CURIOUS, IF TRUE
STRANGE TALES
Mrs Gaskell
Contents
The Old Nurse's Story 1
The Poor Clare 26
Lois the Witch 88
The Grey Woman 187
Curious, if True 249
THE OLD NURSE'S STORY
You know, my dears, that your mother was an orphan, and an only child;
and I daresay you have heard that your grandfather was a clergyman up
in Westmoreland, where I come from. I was just a girl in the village
school, when, one day, your grandmother came in to ask the mistress if
there was any scholar there who would do for a nurse-maid; and mighty
proud I was, I can tell ye, when the mistress called me up, and spoke
of me being a good girl at my needle, and a steady, honest girl, and
one whose parents were very respectable, though they might be poor. I
thought I should like nothing better than to serve the pretty young
lady, who was blushing as deep as I was, as she spoke of the coming
baby, and what I should have to do with it. However, I see you don't
care so much for this part of my story, as for what you think is to
come, so I'll tell you at once. I was engaged and settled at the
parsonage before Miss Rosamond (that was the baby, who is now your
mother) was born. To be sure, I had little enough to do with her when
she came, for she was never out of her mother's arms, and slept by her
all night long; and proud enough was I sometimes when missis trusted
her to me. There never was such a baby before or since, though you've
all of you been fine enough in your turns; but for sweet, winning ways,
you've none of you come up to your mother. She took after her mother,
who was a real lady born; a Miss Furnivall, a grand-daughter of Lord
Furnivall's, in Northumberland. I believe she had neither brother nor
sister, and had been brought up in my lord's family till she had
married your grandfather, who was just a curate, son to a shopkeeper in
Carlisle--but a clever, fine gentleman as ever was--and one who was a
right-down hard worker in his parish, which was very wide, and
scattered all abroad over the Westmoreland Fells. When your mother,
little Miss Rosamond, was about four or five years old, both her
parents died in a fortnight--one after the other. Ah! that was a sad
time. My pretty young mistress and me was looking for another baby,
when my master came home from one of his long rides, wet and tired, and
took the fever he died of; and then she never held up her head again,
but just lived to see her dead baby, and have it laid on her breast,
before she sighed away her life. My mistress had asked me, on her
death-bed, never to leave Miss Rosamond; but if she had never spoken a
word, I would have gone with the little child to the end of the world.
The next thing, and before we had well stilled our sobs, the executors
and guardians came to settle the affairs. They were my poor young
mistress's own cousin, Lord Furnivall, and Mr. Esthwaite, my master's
brother, a shopkeeper in Manchester; not so well to do then as he was
afterwards, and with a large family rising about him. Well! I don't
know if it were their settling, or because of a letter my mistress
wrote on her death-bed to her cousin, my lord; but somehow it was
settled that Miss Rosamond and me were to go to Furnivall Manor House,
in Northumberland, and my lord spoke as if it had been her mother's
wish that she should live with his family, and as if he had no
objections, for that one or two more or less could make no difference
in so grand a household. So, though that was not the way in which I
should have wished the coming of my bright and pretty pet to have been
looked at--who was like a sunbeam in any family, be it never so
grand--I was well pleased that all the folks in the Dale should stare
and admire, when they heard I was going to be young lady's maid at my
Lord Furnivall's at Furnivall Manor.
But I made a mistake in thinking we were to go and live where my lord
did. It turned out that the family had left Furnivall Manor House fifty
years or more. I could not hear that my poor young mistress had never
been there, though she had been brought up in the family; and I was
sorry for that, for I should have liked Miss Rosamond's youth to have
passed where her mother's had been.
My lord's gentleman, from whom I asked as many questions as I durst,
said that the Manor House was at the foot of the Cumberland Fells, and
a very grand place; that an old Miss Furnivall, a great-aunt of my
lord's, lived there, with only a few servants; but that it was a very
healthy place, and my lord had thought that it would suit Miss Rosamond
very well for a few years, and that her being there might perhaps amuse
his old aunt.
I was bidden by my lord to have Miss Rosamond's things ready by a
certain day. He was a stern, proud man, as they say all the Lords
Furnivall were; and he never spoke a word more than was necessary. Folk
did say he had loved my young mistress; but that, because she knew that
his father would object, she would never listen to him, and married Mr.
Esthwaite; but I don't know. He never married, at any rate. But he
never took much notice of Miss Rosamond; which I thought he might have
done if he had cared for her dead mother. He sent his gentleman with us
to the Manor House, telling him to join him at Newcastle that same
evening; so there was no great length of time for him to make us known
to all the strangers before he, too, shook us off; and we were left,
two lonely young things (I was not eighteen) in the great old Manor
House. It seems like yesterday that we drove there. We had left our own
dear parsonage very early, and we had both cried as if our hearts would
break, though we were travelling in my lord's carriage, which I thought
so much of once. And now it was long past noon on a September day, and
we stopped to change horses for the last time at a little smoky town,
all full of colliers and miners. Miss Rosamond had fallen asleep, but
Mr. Henry told me to waken her, that she might see the park and the
Manor House as we drove up. I thought it rather a pity; but I did what
he bade me, for fear he should complain of me to my lord. We had left
all signs of a town, or even a village, and were then inside the gates
of a large wild park--not like the parks here in the south, but with
rocks, and the noise of running water, and gnarled thorn-trees, and old
oaks, all white and peeled with age.
The road went up about two miles, and then we saw a great and stately
house, with many trees close around it, so close that in some places
their branches dragged against the walls when the wind blew; and some
hung broken down; for no one seemed to take much charge of the
place;--to lop the wood, or to keep the moss-covered carriage-way in
order. Only in front of the house all was clear. The great oval drive
was without a weed; and neither tree nor creeper was allowed to grow
over the long, many-windowed front; at both sides of which a wing
protected, which were each the ends of other side fronts; for the
house, although it was so desolate, was even grander than I expected.
Behind it rose the Fells; which seemed unenclosed and bare enough; and
on the left hand of the house, as you stood facing it, was a little,
old-fashioned flower-garden, as I found out afterwards. A door opened
out upon it from the west front; it had been scooped out of the thick,
dark wood for some old Lady Furnivall; but the branches of the great
forest-trees had grown and overshadowed it again, and there were very
few flowers that would live there at that time.
When we drove up to the great front entrance, and went into the hall, I
thought we would be lost--it was so large, and vast and grand. There
was a chandelier all of bronze, hung down from the middle of the
ceiling; and I had never seen one before, and looked at it all in
amaze. Then, at one end of the hall, was a great fire-place, as large
as the sides of the houses in my country, with massy andirons and dogs
to hold the wood; and by it were heavy, old-fashioned sofas. At the
opposite end of the hall, to the left as you went in--on the western
side--was an organ built into the wall, and so large that it filled up
the best part of that end. Beyond it, on the same side, was a door; and
opposite, on each side of the fire-place, were also doors leading to
the east front; but those I never went through as long as I stayed in
the house, so I can't tell you what lay beyond.
The afternoon was closing in, and the hall, which had no fire lighted
in it, looked dark and gloomy, but we did not stay there a moment. The
old servant, who had opened the door for us, bowed to Mr. Henry, and
took us in through the door at the further side of the great organ, and
led us through several smaller halls and passages into the west
drawing-room, where he said that Miss Furnivall was sitting. Poor
little Miss Rosamond held very tight to me, as if she were scared and
lost in that great place; and as for myself, I was not much better. The
west drawing-room was very cheerful-looking, with a warm fire in it,
and plenty of good, comfortable furniture about. Miss Furnivall was an
old lady not far from eighty, I should think, but I do not know. She
was thin and tall, and had a face as full of fine wrinkles as if they
had been drawn all over it with a needle's point. Her eyes were very
watchful, to make up, I suppose, for her being so deaf as to be obliged
to use a trumpet. Sitting with her, working at the same great piece of
tapestry, was Mrs. Stark, her maid and companion, and almost as old as
she was. She had lived with Miss Furnivall ever since they both were
young, and now she seemed more like a friend than a servant; she looked
so cold, and grey, and stony, as if she had never loved or cared for
any one; and I don't suppose she did care for any one, except her
mistress; and, owing to the great deafness of the latter, Mrs. Stark
treated her very much as if she were a child. Mr. Henry gave some
message from my lord, and then he bowed good-by to us all,--taking no
notice of my sweet little Miss Rosamond's outstretched hand--and left
us standing there, being looked at by the two old ladies through their
spectacles.
I was right glad when they rung for the old footman who had shown us in
at first, and told him to take us to our rooms. So we went out of that
great drawing-room and into another sitting-room, and out of that, and
then up a great flight of stairs, and along a broad gallery--which was
something like a library, having books all down one side, and windows
and writing-tables all down the other--till we came to our rooms, which
I was not sorry to hear were just over the kitchens; for I began to
think I should be lost in that wilderness of a house. There was an old
nursery, that had been used for all the little lords and ladies long
ago, with a pleasant fire burning in the grate, and the kettle boiling
on the hob, and tea-things spread out on the table; and out of that
room was the night-nursery, with a little crib for Miss Rosamond close
to my bed. And old James called up Dorothy, his wife, to bid us
welcome; and both he and she were so hospitable and kind, that
by-and-by Miss Rosamond and me felt quite at home; and by the time tea
was over, she was sitting on Dorothy's knee, and chattering away as
fast as her little tongue could go. I soon found out that Dorothy was
from Westmoreland, and that bound her and me together, as it were; and
I would never wish to meet with kinder people than were old James and
his wife. James had lived pretty nearly all his life in my lord's
family, and thought there was no one so grand as they. He even looked
down a little on his wife; because, till he had married her, she had
never lived in any but a farmer's household. But he was very fond of
her, as well he might be. They had one servant under them, to do all
the rough work. Agnes they called her; and she and me, and James and
Dorothy, with Miss Furnivall and Mrs. Stark, made up the family; always
remembering my sweet little Miss Rosamond! I used to wonder what they
had done before she came, they thought so much of her now. Kitchen and
drawing-room, it was all the same. The hard, sad Miss Furnivall, and
the cold Mrs. Stark, looked pleased when she came fluttering in like a
bird, playing and pranking hither and thither, with a continual murmur,
and pretty prattle of gladness. I am sure, they were sorry many a time
when she flitted away into the kitchen, though they were too proud to
ask her to stay with them, and were a little surprised at her taste;
though to be sure, as Mrs. Stark said, it was not to be wondered at,
remembering what stock her father had come of. The great, old rambling
house was a famous place for little Miss Rosamond. She made expeditions
all over it, with me at her heels; all, except the east wing, which was
never opened, and whither we never thought of going. But in the western
and northern part was many a pleasant room; full of things that were
curiosities to us, though they might not have been to people who had
seen more. The windows were darkened by the sweeping boughs of the
trees, and the ivy which had overgrown them; but, in the green gloom,
we could manage to see old china jars and carved ivory boxes, and great
heavy books, and, above all, the old pictures!
Once, I remember, my darling would have Dorothy go with us to tell us
who they all were; for they were all portraits of some of my lord's
family, though Dorothy could not tell us the names of every one. We had
gone through most of the rooms, when we came to the old state
drawing-room over the hall, and there was a picture of Miss Furnivall;
or, as she was called in those days, Miss Grace, for she was the
younger sister. Such a beauty she must have been! but with such a set,
proud look, and such scorn looking out of her handsome eyes, with her
eyebrows just a little raised, as if she wondered how anyone could have
the impertinence to look at her, and her lip curled at us, as we stood
there gazing. She had a dress on, the like of which I had never seen
before, but it was all the fashion when she was young; a hat of some
soft white stuff like beaver, pulled a little over her brows, and a
beautiful plume of feathers sweeping round it on one side; and her gown
of blue satin was open in front to a quilted white stomacher.
'Well, to be sure!' said I, when I had gazed my fill. 'Flesh is grass,
they do say; but who would have thought that Miss Furnivall had been
such an out-and-out beauty, to see her now.'
'Yes,' said Dorothy. 'Folks change sadly. But if what my master's
father used to say was true, Miss Furnivall, the elder sister, was
handsomer than Miss Grace. Her picture is here somewhere; but, if I
show it you, you must never let on, even to James, that you have seen
it. Can the little lady hold her tongue, think you?' asked she.
I was not so sure, for she was such a little sweet, bold, open-spoken
child, so I set her to hide herself; and then I helped Dorothy to turn
a great picture, that leaned with its face towards the wall, and was
not hung up as the others were. To be sure, it beat Miss Grace for
beauty; and, I think, for scornful pride, too, though in that matter it
might be hard to choose. I could have looked at it an hour, but Dorothy
seemed half frightened at having shown it to me, and hurried it back
again, and bade me run and find Miss Rosamond, for that there were some
ugly places about the house, where she should like ill for the child to
go. I was a brave, high-spirited girl, and thought little of what the
old woman said, for I liked hide-and-seek as well as any child in the
parish; so off I ran to find my little one.
As winter drew on, and the days grew shorter, I was sometimes almost
certain that I heard a noise as if someone was playing on the great
organ in the hall. I did not hear it every evening; but, certainly, I
did very often, usually when I was sitting with Miss Rosamond, after I
had put her to bed, and keeping quite still and silent in the bedroom.
Then I used to hear it booming and swelling away in the distance. The
first night, when I went down to my supper, I asked Dorothy who had
been playing music, and James said very shortly that I was a gowk to
take the wind soughing among the trees for music; but I saw Dorothy
look at him very fearfully, and Bessy, the kitchen-maid, said something
beneath her breath, and went quite white. I saw they did not like my
question, so I held my peace till I was with Dorothy alone, when I knew
I could get a good deal out of her. So, the next day, I watched my
time, and I coaxed and asked her who it was that played the organ; for
I knew that it was the organ and not the wind well enough, for all I
had kept silence before James. But Dorothy had had her lesson, I'll
warrant, and never a word could I get from her. So then I tried Bessy,
though I had always held my head rather above her, as I was evened to
James and Dorothy, and she was little better than their servant. So she
said I must never, never tell; and if ever I told, I was never to say
_she_ had told me; but it was a very strange noise, and she had heard
it many a time, but most of all on winter nights, and before storms;
and folks did say it was the old lord playing on the great organ in the
hall, just as he used to do when he was alive; but who the old lord
was, or why he played, and why he played on stormy winter evenings in
particular, she either could not or would not tell me. Well! I told you
I had a brave heart; and I thought it was rather pleasant to have that
grand music rolling about the house, let who would be the player; for
now it rose above the great gusts of wind, and wailed and triumphed
just like a living creature, and then it fell to a softness most
complete, only it was always music, and tunes, so it was nonsense to
call it the wind. I thought at first, that it might be Miss Furnivall
who played, unknown to Bessy; but one day, when I was in the hall by
myself, I opened the organ and peeped all about it and around it, as I
had done to the organ in Crosthwaite church once before, and I saw it
was all broken and destroyed inside, though it looked so brave and
fine; and then, though it was noon-day, my flesh began to creep a
little, and I shut it up, and run away pretty quickly to my own bright
nursery; and I did not like hearing the music for some time after that,
any more than James and Dorothy did. All this time Miss Rosamond was
making herself more and more beloved. The old ladies liked her to dine
with them at their early dinner. James stood behind Miss Furnivall's
chair, and I behind Miss Rosamond's all in state; and after dinner, she
would play about in a corner of the great drawing-room as still as any
mouse, while Miss Furnivall slept, and I had my dinner in the kitchen.
But she was glad enough to come to me in the nursery afterwards; for,
as she said, Miss Furnivall was so sad, and Mrs. Stark so dull; but she
and I were merry enough; and by-and-by, I got not to care for that
weird rolling music, which did one no harm, if we did not know where it
came from.
That winter was very cold. In the middle of October the frosts began,
and lasted many, many weeks. I remember one day, at dinner, Miss
Furnivall lifted up her sad, heavy eyes, and said to Mrs. Stark, 'I am
afraid we shall have a terrible winter,' in a strange kind of meaning
way. But Mrs. Stark pretended not to hear, and talked very loud of
something else. My little lady and I did not care for the frost; not
we! As long as it was dry, we climbed up the steep brows behind the
house, and went up on the Fells, which were bleak and bare enough, and
there we ran races in the fresh, sharp air; and once we came down by a
new path, that took us past the two old gnarled holly-trees, which grew
about half-way down by the east side of the house. But the days grew
shorter and shorter, and the old lord, if it was he, played away, more
and more stormily and sadly, on the great organ. One Sunday
afternoon--it must have been towards the end of November--I asked
Dorothy to take charge of little missy when she came out of the
drawing-room, after Miss Furnivall had had her nap; for it was too cold
to take her with me to church, and yet I wanted to go. And Dorothy was
glad enough to promise, and was so fond of the child, that all seemed
well; and Bessy and I set off very briskly, though the sky hung heavy
and black over the white earth, as if the night had never fully gone
away, and the air, though still, was very biting and keen.
'We shall have a fall of snow,' said Bessy to me. And sure enough, even
while we were in church, it came down thick, in great large flakes,--so
thick, it almost darkened the windows. It had stopped snowing before we
came out, but it lay soft, thick and deep beneath our feet, as we
tramped home. Before we got to the hall, the moon rose, and I think it
was lighter then--what with the moon, and what with the white dazzling
snow--than it had been when we went to church, between two and three
o'clock. I have not told you that Miss Furnivall and Mrs. Stark never
went to church; they used to read the prayers together, in their quiet,
gloomy way; they seemed to feel the Sunday very long without their
tapestry-work to be busy at. So when I went to Dorothy in the kitchen,
to fetch Miss Rosamond and take her upstairs with me, I did not much
wonder when the old woman told me that the ladies had kept the child
with them, and that she had never come to the kitchen, as I had bidden
her, when she was tired of behaving pretty in the drawing-room. So I
took off my things and went to find her, and bring her to her supper in
the nursery. But when I went into the best drawing-room, there sat the
two old ladies, very still and quiet, dropping out a word now and then,
but looking as if nothing so bright and merry as Miss Rosamond had ever
been near them. Still I thought she might be hiding from me; it was one
of her pretty ways,--and that she had persuaded them to look as if they
knew nothing about her; so I went softly peeping under this sofa, and
behind that chair, making believe I was sadly frightened at not finding
her.
'What's the matter, Hester?' said Mrs. Stark, sharply. I don't know if
Miss Furnivall had seen me, for, as I told you, she was very deaf, and
she sat quite still, idly staring into the fire, with her hopeless
face. 'I'm only looking for my little Rosy Posy,' replied I, still
thinking that the child was there, and near me, though I could not see
her.
'Miss Rosamond is not here,' said Mrs. Stark. 'She went away, more than
an hour ago, to find Dorothy.' And she, too, turned and went on looking
into the fire.
My heart sank at this, and I began to wish I had never left my darling.
I went back to Dorothy and told her. James was gone out for the day,
but she, and me, and Bessy took lights, and went up into the nursery
first; and then we roamed over the great, large house, calling and
entreating Miss Rosamond to come out of her hiding-place, and not
frighten us to death in that way. But there was no answer; no sound.
'Oh!' said I, at last, 'can she have got into the east wing and hidden
there?'
But Dorothy said it was not possible, for that she herself had never
been in there; that the doors were always locked, and my lord's steward
had the keys, she believed; at any rate, neither she nor James had ever
seen them: so I said I would go back, and see if, after all, she was
not hidden in the drawing-room, unknown to the old ladies; and if I
found her there, I said, I would whip her well for the fright she had
given me; but I never meant to do it. Well, I went back to the west
drawing-room, and I told Mrs. Stark we could not find her anywhere, and
asked for leave to look all about the furniture there, for I thought
now that she might have fallen asleep in some warm, hidden corner; but
no! we looked--Miss Furnivall got up and looked, trembling all
over--and she was nowhere there; then we set off again, every one in
the house, and looked in all the places we had searched before, but we
could not find her. Miss Furnivall shivered and shook so much, that
Mrs. Stark took her back into the warm drawing-room; but not before
they had made me promise to bring her to them when she was found.
Well-a-day! I began to think she never would be found, when I bethought
me to look into the great front court, all covered with snow. I was
upstairs when I looked out; but, it was such clear moonlight, I could
see, quite plain, two little footprints, which might be traced from the
hall-door and round the corner of the east wing. I don't know how I got
down, but I tugged open the great stiff hall-door, and, throwing the
skirt of my gown over my head for a cloak, I ran out. I turned the east
corner, and there a black shadow fell on the snow; but when I came
again into the moonlight, there were the little foot-marks going up--up
to the Fells. It was bitter cold; so cold, that the air almost took the
skin off my face as I ran; but I ran on crying to think how my poor
little darling must be perished and frightened. I was within sight of
the holly-trees, when I saw a shepherd coming down the hill, bearing
something in his arms wrapped in his maud. He shouted to me, and asked
me if I had lost a bairn; and, when I could not speak for crying, he
bore towards me, and I saw my wee bairnie, lying still, and white, and
stiff in his arms, as if she had been dead. He told me he had been up
the Fells to gather in his sheep, before the deep cold of night came
on, and that under the holly-trees (black marks on the hill-side, where
no other bush was for miles around) he had found my little lady--my
lamb--my queen--my darling--stiff and cold in the terrible sleep which
is frost-begotten. Oh! the joy and the tears of having her in my arms
once again! for I would not let him carry her; but took her, maud and
all, into my own arms, and held her near my own warm neck and heart,
and felt the life stealing slowly back again into her little gentle
limbs. But she was still insensible when we reached the hall, and I had
no breath for speech. We went in by the kitchen-door.
'Bring me the warming-pan,' said I; and I carried her upstairs and
began undressing her by the nursery fire, which Bessy had kept up. I
called my little lammie all the sweet and playful names I could think
of,--even while my eyes were blinded by my tears; and at last, oh! at
length she opened her large blue eyes. Then I put her into her warm
bed, and sent Dorothy down to tell Miss Furnivall that all was well;
and I made up my mind to sit by my darling's bedside the live-long
night. She fell away into a soft sleep as soon as her pretty head had
touched the pillow, and I watched by her till morning light; when she
wakened up bright and clear--or so I thought at first--and, my dears,
so I think now.
She said, that she had fancied that she should like to go to Dorothy,
for that both the old ladies were asleep, and it was very dull in the
drawing-room; and that, as she was going through the west lobby, she
saw the snow through the high window falling--falling--soft and steady;
but she wanted to see it lying pretty and white on the ground; so she
made her way into the great hall; and then, going to the window, she
saw it bright and soft upon the drive; but while she stood there, she
saw a little girl, not so old as she was, 'but so pretty,' said my
darling, 'and this little girl beckoned to me to come out; and oh, she
was so pretty and so sweet, I could not choose but go.' And then this
other little girl had taken her by the hand, and side by side the two
had gone round the east corner.
'Now you are a naughty little girl, and telling stories,' said I. 'What
would your good mamma, that is in heaven, and never told a story in her
life, say to her little Rosamond, if she heard her--and I daresay she
does--telling stories!'
'Indeed, Hester,' sobbed out my child, 'I'm telling you true. Indeed I
am.'
'Don't tell me!' said I, very stern. 'I tracked you by your foot-marks
through the snow; there were only yours to be seen: and if you had had
a little girl to go hand-in-hand with you up the hill, don't you think
the footprints would have gone along with yours?'
'I can't help it, dear, dear Hester,' said she, crying, 'if they did
not; I never looked at her feet, but she held my hand fast and tight in
her little one, and it was very, very cold. She took me up the
Fell-path, up to the holly-trees; and there I saw a lady weeping and
crying; but when she saw me, she hushed her weeping, and smiled very
proud and grand, and took me on her knee, and began to lull me to
sleep; and that's all, Hester--but that is true; and my dear mamma
knows it is,' said she, crying. So I thought the child was in a fever,
and pretended to believe her, as she went over her story--over and over
again, and always the same. At last Dorothy knocked at the door with
Miss Rosamond's breakfast; and she told me the old ladies were down in
the eating parlour, and that they wanted to speak to me. They had both
been into the night-nursery the evening before, but it was after Miss
Rosamond was asleep; so they had only looked at her--not asked me any
questions.
'I shall catch it,' thought I to myself, as I went along the north
gallery. 'And yet,' I thought, taking courage, 'it was in their charge
I left her; and it's they that's to blame for letting her steal away
unknown and unwatched.' So I went in boldly, and told my story. I told
it all to Miss Furnivall, shouting it close to her ear; but when I came
to the mention of the other little girl out in the snow, coaxing and
tempting her out, and willing her up to the grand and beautiful lady by
the holly-tree, she threw her arms up--her old and withered arms--and
cried aloud, 'Oh! Heaven forgive! Have mercy!'
Mrs. Stark took hold of her; roughly enough, I thought; but she was
past Mrs. Stark's management, and spoke to me, in a kind of wild
warning and authority.
'Hester! keep her from that child! It will lure her to her death! That
evil child! Tell her it is a wicked, naughty child.' Then, Mrs. Stark
hurried me out of the room; where, indeed, I was glad enough to go; but
Miss Furnivall kept shrieking out, 'Oh, have mercy! Wilt Thou never
forgive! It is many a long year ago----'
I was very uneasy in my mind after that. I durst never leave Miss
Rosamond, night or day, for fear lest she might slip off again, after
some fancy or other; and all the more, because I thought I could make
out that Miss Furnivall was crazy, from their odd ways about her; and I
was afraid lest something of the same kind (which might be in the
family, you know) hung over my darling. And the great frost never
ceased all this time; and, whenever it was a more stormy night than
usual, between the gusts, and through the wind, we heard the old lord
playing on the great organ. But, old lord, or not, wherever Miss
Rosamond went, there I followed; for my love for her, pretty, helpless
orphan, was stronger than my fear for the grand and terrible sound.
Besides, it rested with me to keep her cheerful and merry, as beseemed
her age. So we played together, and wandered together, here and there,
and everywhere; for I never dared to lose sight of her again in that
large and rambling house. And so it happened, that one afternoon, not
long before Christmas-day, we were playing together on the
billiard-table in the great hall (not that we knew the right way of
playing, but she liked to roll the smooth ivory balls with her pretty
hands, and I liked to do whatever she did); and, by-and-by, without our
noticing it, it grew dusk indoors, though it was still light in the
open air, and I was thinking of taking her back into the nursery, when,
all of a sudden, she cried out,
'Look, Hester! look! there is my poor little girl out in the snow!'
I turned towards the long narrow windows, and there, sure enough, I saw
a little girl, less than my Miss Rosamond--dressed all unfit to be
out-of-doors such a bitter night--crying, and beating against the
window-panes, as if she wanted to be let in. She seemed to sob and
wail, till Miss Rosamond could bear it no longer, and was flying to the
door to open it, when, all of a sudden, and close upon us, the great
organ pealed out so loud and thundering, it fairly made me tremble; and
all the more, when I remembered me that, even in the stillness of that
dead-cold weather, I had heard no sound of little battering hands upon
the windowglass, although the phantom child had seemed to put forth all
its force; and, although I had seen it wail and cry, no faintest touch
of sound had fallen upon my ears. Whether I remembered all this at the
very moment, I do not know; the great organ sound had so stunned me
into terror; but this I know, I caught up Miss Rosamond before she got
the hall-door opened, and clutched her, and carried her away, kicking
and screaming, into the large, bright kitchen, where Dorothy and Agnes
were busy with their mince-pies.
'What is the matter with my sweet one?' cried Dorothy, as I bore in
Miss Rosamond, who was sobbing as if her heart would break.
'She won't let me open the door for my little girl to come in; and
she'll die if she is out on the Fells all night. Cruel, naughty
Hester,' she said, slapping me; but she might have struck harder, for I
had seen a look of ghastly terror on Dorothy's face, which made my very
blood run cold.
'Shut the back-kitchen door fast, and bolt it well,' said she to Agnes.
She said no more; she gave me raisins and almonds to quiet Miss
Rosamond; but she sobbed about the little girl in the snow, and would
not touch any of the good things. I was thankful when she cried herself
to sleep in bed. Then I stole down to the kitchen, and told Dorothy I
had made up my mind. I would carry my darling back to my father's house
in Applethwaite; where, if we lived humbly, we lived at peace. I said I
had been frightened enough with the old lord's organ-playing; but now
that I had seen for myself this little moaning child, all decked out as
no child in the neighbourhood could be, beating and battering to get
in, yet always without any sound or noise--with the dark wound on its
right shoulder; and that Miss Rosamond had known it again for the
phantom that had nearly lured her to her death (which Dorothy knew was
true); I would stand it no longer.
I saw Dorothy change colour once or twice. When I had done, she told me
she did not think I could take Miss Rosamond with me, for that she was
my lord's ward, and I had no right over her; and she asked me would I
leave the child that I was so fond of just for sounds and sights that
could do me no harm; and that they had all had to get used to in their
turns? I was all in a hot, trembling passion; and I said it was very
well for her to talk; that knew what these sights and noises betokened,
and that had, perhaps, had something to do with the spectre child while
it was alive. And I taunted her so, that she told me all she knew at
last; and then I wished I had never been told, for it only made me more
afraid than ever.
She said she had heard the tale from old neighbours that were alive
when she was first married; when folks used to come to the hall
sometimes, before it had got such a bad name on the country side: it
might not be true, or it might, what she had been told.
The old lord was Miss Furnivall's father--Miss Grace, as Dorothy called
her, for Miss Maude was the elder, and Miss Furnivall by rights. The
old lord was eaten up with pride. Such a proud man was never seen or
heard of; and his daughters were like him. No one was good enough to
wed them, although they had choice enough; for they were the great
beauties of their day, as I had seen by their portraits, where they
hung in the state drawing-room. But, as the old saying is, 'Pride will
have a fall;' and these two haughty beauties fell in love with the same
man, and he no better than a foreign musician, whom their father had
down from London to play music with him at the Manor House. For, above
all things, next to his pride, the old lord loved music. He could play
on nearly every instrument that ever was heard of, and it was a strange
thing it did not soften him; but he was a fierce dour old man, and had
broken his poor wife's heart with his cruelty, they said. He was mad
after music, and would pay any money for it. So he got this foreigner
to come; who made such beautiful music, that they said the very birds
on the trees stopped their singing to listen. And, by degrees, this
foreign gentleman got such a hold over the old lord, that nothing would
serve him but that he must come every year; and it was he that had the
great organ brought from Holland, and built up in the hall, where it
stood now. He taught the old lord to play on it; but many and many a
time, when Lord Furnivall was thinking of nothing but his fine organ,
and his finer music, the dark foreigner was walking abroad in the woods
with one of the young ladies; now Miss Maude, and then Miss Grace.
Miss Maude won the day and carried off the prize, such as it was; and
he and she were married, all unknown to any one; and before he made his
next yearly visit, she had been confined of a little girl at a
farm-house on the Moors, while her father and Miss Grace thought she
was away at Doncaster Races. But though she was a wife and a mother,
she was not a bit softened, but as haughty and as passionate as ever;
and perhaps more so, for she was jealous of Miss Grace, to whom her
foreign husband paid a deal of court--by way of blinding her--as he
told his wife. But Miss Grace triumphed over Miss Maude, and Miss Maude
grew fiercer and fiercer, both with her husband and with her sister;
and the former--who could easily shake off what was disagreeable, and
hide himself in foreign countries--went away a month before his usual
time that summer, and half-threatened that he would never come back
again. Meanwhile, the little girl was left at the farm-house, and her
mother used to have her horse saddled and gallop wildly over the hills
to see her once every week, at the very least; for where she loved she
loved, and where she hated she hated. And the old lord went on
playing--playing on his organ; and the servants thought the sweet music
he made had soothed down his awful temper, of which (Dorothy said) some
terrible tales could be told. He grew infirm too, and had to walk with
a crutch; and his son--that was the present Lord Furnivall's
father--was with the army in America, and the other son at sea; so Miss
Maude had it pretty much her own way, and she and Miss Grace grew
colder and bitterer to each other every day; till at last they hardly
ever spoke, except when the old lord was by. The foreign musician came
again the next summer, but it was for the last time; for they led him
such a life with their jealousy and their passions, that he grew weary,
and went away, and never was heard of again. And Miss Maude, who had
always meant to have her marriage acknowledged when her father should
be dead, was left now a deserted wife, whom nobody knew to have been
married, with a child that she dared not own, although she loved it to
distraction; living with a father whom she feared, and a sister whom
she hated. When the next summer passed over, and the dark foreigner
never came, both Miss Maude and Miss Grace grew gloomy and sad; they
had a haggard look about them, though they looked handsome as ever.
But, by-and-by, Maude brightened; for her father grew more and more
infirm, and more than ever carried away by his music; and she and Miss
Grace lived almost entirely apart, having separate rooms, the one on
the west side, Miss Maude on the east--those very rooms which were now
shut up. So she thought she might have her little girl with her, and no
one need ever know except those who dared not speak about it, and were
bound to believe that it was, as she said, a cottager's child she had
taken a fancy to. All this, Dorothy said, was pretty well known; but
what came afterwards no one knew, except Miss Grace and Mrs. Stark, who
was even then her maid, and much more of a friend to her than ever her
sister had been. But the servants supposed, from words that were
dropped, that Miss Maude had triumphed over Miss Grace, and told her
that all the time the dark foreigner had been mocking her with
pretended love--he was her own husband. The colour left Miss Grace's
cheek and lips that very day for ever, and she was heard to say many a
time that sooner or later she would have her revenge; and Mrs. Stark
was for ever spying about the east rooms.
One fearful night, just after the New Year had come in, when the snow
was lying thick and deep; and the flakes were still falling--fast
enough to blind any one who might be out and abroad--there was a great
and violent noise heard, and the old lord's voice above all, cursing
and swearing awfully, and the cries of a little child, and the proud
defiance of a fierce woman, and the sound of a blow, and a dead
stillness, and moans and wailings dying away on the hill-side! Then the
old lord summoned all his servants, and told them, with terrible oaths,
and words more terrible, that his daughter had disgraced herself, and
that he had turned her out of doors--her, and her child--and that if
ever they gave her help, or food, or shelter, he prayed that they might
never enter heaven. And, all the while, Miss Grace stood by him, white
and still as any stone; and, when he had ended, she heaved a great
sigh, as much as to say her work was done, and her end was
accomplished. But the old lord never touched his organ again, and died
within the year; and no wonder! for, on the morrow of that wild and
fearful night, the shepherds, coming down the Fell side, found Miss
Maude sitting, all crazy and smiling, under the holly-trees, nursing a
dead child, with a terrible mark on its right shoulder. 'But that was
not what killed it,' said Dorothy: 'it was the frost and the cold.
Every wild creature was in its hole, and every beast in its fold, while
the child and its mother were turned out to wander on the Fells! And
now you know all! and I wonder if you are less frightened now?'
I was more frightened than ever; but I said I was not. I wished Miss
Rosamond and myself well out of that dreadful house for ever; but I
would not leave her, and I dared not take her away. But oh, how I
watched her, and guarded her! We bolted the doors, and shut the
window-shutters fast, an hour or more before dark, rather than leave
them open five minutes too late. But my little lady still heard the
weird child crying and mourning; and not all we could do or say could
keep her from wanting to go to her, and let her in from the cruel wind
and the snow. All this time I kept away from Miss Furnivall and Mrs.
Stark, as much as ever I could; for I feared them--I knew no good could
be about them, with their grey, hard faces, and their dreamy eyes,
looking back into the ghastly years that were gone. But, even in my
fear, I had a kind of pity for Miss Furnivall, at least. Those gone
down to the pit can hardly have a more hopeless look than that which
was ever on her face. At last I even got so sorry for her--who never
said a word but what was quite forced from her--that I prayed for her;
and I taught Miss Rosamond to pray for one who had done a deadly sin;
but often when she came to those words, she would listen, and start up
from her knees, and say, 'I hear my little girl plaining and crying
very sad--oh, let her in, or she will die!'
One night--just after New Year's Day had come at last, and the long
winter had taken a turn, as I hoped--I heard the west drawing-room bell
ring three times, which was the signal for me. I would not leave Miss
Rosamond alone, for all she was asleep--for the old lord had been
playing wilder than ever--and I feared lest my darling should waken to
hear the spectre child; see her, I knew she could not. I had fastened
the windows too well for that. So I took her out of her bed, and
wrapped her up in such outer clothes as were most handy, and carried
her down to the drawing-room, where the old ladies sat at their
tapestry-work as usual. They looked up when I came in, and Mrs. Stark
asked, quite astounded, 'Why did I bring Miss Rosamond there, out of
her warm bed?' I had begun to whisper, 'Because I was afraid of her
being tempted out while I was away, by the wild child in the snow,'
when she stopped me short (with a glance at Miss Furnivall), and said
Miss Furnivall wanted me to undo some work she had done wrong, and
which neither of them could see to unpick. So I laid my pretty dear on
the sofa, and sat down on a stool by them, and hardened my heart
against them, as I heard the wind rising and howling.
Miss Rosamond slept on sound, for all the wind blew so Miss Furnivall
said never a word, nor looked round when the gusts shook the windows.
All at once she started up to her full height, and put up one hand, as
if to bid us to listen.
'I hear voices!' said she. 'I hear terrible screams--I hear my father's
voice!'
Just at that moment my darling wakened with a sudden start: 'My little
girl is crying, oh, how she is crying!' and she tried to get up and go
to her, but she got her feet entangled in the blanket, and I caught her
up; for my flesh had begun to creep at these noises, which they heard
while we could catch no sound. In a minute or two the noises came, and
gathered fast, and filled our ears; we, too, heard voices and screams,
and no longer heard the winter's wind that raged abroad. Mrs. Stark
looked at me, and I at her, but we dared not speak. Suddenly Miss
Furnivall went towards the door, out into the ante-room, through the
west lobby, and opened the door into the great hall. Mrs. Stark
followed, and I durst not be left, though my heart almost stopped
beating for fear. I wrapped my darling tight in my arms, and went out
with them. In the hall the screams were louder than ever; they seemed
to come from the east wing--nearer and nearer--close on the other side
of the locked-up doors--close behind them. Then I noticed that the
great bronze chandelier seemed all alight, though the hall was dim, and
that a fire was blazing in the vast hearth-place, though it gave no
heat; and I shuddered up with terror, and folded my darling closer to
me. But as I did so the east door shook, and she, suddenly struggling
to get free from me, cried, 'Hester! I must go. My little girl is
there! I hear her; she is coming! Hester, I must go!'
I held her tight with all my strength; with a set will, I held her. If
I had died, my hands would have grasped her still, I was so resolved in
my mind. Miss Furnivall stood listening, and paid no regard to my
darling, who had got down to the ground, and whom I, upon my knees now,
was holding with both my arms clasped round her neck; she still
striving and crying to get free.
All at once, the east door gave way with a thundering crash, as if torn
open in a violent passion, and there came into that broad and
mysterious light, the figure of a tall old man, with grey hair and
gleaming eyes. He drove before him, with many a relentless gesture of
abhorrence, a stern and beautiful woman, with a little child clinging
to her dress.
'Oh, Hester! Hester!' cried Miss Rosamond; 'it's the lady! the lady
below the holly-trees; and my little girl is with her. Hester! Hester!
let me go to her; they are drawing me to them. I feel them--I feel
them. I must go!'
Again she was almost convulsed by her efforts to get away; but I held
her tighter and tighter, till I feared I should do her a hurt; but
rather that than let her go towards those terrible phantoms. They
passed along towards the great hall-door, where the winds howled and
ravened for their prey; but before they reached that, the lady turned;
and I could see that she defied the old man with a fierce and proud
defiance; but then she quailed--and then she threw up her arms wildly
and piteously to save her child--her little child--from a blow from his
uplifted crutch.
And Miss Rosamond was torn as by a power stronger than mine and writhed
in my arms, and sobbed (for by this time the poor darling was growing
faint).
'They want me to go with them on to the Fells--they are drawing me to
them. Oh, my little girl! I would come, but cruel, wicked Hester holds
me very tight.' But when she saw the uplifted crutch, she swooned away,
and I thanked God for it. Just at this moment--when the tall old man,
his hair streaming as in the blast of a furnace, was going to strike
the little shrinking child--Miss Furnivall, the old woman by my side,
cried out, 'Oh father! father! spare the little innocent child!' But
just then I saw--we all saw--another phantom shape itself, and grow
clear out of the blue and misty light that filled the hall; we had not
seen her till now, for it was another lady who stood by the old man,
with a look of relentless hate and triumphant scorn. That figure was
very beautiful to look upon, with a soft, white hat drawn down over the
proud brows, and a red and curling lip. It was dressed in an open robe
of blue satin. I had seen that figure before. It was the likeness of
Miss Furnivall in her youth; and the terrible phantoms moved on,
regardless of old Miss Furnivall's wild entreaty,--and the uplifted
crutch fell on the right shoulder of the little child, and the younger
sister looked on, stony, and deadly serene. But at that moment, the dim
lights, and the fire that gave no heat, went out of themselves, and
Miss Furnivall lay at our feet stricken down by the palsy--death-stricken.
Yes! she was carried to her bed that night never to rise again. She lay
with her face to the wall, muttering low, but muttering always: 'Alas!
alas! what is done in youth can never be undone in age! What is done in
youth can never be undone in age!'
THE POOR CLARE
Chapter 1
December 12th, 1747.--My life has been strangely bound up with
extraordinary incidents, some of which occurred before I had any
connection with the principal actors in them, or, indeed, before I even
knew of their existence. I suppose, most old men are, like me, more
given to looking back upon their own career with a kind of fond
interest and affectionate remembrance, than to watching the
events--though these may have far more interest for the
multitude--immediately passing before their eyes. If this should be the
case with the generality of old people, how much more so with me!... If
I am to enter upon that strange story connected with poor Lucy, I must
begin a long way back. I myself only came to the knowledge of her
family history after I knew her; but, to make the tale clear to any one
else, I must arrange events in the order in which they occurred--not
that in which I became acquainted with them.
There is a great old hall in the north-east of Lancashire, in a part
they call the Trough of Bolland, adjoining that other district named
Craven. Starkey Manor-House is rather like a number of rooms clustered
round a grey, massive, old keep than a regularly-built hall. Indeed, I
suppose that the house only consisted of the 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 grey
giant of an ancient forest-tree would tower here and there, throwing up
its ghastly white branches, as if in imprecation, to the sky. These
trees, they told me, were the remnants of that forest which existed in
the days of the Heptarchy, and were even then noted as landmarks. No
wonder that their upper and more exposed branches were leafless, and
that the dead bark had peeled away, from sapless old age.
Not far from the house there were a few cottages, apparently of the
same date as the keep, probably built for some retainers of the family,
who sought shelter--they and their families and their small flocks and
herds--at the hands of their feudal lord. Some of them had pretty much
fallen to decay. They were built in a strange fashion. Strong beams had
been sunk firm in the ground at the requisite distance, and their other
ends had been fastened together, two and two, so as to form the shape
of one of those rounded waggon-headed gipsy-tents, only very much
larger. The spaces between were filled with mud, stones, osiers,
rubbish, mortar--anything to keep out the weather. The fires were made
in the centre of these rude dwellings, a hole in the roof forming the
only chimney. No Highland hut or Irish cabin could be of rougher
construction.
The owner of this property, at the beginning of the present century,
was a Mr. Patrick Byrne Starkey. His family had kept to the old faith,
and were staunch 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 Roman Catholic as ever, and as
staunch an advocate for the Stuarts and the divine right of kings; but
his religion almost amounted to asceticism, and the conduct of those
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
procession to me many years after, said that all the country-folk took
her for a foreigner. Some dogs, and the boy who held them in charge,
made up the company. They rode silently along, looking with grave,
serious eyes at the people, who came out of the scattered cottages to
bow or curtsy to the real Squire, 'come back at last,' and gazed after
the little procession with gaping wonder, not deadened by the sound of
the foreign language in which the few necessary words that passed among
them were spoken. One lad, called from his staring by the Squire to
come and help about the cart, accompanied them to the Manor-House. He
said that when the lady had descended from her pillion, the middle-aged
woman whom I have described as walking while the others rode, stepped
quickly forward, and taking Madam Starkey (who was of a slight and
delicate figure) in her arms, she lifted her over the threshold, and
set her down in her husband's house, at the same time uttering a
passionate and outlandish blessing. The Squire stood by, smiling
gravely at first; but when the words of blessing were pronounced, he
took off his fine feathered hat, and bent his head. The girl with the
black mantle stepped onward into the shadow of the dark hall, and
kissed the lady's hand; and that was all the lad could tell to the
group that gathered round him on his return, eager to hear everything,
and to know how much the Squire had given him for his services.
From all I could gather, the Manor-House, at the time of the Squire's
return, was in the most dilapidated state. The stout grey walls
remained firm and entire; but the inner chambers had been used for all
kinds of purposes. The great withdrawing-room had been a barn; the
state tapestry-chamber had held wool, and so on. But, by-and-by, they
were cleared out; and if the Squire had no money to spend on new
furniture, he and his wife had the knack of making the best of the old.
He was no despicable joiner; she had a kind of grace in whatever she
did, and imparted an air of elegant picturesqueness to whatever she
touched. Besides, they had brought many rare things from the Continent;
perhaps I should rather say, things that were rare in that part of
England--carvings, and crosses, and beautiful pictures. And then,
again, wood was plentiful in the Trough of Bolland, and great log-fires
danced and glittered in all the dark, old rooms, and gave a look of
home and comfort to everything.
Why do I tell you all this? I have little to do with the Squire and
Madam 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. Madam
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 every one 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 grey ashes of her
extinguished fire, deaf to Madam's sweet voice, as she begged leave to
enter and comfort her nurse. Deaf, stony, and motionless, she sat for
more than twenty hours; till, for the third time, Madam came across the
snowy path from the great house, carrying with her a young spaniel,
which had been Mary's pet up at the hall, and which had not ceased all
night long to seek for its absent mistress, and to whine and moan after
her. With tears Madam told this story, through the closed door--tears
excited by the terrible look of anguish, so steady, so immovable--so
the same to-day as it was yesterday--on her nurse's face. The little
creature in her arms began to utter its piteous cry, as it shivered
with the cold. Bridget stirred; she moved--she listened. Again that
long whine; she thought it was for her daughter; and what she had
denied to her nursling and mistress she granted to the dumb creature
that Mary had cherished. She opened the door, and took the dog from
Madam's arms. Then Madam came in, and kissed and comforted the old
woman, who took but little notice of her or anything. And sending up
Master Patrick to the hall for fire and food, the sweet young lady
never left her nurse all that night. Next day, the Squire himself came
down, carrying a beautiful foreign picture: Our Lady of the Holy Heart,
the Papists call it. It is a picture of the Virgin, her heart pierced
with arrows, each arrow representing one of her great woes. That
picture hung in Bridget's cottage when I first saw her; I have that
picture now.
Years went on. Mary was still abroad. Bridget was still and stern,
instead of active and passionate. The little dog, Mignon, was indeed
her darling. I have heard that she talked to it continually; although,
to most people, she was so silent. The Squire and Madam treated her
with the greatest consideration, and well they might; for to them she
was as devoted and faithful as ever. Mary wrote pretty often, and
seemed satisfied with her life. But at length the letters ceased--I
hardly know whether before or after a great and terrible sorrow came
upon the house of the Starkeys. The Squire sickened of a putrid fever;
and Madam caught it in nursing him, and died. You may be sure, Bridget
let no other woman tend her but herself; and in the very arms that had
received her at her birth, that sweet young woman laid her head down,
and gave up her breath. The Squire recovered, in a fashion. He was
never strong--he had never the heart to smile again. He fasted and
prayed more than ever; and people did say that he tried to cut off the
entail, and leave all the property away to found a monastery abroad, of
which he prayed that some day little Squire Patrick might be the
reverend father. But he could not do this, for the strictness of the
entail and the laws against the Papists. So he could only appoint
gentlemen of his own faith as guardians to his son, with many charges
about the lad's soul, and a few about the land, and the way it was to
be held while he was a minor. Of course, Bridget was not forgotten. He
sent for her as he lay on his death-bed, and asked her if she would
rather have a sum down, or have a small annuity settled upon her. She
said at once she would have a sum down; for she thought of her
daughter, and how she could bequeath the money to her, whereas an
annuity would have died with her. So the Squire left her her cottage
for life, and a fair sum of money. And then he died, with as ready and
willing a heart as, I suppose, ever any gentleman took out of this
world with him. The young Squire was carried off by his guardians, and
Bridget was left alone.
I have said that she had not heard from Mary for some time. In her last
letter, she had told of travelling about with her mistress, who was the
English wife of some great foreign officer, and had spoken of her
chances of making a good marriage, without naming the gentleman's name,
keeping it rather back as a pleasant surprise to her mother; his
station and fortune being, as I had afterwards reason to know, far
superior to anything she had a right to expect. Then came a long
silence; and Madam was dead, and the Squire was dead; and Bridget's
heart was gnawed by anxiety, and she knew not whom to ask for news of
her child. She could not write, and the Squire had managed her
communication with her daughter. She walked off to Hurst; and got a
good priest there--one whom she had known at Antwerp--to write for her.
But no answer came. It was like crying into the awful stillness of
night.
One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been accustomed
to mark her goings-out and comings-in. She had never been sociable with
any of them; but the sight of her had become a part of their daily
lives, and slow wonder arose in their minds, as morning after morning
came, and her house-door remained closed, her window dead from any
glitter, or light of fire within. At length, some one tried the door;
it was locked. Two or three laid their heads together, before daring to
look in through the blank, unshuttered window. But, at last, they
summoned up courage; and then saw that Bridget's absence from their
little world was not the result of accident or death, but of
premeditation. Such small articles of furniture as could be secured
from the effects of time and damp by being packed up, were stowed away
in boxes. The picture of the Madonna was taken down, and gone. In a
word, Bridget had stolen away from her home, and left no trace whither
she was departed. I knew afterwards, that she and her little dog had
wandered off on the long search for her lost daughter. She was too
illiterate to have faith in letters, even had she had the means of
writing and sending many. But she had faith in her own strong love, and
believed that her passionate instinct would guide her to her child.
Besides, foreign travel was no new thing to her, and she could speak
enough of French to explain the object of her journey, and had,
moreover, the advantage of being, from her faith, a welcome object of
charitable hospitality at many a distant convent. But the country
people round Starkey Manor-House knew nothing of all this. They
wondered what had become of her, in a torpid, lazy fashion, and then
left off thinking of her altogether. Several years passed. Both
Manor-House and cottage were deserted. The young Squire lived far away
under the direction of his guardians. There were inroads of wool and
corn into the sitting-rooms of the Hall; and there was some low talk,
from time to time, among the hinds and country people, whether it would
not be as well to break into old Bridget's cottage, and save such of
her goods as were left from the moth and rust which must be making sad
havoc. But this idea was always quenched by the recollection of her
strong character and passionate anger; and tales of her masterful
spirit, and vehement force of will, were whispered about, till the very
thought of offending her, by touching any article of hers, became
invested with a kind of horror: it was believed that, dead or alive,
she would not fail to avenge it.
Suddenly she came home; with as little noise or note of preparation as
she had departed. One day, some one noticed a thin, blue curl of smoke,
ascending from her chimney. Her door stood open to the noon-day sun;
and, ere many hours had elapsed, some one had seen an old
travel-and-sorrow-stained woman dipping her pitcher in the well; and
said, that the dark, solemn eyes that looked up at him were more like
Bridget Fitzgerald's than any one else's in this world; and yet, if it
were she, she looked as if she had been scorched in the flames of hell,
so brown, and scared, and fierce a creature did she seem. By-and-by
many saw her; and those who met her eye once cared not to be caught
looking at her again. She had got into the habit of perpetually talking
to herself; nay, more, answering herself, and varying her tones
according to the side she took at the moment. It was no wonder that
those who dared to listen outside her door at night, believed that she
held converse with some spirit; in short, she was unconsciously earning
for herself the dreadful reputation of a witch.
Her little dog, which had wandered half over the Continent with her,
was her only companion; a dumb remembrancer of happier days. Once he
was ill; and she carried him more than three miles, to ask about his
management from one who had been groom to the last Squire, and had then
been noted for his skill in all diseases of animals. Whatever this man
did, the dog recovered; and they who heard her thanks, intermingled
with blessings (that were rather promises of good fortune than
prayers), looked grave at his good luck when, next year, his ewes
twinned, and his meadow-grass was heavy and thick.
Now it so happened that, about the year seventeen hundred and eleven,
one of the guardians of the young Squire, a certain Sir Philip Tempest,
bethought him of the good shooting there must be on his ward's
property; and, in consequence, he brought down four or five gentlemen,
of his friends, to stay for a week or two at the Hall. From all
accounts, they roystered and spent pretty freely. I never heard any of
their names but one, and that was Squire Gisborne's. He was hardly a
middle-aged man then; he had been much abroad, and there, I believe, he
had known Sir Philip Tempest, and done him some service. He was a
daring and dissolute fellow in those days: careless and fearless, and
one who would rather be in a quarrel than out of it. He had his fits of
ill-temper beside, when he would spare neither man nor beast.
Otherwise, those who knew him well, used to say he had a good heart,
when he was neither drunk, nor angry, nor in any way vexed. He had
altered much when I came to know him.
One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but little
success, I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had had none, and was in a
black humour accordingly. He was coming home, having his gun loaded,
sportsman-like, when little Mignon crossed his path, just as he turned
out of the wood by Bridget's cottage. Partly for wantonness, partly to
vent his spleen upon some living creature, Mr. Gisborne took his gun,
and fired--he had better have never fired gun again, than aimed that
unlucky shot. He hit Mignon; and at the creature's sudden cry, Bridget
came out, and saw at a glance what had been done. She took Mignon up in
her arms, and looked hard at the wound; the poor dog looked at her with
his glazing eyes, and tried to wag his tail and lick her hand, all
covered with blood. Mr. Gisborne spoke in a kind of sullen penitence:
'You should have kept the dog out of my way--a little poaching
varmint.'
At this very moment, Mignon stretched out his legs, and stiffened in
her arms--her lost Mary's dog, who had wandered and sorrowed with her
for years. She walked right into Mr. Gisborne's path, and fixed his
unwilling, sullen look with her dark and terrible eye.
'Those never throve that did me harm,' said she. 'I'm alone in the
world, and helpless; the more do the Saints in Heaven hear my prayers.
Hear me, ye blessed ones! hear me while I ask for sorrow on this bad,
cruel man. He has killed the only creature that loved me--the dumb
beast that I loved. Bring down heavy sorrow on his head for it, O ye
Saints! He thought that I was helpless, because he saw me lonely and
poor; but are not the armies of Heaven for the like of me?'
'Come, come,' said he, half-remorseful, but not one whit afraid.
'Here's a crown to buy thee another dog. Take it, and leave off
cursing! I care none for thy threats.'
'Don't you?' said she, coming a step closer, and changing her
imprecatory cry for a whisper which made the gamekeeper's lad,
following Mr. Gisborne, creep all over. 'You shall live to see the
creature you love best, and who alone loves you--ay, a human creature,
but as innocent and fond as my poor, dead darling--you shall see this
creature, for whom death would be too happy, become a terror and a
loathing to all, for this blood's sake. Hear me, O holy Saints, who
never fail them that have no other help!'
She threw up her right hand, filled with poor Mignon's life-drops; they
spirted, one or two of them, on his shooting-dress,--an ominous sight
to the follower. But the master only laughed a little, forced, scornful
laugh, and went on to the Hall. Before he got there, however, he took
out a gold piece, and bade the boy carry it to the old woman on his
return to the village. The lad was 'afeard,' 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 shrank away
in redoubled terror; and contented himself with slipping the gold-piece
under the ill-fitting door. The next day it was thrown out upon the
midden; and there it lay, no one daring to touch it.
Meanwhile Mr. Gisborne, half curious, half uneasy, thought to lessen
his uncomfortable feelings by asking Sir Philip who Bridget was? He
could only describe her--he did not know her name. Sir Philip was
equally at a loss. But an old servant of the Starkeys, who had resumed
his livery at the Hall on this occasion--a scoundrel whom Bridget had
saved from dismissal more than once during her palmy days--said:--
'It will be the old witch, that his worship means. She needs a ducking,
if ever woman did, does that Bridget Fitzgerald.'
'Fitzgerald!' said both the gentlemen at once. But Sir Philip was the
first to continue:
'I must have no talk of ducking her, Dickon. Why, she must be the very
woman poor Starkey bade me have a care of; but when I came here last
she was gone, no one knew where. I'll go and see her tomorrow. But mind
you, sirrah, if any harm comes to her, or any more talk of her being a
witch--I've a pack of hounds at home, who can follow the scent of a
lying knave as well as ever they followed a dog-fox; so take care how
you talk about ducking a faithful old servant of your dead master's.'
'Had she ever a daughter?' asked Mr. Gisborne, after a while.
'I don't know--yes! I've a notion she had; a kind of waiting-woman to
Madam Starkey.'
'Please your worship,' said humbled Dickon, 'Mistress Bridget had a
daughter--one Mistress Mary--who went abroad, and has never been heard
on since; and folk do say that has crazed her mother.'
Mr. Gisborne shaded his eyes with his hand.
'I could wish she had not cursed me,' he muttered. 'She may have
power--no one else could.' After a while, he said aloud, no one
understanding rightly what he meant, 'Tush! it's impossible!'--and
called for claret; and he and the other gentlemen set to to a
drinking-bout.