an elderly companion,—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. +</p> + +<p> +“What did he think, then, was the reason for their extreme +seclusion?” asked I. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some motive which +I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but then again I saw, or +fancied I saw, that her heart spoke in my favour, and that there was a struggle +going on in her mind, which at times (I loved so dearly) I could have begged +her to spare herself, even though the happiness of my whole life should have +been the sacrifice; for her complexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more +hopeless, her delicate frame yet slighter. During this period I had written, I +should say, to my uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong my stay at Harrogate, +not giving any reason; but such was his tenderness towards me, that in a few +days I heard from him, giving me a willing permission, and only charging me to +take care of myself, and not use too much exertion during the hot weather. +</p> + +<p> +One sultry evening I drew near the farm. The windows of their parlour were +open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the house, as I passed the +first window (there were two windows in their little ground-floor room). I saw +Lucy distinctly; but when I had knocked at their door—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. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Clarke began, as if it was a relief to her to plunge into the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mistress Clarke shook her head, and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head again. “You had better go away, sir. You know nothing +about us.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You do not know our true names, sir,” said she, hastily. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I conjectured,” I said. “Go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +The good woman was stopped by her crying. I confess, I was a little stunned by +her last words; but only for a moment. At any rate, till I knew definitely what +was this mysterious stain upon one so simple and pure, as Lucy seemed, I would +not desert her, and so I said; and she made me answer:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I implore you to tell me what this mystery is,” I cried, almost +maddened by this suspense. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +When I got home at night, I remembered how all these trifles spoke of a pure +and tender heart and innocent life. Mistress Clarke returned; she had been +crying sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +I half smiled. “Have no fear,” I said. It seemed too absurd to +imagine my feeling dislike to Lucy. +</p> + +<p> +“Her father loved her well,” said she, gravely, “yet he drove +her out like some monstrous thing.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am firm in my wish to know all. I return at ten to-morrow morning, and +then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself.” +</p> + +<p> +I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to Mistress +Clarke’s sanity. +</p> + +<p> +Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable thoughts +connected with that strange laughter, filled my mind. I could hardly sleep. I +rose early; and long before the hour I had appointed, I was on the path over +the common that led to the old farm-house where they lodged. I suppose that +Lucy had passed no better a night than I; for there she was also, slowly pacing +with her even step, her eyes bent down, her whole look most saintly and pure. +She started when I came close to her, and grew paler as I reminded her of my +appointment, and spoke with something of the impatience of obstacles that, +seeing her once more, had called up afresh in my mind. All strange and terrible +hints, and giddy merriment were forgotten. My heart gave forth words of fire, +and my tongue uttered them. Her colour went and came, as she listened; but, +when I had ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me, and +said— +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +All the time she had been speaking, I had been weighing her story in my mind. I +had hitherto put cases of witchcraft on one side, as mere superstitions; and my +uncle and I had had many an argument, he supporting himself by the opinion of +his good friend Sir Matthew Hale. Yet this sounded like the tale of one +bewitched; or was it merely the effect of a life of extreme seclusion telling +on the nerves of a sensitive girl? My scepticism inclined me to the latter +belief, and when she paused I said: +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy that some physician could have disabused your father of his +belief in visions—” +</p> + +<p> +Just at that instant, standing as I was opposite to her in the full and perfect +morning light, I saw behind her another figure—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. +</p> + +<p> +“I<small>T</small> has been near me?” she said, as if asking a +question. +</p> + +<p> +The sound seemed taken out of her voice; it was husky as the notes on an old +harpsichord when the strings have ceased to vibrate. She read her answer in my +face, I suppose, for I could not speak. Her look was one of intense fear, but +that died away into an aspect of most humble patience. At length she seemed to +force herself to face behind and around her: she saw the purple moors, the blue +distant hills, quivering in the sunlight, but nothing else. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you take me home?” she said, meekly. +</p> + +<p> +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 <small>IT</small> 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 +<small>IT</small>. She seemed to understand what I must be feeling. She let go +my hand, which she had kept clasped until then, when we reached the garden +gate, and went forwards to meet her anxious friend, who was standing by the +window looking for her. I could not enter the house: I needed silence, society, +leisure, change—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. +</p> + +<p> +“You know all now,” said she, solemnly. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw <small>IT</small>,” said I, below my breath. +</p> + +<p> +“And you shrink from us, now,” she said, with a hopelessness which +stirred up all that was brave or good in me. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children,” she +said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +I was miserably exhausted by the swooning affright which had taken possession +of me. When I reached the inn, I staggered in like one overcome by wine. I went +to my own private room. It was some time before I saw that the weekly post had +come in, and brought me my letters. There was one from my uncle, one from my +home in Devonshire, and one, re-directed over the first address, sealed with a +great coat of arms, It was from Sir Philip Tempest: my letter of inquiry +respecting Mary Fitzgerald had reached him at 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.” +</p> + +<p> +I was now apparently close on the discovery which I had striven so many months +to attain. But success had lost its zest. I put my letters down, and seemed to +forget them all in thinking of the morning I had passed that very day. Nothing +was real but the unreal presence, which had come like an evil blast across my +bodily eyes, and burnt itself down upon my brain. Dinner came, and went away +untouched. Early in the afternoon I walked to the farm-house. I found Mistress +Clarke alone, and I was glad and relieved. She was evidently prepared to tell +me all I might wish to hear. +</p> + +<p> +“You asked me for Mistress Lucy’s true name; it is Gisborne,” +she began. +</p> + +<p> +“Not Gisborne of Skipford?” I exclaimed, breathless with +anticipation. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Lucy’s mother?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you know her name?—you can tell if it was Mary +Fitzgerald?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +I told her, as briefly as might be, of my researches after the descendant and +heir of the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added—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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“True! but it is a cruel fate to know that all shrink from her, sooner or +later, as from one possessed—accursed.” +</p> + +<p> +“How came it to pass?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, I know not. Old rumours there are, that were bruited through the +household at Skipford.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” I demanded. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You never heard the witch’s name?” I gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to me, indeed, that something like this was the best course we could +pursue. But first it was necessary to ascertain more than what mere rumour or +careless hearsay could tell. My thoughts turned to my uncle—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. +</p> + +<p> +I rode to London. I rode long days drawn out into the lovely summer nights: I +could not rest. I reached London. I told my uncle all, though in the stir of +the great city the horror had faded away, and I could hardly imagine that he +would believe the account I gave him of the fearful double of Lucy which I had +seen on the lonely moor-side. But my uncle had lived many years, and learnt +many things; and, in the deep secrets of family history that had been confided +to him, he had heard of cases of innocent people bewitched and taken possession +of by evil spirits yet more fearful than Lucy’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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +In accordance with this, I went down once more to the wayside inn near +Coldholme. It was late at night when I arrived there; and, while I supped, I +inquired of the landlord more particulars as to Bridget’s ways. Solitary +and savage had been her life for many years. Wild and despotic were her words +and manner to those few people who came across her path. The country-folk did +her imperious bidding, because they feared to disobey. If they pleased her, +they prospered; if, on the contrary, they neglected or traversed her behests, +misfortune, small or great, fell on them and theirs. It was not detestation so +much as an indefinable terror that she excited. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning I went to see her. She was standing on the green outside her +cottage, and received me with the sullen grandeur of a throneless queen. I read +in her face that she recognized me, and that I was not unwelcome; but she stood +silent till I had opened my errand. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +The stern figure scarcely trembled, but her hand sought the support of the +door-post. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet,” said I, having a strange power given me of confronting +one, whom, nevertheless, in my secret soul I dreaded. +</p> + +<p> +“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:— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Her eyes distended, as if she were in a trance and saw the working of her +curse. Again I spoke:— +</p> + +<p> +“O, woman!” I said, “that best-beloved, standing accursed +before men, is your dead daughter’s child.” +</p> + +<p> +The life, the energy, the passion, came back to the eyes with which she pierced +through me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without another question or word, +she threw herself on the ground with fearful vehemence, and clutched at the +innocent daisies with convulsed hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Bone of my bone! flesh of my flesh! have I cursed thee—and art +thou accursed?” +</p> + +<p> +So she moaned, as she lay prostrate in her great agony. I stood aghast at my +own work. She did not hear my broken sentences; she asked no more, but the dumb +confirmation which my sad looks had given that one fact, that her curse rested +on her own daughter’s child. The fear grew on me lest she should die in +her strife of body and soul; and then might not Lucy remain under the spell as +long as she lived? +</p> + +<p> +Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming through the woodland path that led to +Bridget’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. +</p> + +<p> +“God help her!” murmured Lucy. “How she suffers!” +</p> + +<p> +At her desire we sought for water; but when we returned, Bridget had recovered +her wandering senses, and was kneeling with clasped hands before Lucy, gazing +at that sweet sad face as though her troubled nature drank in health and peace +from every moment’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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +All our endeavours were now directed to get Lucy back to the house where she +had tarried the night before. Mistress Clarke told me that, not hearing from me +(some letter must have miscarried), she had grown impatient and despairing, and +had urged Lucy to the enterprise of coming to seek her grandmother; not telling +her, indeed, of the dread reputation she possessed, or how we suspected her of +having so fearfully blighted that innocent girl; but, at the same time, hoping +much from the mysterious stirring of blood, which Mistress Clarke trusted in +for the removal of the curse. They had come, by a different route from that +which I had taken, to a village inn not far from Coldholme, only the night +before. This was the first interview between ancestress and descendant. +</p> + +<p> +All through the sultry noon I wandered along the tangled brush-wood of the old +neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a matter so complicated +and mysterious. Meeting a countryman, I asked my way to the nearest clergyman, +and went, hoping to obtain some counsel from him. But he proved to be a coarse +and common-minded man, giving no time or attention to the intricacies of a +case, but dashing out a strong opinion involving immediate action. For +instance, as soon as I named Bridget Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:— +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Such a one could give me no help. I rather drew back what I had already said; +and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him to several pots of +beer, in the village inn, to which we had adjourned for our conference at his +suggestion. I left him as soon as I could, and returned to Coldholme, shaping +my way past deserted Starkey Manor-house, and coming upon it by the back. At +that side were the oblong remains of the old moat, the waters of which lay +placid and motionless under the crimson rays of the setting sun; with the +forest-trees lying straight along each side, and their deep-green foliage +mirrored to blackness in the burnished surface of the moat below—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. +</p> + +<p> +“Is she there?” asked Bridget, hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +“No! Who? I am alone. You remember me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +She had taken hold of my arm, as if to secure herself some human companionship. +She shook all over with the slight, never-ceasing tremor of intense terror. I +told her my tale as I have told it you, sparing none of the details. +</p> + +<p> +How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had driven Lucy forth +from her father’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. +</p> + +<p> +“You love Mary’s child?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is she?” +</p> + +<p> +I eagerly caught at the idea that her presence was needed, in order that, by +some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be reversed. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go and bring her to you,” I exclaimed. Bridget tightened +her hold upon my arm. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning Lucy and I went to seek her, to bid her join her prayers with +ours. The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze. No human being was there: +the cross remained on the threshold, but Bridget was gone. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<p> +What was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself. As for Lucy, +she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon her. Her gentleness and +piety, under the pressure of so horrible a life, seemed over-passive to me. She +never complained. Mrs. Clarke complained more than ever. As for me, I was more +in love with the real Lucy than ever; but I shrunk from the false similitude +with an intensity proportioned to my love. I found out by instinct that Mrs. +Clarke had occasional temptations to leave Lucy. The good lady’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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy’s; and that was all—was +nothing. +</p> + +<p> +My uncle and I sat in the gloom of a London November evening, in our house in +Ormond Street. I was out of health, and felt as if I were in an inextricable +coil of misery. Lucy and I wrote to each other, but that was little; and we +dared not see each other for dread of the fearful Third, who had more than once +taken her place at our meetings. My uncle had, on the day I speak of, bidden +prayers to be put up on the ensuing Sabbath in many a church and meeting-house +in London, for one grievously tormented by an evil spirit. He had faith in +prayers—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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I had utterly +forgotten it; so I professed myself a complete stranger to him; while my +ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as much as it was in his nature +to hate anything, placed a chair for the visitor, and bade Anthony bring +glasses, and a fresh jug of claret. +</p> + +<p> +Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful ease and pleasant +acknowledgement which belongs to a man of the world. Then he turned to scan me +with his keen glance. After some alight conversation, entered into on his part, +I am certain, with an intention of discovering on what terms of confidence I +stood with my uncle, he paused, and said gravely— +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bridget Fitzgerald!” exclaimed I. “In Antwerp? Tell me, sir, +all that you can about her.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +There was something to me inexpressibly soothing in the tone of voice with +which he began to narrate, as it were from the beginning, his acquaintance with +Bridget. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not many months ago, as I was passing homewards in the evening, along +one of the streets near St. Jacques, leading into the Meer Straet, I saw a +woman sitting crouched up under the shrine of the Holy Mother of Sorrows. Her +hood was drawn over her head, so that the shadow caused by the light of the +lamp above fell deep over her face; her hands were clasped round her knees. It +was evident that she was some one in hopeless trouble, and as such it was my +duty to stop and speak. I naturally addressed her first in Flemish, believing +her to be one of the lower class of inhabitants. She shook her head, but did +not look up. Then I tried French, and she replied in that language, but +speaking it so indifferently, that I was sure she was either English or Irish, +and consequently spoke to her in my own native tongue. She recognized my voice; +and, starting up, caught at my robes, dragging me before the blessed shrine, +and throwing herself down, and forcing me, as much by her evident desire as by +her action, to kneel beside her, she exclaimed: +</p> + +<p> +“‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +“She turned to me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘She will hear you, if you will only pray. She never hears +<i>me</i>: she and all the saints in heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the +Evil One carries them off, as he carried that first away. O, Father Bernard, +pray for me!’ +</p> + +<p> +“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— +</p> + +<p> +“‘I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Arise, my daughter,’ said I, ‘and come with +me.’ And I led the way into one of the confessionals of St. Jaques. +</p> + +<p> +“She knelt; I listened. No words came. The evil powers had stricken her +dumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when she approached +confession. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +My uncle now spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The kindly, brave old man! But Father Bernard sat on musing. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Still tormented!” I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress +Clarke’s last letter.</p> +<p>He rose to go. We afterwards heard that the +occasion of his coming to London was a secret political mission on behalf of +the Jacobites. Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man. +</p> + +<p> +Months and months passed away without any change. Lucy entreated my uncle to +leave her where she was,—dreading, as I learnt, lest if she came, with +her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me, that my love could +not stand the repeated shocks to which I should be doomed. And this she thought +from no distrust of the strength of my affection, but from a kind of pitying +sympathy for the terror to the nerves which she clearly observed that the +demoniac visitation caused in all. +</p> + +<p> +I was restless and miserable. I devoted myself to good works; but I performed +them from no spirit of love, but solely from the hope of reward and payment, +and so the reward was never granted. At length, I asked my uncle’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. +</p> + +<p> +I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry for Father Bernard. He was away in the +country for a day or two. Then I asked my way to the Convent of Poor Clares; +but, being healthy and prosperous, I could only see the dim, pent-up, gray +walls, shut closely in by narrow streets, in the lowest part of the town. My +landlord told me, that had I been stricken by some loathsome disease, or in +desperate case of any kind, the Poor Clares would have taken me, and tended me. +He spoke of them as an order of mercy of the strictest kind, dressing scantily +in the coarsest materials, going barefoot, living on what the inhabitants of +Antwerp chose to bestow, and sharing even those fragments and crumbs with the +poor and helpless that swarmed all around; receiving no letters or +communication with the outer world; utterly dead to everything but the +alleviation of suffering. He smiled at my inquiring whether I could get speech +of one of them; and told me that they were even forbidden to speak for the +purposes of begging their daily food; while yet they lived, and fed others upon +what was given in charity. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” exclaimed I, “supposing all men forgot them! Would +they quietly lie down and die, without making sign of their extremity?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did not say +what I thought. I rather turned the conversation, by asking my landlord if he +knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain Sister Magdalen. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You never saw her?” asked I. +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in Antwerp. The +political state of things became worse than ever, increased to its height by +the scarcity of food consequent on many deficient harvests. I saw groups of +fierce, squalid men, at every corner of the street, glaring out with wolfish +eyes at my sleek skin and handsome clothes. +</p> + +<p> +At last Father Bernard returned. We had a long conversation, in which he told +me that, curiously enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy’s father, was serving in +one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at Antwerp. I asked Father +Bernard if he would make us acquainted; which he consented to do. But, a day or +two afterwards, he told me that, on hearing my name, Mr. Gisborne had declined +responding to any advances on my part, saying he had adjured his country, and +hated his countrymen. +</p> + +<p> +Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his daughter Lucy. +Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of making his acquaintance. +Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of the hidden fermentation, for +some coming evil, working among the “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. +</p> + +<p> +One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to an +Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral. +</p> + +<p> +“That is Mr. Gisborne,” said he, as soon as the gentleman was past. +</p> + +<p> +I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer. He carried himself +in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and from his years might +have had some excuse for a slight stoop. As I looked at the man, he turned +round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face. Deeply lined, sallow, and scathed +was that countenance; scarred by passion as well as by the fortunes of war. +’Twas but a moment our eyes met. We each turned round, and went on our +separate way. +</p> + +<p> +But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the thorough +appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on it, made but an +incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of his countenance. Because +he was Lucy’s father, I sought instinctively to meet him everywhere. At +last he must have become aware of my pertinacity, for he gave me a haughty +scowl whenever I passed him. In one of these encounters, however, I chanced to +be of some service to him. He was turning the corner of a street, and came +suddenly on one of the groups of discontented Flemings of whom I have spoken. +Some words were exchanged, when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a +slight but skilful cut drew blood from one of those who had insulted him, as he +fancied, though I was too far off to hear the words. They would all have fallen +upon him had I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, then well known in +Antwerp, of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who were perpetually patrolling the +streets, and who came in numbers to the rescue. I think that neither Mr. +Gisborne nor the mutinous group of plebeians owed me much gratitude for my +interference. He had planted himself against a wall, in a skilful attitude of +fence, ready with his bright glancing rapier to do battle with all the heavy, +fierce, unarmed men, some six or seven in number. But when his own soldiers +came up, he sheathed his sword; and, giving some careless word of command, sent +them away again, and continued his saunter all alone down the street, the +workmen snarling in his rear, and more than half-inclined to fall on me for my +cry for rescue. I cared not if they did, my life seemed so dreary a burden just +then; and, perhaps, it was this daring loitering among them that prevented +their attacking me. Instead, they suffered me to fall into conversation with +them; and I heard some of their grievances. Sore and heavy to be borne were +they, and no wonder the sufferers were savage and desperate. +</p> + +<p> +The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got out of me +the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it. Another of the group heard +his inquiry, and made answer—“I know the man. He is one Gisborne, +aide-de-camp to the General-Commandant. I know him well.” +</p> + +<p> +He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and muttering +voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excited their evil blood, +and which they evidently wished me not to hear, I sauntered away and back to my +lodgings. +</p> + +<p> +That night Antwerp was in open revolt. The inhabitants rose in rebellion +against their Austrian masters. The Austrians, holding the gates of the city, +remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel; only, from time to time, the +boom of the great cannon swept sullenly over the town. But if they expected the +disturbance to die away, and spend itself in a few hours’ 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Leave him to me!” said a low stern voice. “He is mine +enemy—mine for many years.” +</p> + +<p> +Those words were the last I heard. I myself was struck down by a bullet. I +remember nothing more for days. When I came to myself, I was at the extremity +of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit my strength. My landlord sat +watching me. He, too, looked pinched and shrunken; he had heard of my wounded +state, and sought me out. Yes! the struggle still continued, but the famine was +sore: and some, he had heard, had died for lack of food. The tears stood in his +eyes as he spoke. But soon he shook off his weakness, and his natural +cheerfulness returned. Father Bernard had been to see me—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. +</p> + +<p> +My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself: of what it was +composed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and with every mouthful I +seemed to gain strength. The good man sat looking at my evident enjoyment with +a happy smile of sympathy; but, as my appetite became satisfied, I began to +detect a certain wistfulness in his eyes, as if craving for the food I had so +nearly devoured—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!” +</p> + +<p> +He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into my hands, +bidding me follow. Down stairs he ran, clutching at more food, as the women of +his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a moment we were in the street, +moving along with the great current, all tending towards the Convent of the +Poor Clares. And still, as if piercing our ears with its inarticulate cry, came +the shrill tinkle of the bell. In that strange crowd were old men trembling and +sobbing, as they carried their little pittance of food; women with tears +running down their cheeks, who had snatched up what provisions they had in the +vessels in which they stood, so that the burden of these was in many cases much +greater than that which they contained; children, with flushed faces, grasping +tight the morsel of bitten cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it safe +to the help of the Poor Clares; strong men—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. +</p> + +<p> +We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and piteous faces: +they were issuing out of the convent to make way for the offerings of others. +“Haste, haste!” said they. “A Poor Clare is dying! A Poor +Clare is dead for hunger! God forgive us and our city!” +</p> + +<p> +We pressed on. The stream bore us along where it would. We were carried through +refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over whose doors the conventual +name of the occupant was written. Thus it was that I, with others, was forced +into Sister Magdalen’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.” +</p> + +<p> +Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like some +famished wild animal. For now it was no longer the sharp tinkle, but that one +solemn toll, which in all Christian countries tells of the passing of the +spirit out of earthly life into eternity; and again a murmur gathered and grew, +as of many people speaking with awed breath, “A Poor Clare is dying! a +Poor Clare is dead!” +</p> + +<p> +Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried into the +chapel belonging to the Poor Clares. On a bier before the high altar, lay a +woman—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. +</p> + +<p> +“She is freed from the curse!” said she, as she fell back dead. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POOR CLARE ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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. 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