I now come to the time in which I myself was mixed up with the people
that I have been writing about. And to make you understand how I became
connected with them, I must give you some little account of myself. My
father was the younger son of a Devonshire gentleman of moderate
property; my eldest uncle succeeded to the estate of his forefathers,
my second became an eminent attorney in London, and my father took
orders. Like most poor clergymen, he had a large family; and I have no
doubt was glad enough when my London uncle, who was a bachelor, offered
to take charge of me, and bring me up to be his successor in business.
In this way I came to live in London, in my uncle's house, not far from
Gray's Inn, and to be treated and esteemed as his son, and to labour
with him in his office. I was very fond of the old gentleman. He was
the confidential agent of many country squires, and had attained to his
present position as much by knowledge of human nature as by knowledge
of law; though he was learned enough in the latter. He used to say his
business was law, his pleasure heraldry. From his intimate acquaintance
with family history, and all the tragic courses of life therein
involved, to hear him talk, at leisure times, about any coat of arms
that came across his path was as good as a play or a romance. Many
cases of disputed property, dependent on a love of genealogy, were
brought to him, as to a great authority on such points. If the lawyer
who came to consult him was young, he would take no fee, only give him
a long lecture on the importance of attending to heraldry; if the
lawyer was of mature age and good standing, he would mulct him pretty
well, and abuse him to me afterwards as negligent of one great branch
of the profession. His house was in a stately new street called Ormond
Street, and in it he had a handsome library; but all the books treated
of things that were past; none of them planned or looked forward into
the future. I worked away--partly for the sake of my family at home,
partly because my uncle had really taught me to enjoy the kind of
practice in which he himself took such delight. I suspect I worked too
hard; at any rate, in seventeen hundred and eighteen I was far from
well, and my good uncle was disturbed by my ill looks.
One day, he rang the bell twice into the clerk's room at the dingy
office in Gray's Inn Lane. It was the summons for me, and I went into
his private room just as a gentleman--whom I knew well enough by sight
as an Irish lawyer of more reputation than he deserved--was leaving.
My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering. I was
there two or three minutes before he spoke. Then he told me that I must
pack up my portmanteau that very afternoon, and start that night by
post-horse for West Chester. I should get there, if all went well, at
the end of five days' time, and must then wait for a packet to cross
over to Dublin; from thence I must proceed to a certain town named
Kildoon, and in that neighbourhood I was to remain, making certain
inquiries as to the existence of any descendants of the younger branch
of a family to whom some valuable estates had descended in the female
line. The Irish lawyer whom I had seen was weary of the case, and would
willingly have given up the property, without further ado, to a man who
appeared to claim them; but on laying his tables and trees before my
uncle, the latter had foreseen so many possible prior claimants, that
the lawyer had begged him to undertake the management of the whole
business. In his youth, my uncle would have liked nothing better than
going over to Ireland himself, and ferreting out every scrap of paper
or parchment, and every word of tradition respecting the family. As it
was, old and gouty, he deputed me.
Accordingly, I went to Kildoon. I suspect I had something of my uncle's
delight in following up a genealogical scent, for I very soon found
out, when on the spot, that Mr. Rooney, the Irish lawyer, would have
got both himself and the first claimant into a terrible scrape, if he
had pronounced his opinion that the estates ought to be given up to
him. There were three poor Irish fellows, each nearer of kin to the
last possessor; but, a generation before, there was a still nearer
relation, who had never been accounted for, nor his existence ever
discovered by the lawyers, I venture to think, till I routed him out
from the memory of some of the old dependants of the family. What had
become of him? I travelled backwards and forwards; I crossed over to
France, and came back again with a slight clue, which ended in my
discovering that, wild and dissipated himself, he had left one child, a
son, of yet worse character than his father; that this same Hugh
Fitzgerald had married a very beautiful serving-woman of the Byrnes--a
person below him in hereditary rank, but above him in character; that
he had died soon after his marriage, leaving one child, whether a boy
or a girl I could not learn, and that the mother had returned to live
in the family of the Byrnes. Now, the chief of this latter family was
serving in the Duke of Berwick's regiment, and it was long before I
could hear from him; it was more than a year before I got a short,
haughty letter--I fancy he had a soldier's contempt for a civilian, an
Irishman's hatred for an Englishman, an exiled Jacobite's jealousy of
one who prospered and lived tranquilly under the government he looked
upon as an usurpation. 'Bridget Fitzgerald,' he said, 'had been
faithful to the fortunes of his sister--had followed her abroad, and to
England when Mrs. Starkey had thought fit to return. Both her sister
and her husband were dead; he knew nothing of Bridget Fitzgerald at the
present time: probably Sir Philip Tempest, his nephew's guardian, might
be able to give me some information.' I have not given the little
contemptuous terms; the way in which faithful service was meant to
imply more than it said--all that has nothing to do with my story. Sir
Philip, when applied to, told me that he paid an annuity regularly to
an old woman named Fitzgerald, living at Coldholme (the village near
Starkey Manor-House). Whether she had any descendants he could not say.
One bleak March evening, I came in sight of the places described at the
beginning of my story. I could hardly understand the rude dialect in
which the direction to old Bridget's house was given.
'Yo' see yon furleets,' all run together, gave me no idea that I was to
guide myself by the distant lights that shone in the windows of the
Hall, occupied for the time by a farmer who held the post of steward,
while the Squire, now four or five and twenty, was making the grand
tour. However, at last, I reached Bridget's cottage--a low, moss-grown
place; the palings that had once surrounded it were broken and gone;
and the underwood of the forest came up to the walls, and must have
darkened the windows. It was about seven o'clock--not late to my London
notions--but, after knocking for some time at the door and receiving no
reply, I was driven to conjecture that the occupant of the house was
gone to bed. So I betook myself to the nearest church I had seen, three
miles back on the road I had come, sure that close to that I should
find an inn of some kind; and early the next morning I set off back to
Coldholme, by a field-path which my host assured me I should find a
shorter cut than the road I had taken the night before. It was a cold,
sharp morning; my feet left prints in the sprinkling of hoar-frost that
covered the ground; nevertheless, I saw an old woman, whom I
instinctively suspected to be the object of my search, in a sheltered
covert on one side of my path. I lingered and watched her. She must
have been considerably above the middle size in her prime, for when she
raised herself from the stooping position in which I first saw her,
there was something fine and commanding in the erectness of her figure.
She drooped again in a minute or two, and seemed looking for something
on the ground, as, with bent head, she turned off from the spot where I
gazed upon her, and was lost to my sight. I fancy I missed my way, and
made a round in spite of the landlord's directions; for by the time I
had reached Bridget's cottage she was there, with no semblance of
hurried walk or discomposure of any kind. The door was slightly ajar. I
knocked, and the majestic figure stood before me, silently awaiting the
explanation of my errand. Her teeth were all gone, so the nose and chin
were brought near together; the grey eyebrows were straight, and almost
hung over her deep, cavernous eyes, and the thick white hair lay in
silvery masses over the low, wide, wrinkled forehead. For a moment, I
stood uncertain how to shape my answer to the solemn questioning of her
silence.
'Your name is Bridget Fitzgerald, I believe?' She bowed her head in
assent.
'I have something to say to you. May I come in? I am unwilling to keep
you standing.'
'You cannot tire me,' she said, and at first she seemed inclined to
deny me the shelter of her roof. But the next moment--she had searched
the very soul in me with her eyes during that instant--she led me in,
and dropped the shadowing hood of her grey, draping cloak, which had
previously hid part of the character of her countenance. The cottage
was rude and bare enough. But before that picture of the Virgin, of
which I have made mention, there stood a little cup filled with fresh
primroses. While she paid her reverence to the Madonna, I understood
why she had been out seeking through the clumps of green in the
sheltered copse. Then she turned round, and bade me be seated. The
expression of her face, which all this time I was studying, was not
bad, as the stories of my last night's landlord had led me to expect;
it was a wild, stern, fierce, indomitable countenance, seamed and
scarred by agonies of solitary weeping; but it was neither cunning nor
malignant.
'My name is Bridget Fitzgerald,' said she, by way of opening our
conversation.
'And your husband was Hugh Fitzgerald, of Knock-Mahon, near Kildoon, in
Ireland?'
A faint light came into the dark gloom of her eyes.
'He was.'
'May I ask if you had any children by him?'
The light in her eyes grew quick and red. She tried to speak, I could
see; but something rose in her throat, and choked her, and until she
could speak calmly, she would fain not speak at all before a stranger.
In a minute or so she said:
'I had a daughter--one Mary Fitzgerald,'--then her strong nature
mastered her strong will, and she cried out, with a trembling, wailing
cry: 'Oh, man! what of her?--what of her?'
She rose from her seat, and came and clutched at my arm, and looked in
my eyes. There she read, as I suppose, my utter ignorance of what had
become of her child; for she went blindly back to her chair, and sat
rocking herself and softly moaning, as if I were not there; I not
daring to speak to the lone and awful woman. After a little pause, she
knelt down before the picture of our Lady of the Holy Heart, and spoke
to her by all the fanciful and poetic names of the Litany.
'O Rose of Sharon! O Tower of David! O Star of the Sea! have you no
comfort for my sore heart? Am I for ever to hope? Grant me at least
despair!'--and so on she went, heedless of my presence. Her prayers
grew wilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the borders
of madness and blasphemy. Almost involuntarily, I spoke as if to stop
her.
'Have you any reason to think that your daughter is dead?'
She rose from her knees, and came and stood before me.
'Mary Fitzgerald is dead,' said she. 'I shall never see her again in
the flesh. No tongue ever told me. But I know she is dead. I have
yearned so to see her, and my heart's will is fearful and strong: it
would have drawn her to me before now, if she had been a wanderer on
the other side of the world. I wonder often it has not drawn her out of
the grave to come and stand before me, and hear me tell her how I loved
her. For, sir, we parted unfriends.'
I knew nothing but the dry particulars needed for my lawyer's quest,
but I could not help feeling for the desolate woman; and she must have
read the unusual sympathy with her wistful eyes.
'Yes, sir, we did. She never knew how I loved her; and we parted
unfriends; and I fear me that I wished her voyage might not turn out
well, only meaning,--O, blessed Virgin! you know I only meant that she
should come home to her mother's arms as to the happiest place on
earth; but my wishes are terrible--their power goes beyond my
thought--and there is no hope for me, if my words brought Mary harm.'
'But,' I said, 'you do not know that she is dead. Even now, you hoped
she might be alive. Listen to me,' and I told her the tale I have
already told you, giving it all in the driest manner, for I wanted to
recall the clear sense that I felt almost sure she had possessed in her
younger days, and by keeping up her attention to details, restrain the
vague wildness of her grief.
She listened with deep attention, putting from time to time such
questions as convinced me I had to do with no common intelligence,
however dimmed and shorn by solitude and mysterious sorrow. Then she
took up her tale; and in few brief words, told me of her wanderings
abroad in vain search after her daughter; sometimes in the wake of
armies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in city. The lady, whose
waiting-woman Mary had gone to be, had died soon after the date of her
last letter home; her husband, the foreign officer, had been serving in
Hungary, whither Bridget had followed him, but too late to find him.
Vague rumours reached her that Mary had made a great marriage; and this
sting of doubt was added,--whether the mother might not be close to her
child under her new name, and even hearing of her every day, and yet
never recognising the lost one under the appellation she then bore. At
length the thought took possession of her, that it was possible that
all this time Mary might be at home at Coldholme, in the Trough of
Bolland, in Lancashire, in England; and home came Bridget, in that vain
hope, to her desolate hearth, and empty cottage. Here she had thought
it safest to remain; if Mary was in life, it was here she would seek
for her mother.
I noted down one or two particulars out of Bridget's narrative that I
thought might be of use to me; for I was stimulated to further search
in a strange and extraordinary manner. It seemed as if it were
impressed upon me, that I must take up the quest where Bridget had laid
it down; and this for no reason that had previously influenced me (such
as my uncle's anxiety on the subject, my own reputation as a lawyer,
and so on), but from some strange power which had taken possession of
my will only that very morning, and which forced it in the direction it
chose.
'I will go,' said I. 'I will spare nothing in the search. Trust to me.
I will learn all that can be learnt. You shall know all that money, or
pains, or wit can discover. It is true she may be long dead: but she
may have left a child.'
'A child!' she cried, as if for the first time this idea had struck her
mind. 'Hear him, Blessed Virgin! he says she may have left a child. And
you have never told me, though I have prayed so for a sign, waking or
sleeping!'
'Nay,' said I, 'I know nothing but what you tell me. You say you heard
of her marriage.'
But she caught nothing of what I said. She was praying to the Virgin in
a kind of ecstacy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my very
presence.
From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest's. The wife of the foreign
officer had been a cousin of his father's, and from him I thought I
might gain some particulars as to the existence of the Count de la Tour
d'Auvergne, and where I could find him; for I knew questions _de vive
voix_ aid the flagging recollection, and I was determined to lose no
chance for want of trouble. But Sir Philip had gone abroad, and it
would be some time before I could receive an answer. So I followed my
uncle's advice, to whom I had mentioned how wearied I felt, both in
body and mind, by my will-o'-the-wisp search. He immediately told me to
go to Harrogate, there to await Sir Philip's reply. I should be near to
one of the places connected with my search, Coldholme; not far from Sir
Philip Tempest, in case he returned, and I wished to ask him any
further questions; and, in conclusion, my uncle bade me try to forget
all about my business for a time.
This was far easier said than done. I have seen a child on a common
blown along by a high wind, without power of standing still and
resisting the tempestuous force. I was somewhat in the same predicament
as regarded my mental state. Something resistless seemed to urge my
thoughts on, through every possible course by which there was a chance
of attaining to my object. I did not see the sweeping moors when I
walked out: when I held a book in my hand, and read the words, their
sense did not penetrate to my brain. If I slept, I went on with the
same ideas, always flowing in the same direction. This could not last
long without having a bad effect on the body. I had an illness, which,
although I was racked with pain, was a positive relief to me, as it
compelled me to live in the present suffering, and not in the visionary
researches I had been continually making before. My kind uncle came to
nurse me; and after the immediate danger was over, my life seemed to
slip away in delicious languor for two or three months. I did not
ask--so much did I dread falling into the old channel of
thought--whether any reply had been received to my letter to Sir
Philip. I turned my whole imagination right away from all that subject.
My uncle remained with me until nigh summer, and then returned to his
business in London; leaving me perfectly well, although not completely
strong. I was to follow him in a fortnight; when, as he said, 'we would
look over letters, and talk about several things.' I knew what this
little speech alluded to, and shrank from the train of thought it
suggested, which was so intimately connected with my first feelings of
illness. However, I had a fortnight more to roam on those invigorating
Yorkshire moors.
In those days, there was one large, rambling inn at Harrogate, close to
the Medicinal Spring; but it was already becoming too small for the
accommodation of the influx of visitors, and many lodged round about,
in the farm-houses of the district. It was so early in the season, that
I had the inn pretty much to myself; and, indeed, felt rather like a
visitor in a private house, so intimate had the landlord and landlady
become with me during my long illness. She would chide me for being out
so late on the moors, or for having been too long without food, quite
in a motherly way; while he consulted me about vintages and wines, and
taught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle about horses. In my walks I met
other strangers from time to time. Even before my uncle had left me, I
had noticed, with half-torpid curiosity, a young lady of very striking
appearance, who went about always accompanied by an elderly companion,
hardly a gentlewoman, but with something in her look that prepossessed
me in her favour. The younger lady always put her veil down when any
one approached; so it had been only once or twice, when I had come upon
her at a sudden turn in the path, that I had even had a glimpse of 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 over-shadowed by a sadness that
never varied: a pale, quiet, resigned look of intense suffering, that
irresistibly attracted me, not with love, but with a sense of infinite
compassion for one so young yet so hopelessly unhappy. The companion
wore something of the same look: quiet, melancholy, hopeless, yet
resigned. I asked my landlord who they were. He said they were called
Clarke, and wished to be considered as mother and daughter; but that,
for his part, he did not believe that to be their right name, or that
there was any such relationship between them. They had been in the
neighbourhood of Harrogate for some time, lodging in a remote
farm-house. The people there would tell nothing about them; saying that
they paid handsomely, and never did any harm; so why should they be
speaking of any strange things that might happen? That, as the landlord
shrewdly observed, showed there was something out of the common way: he
had heard that the elderly woman was a cousin of the farmer's where
they lodged, and so the regard existing between relations might help to
keep them quiet.
'What did he think, then, was the reason for their extreme seclusion?'
asked I.
'Nay, he could not tell, not he. He had heard that the young lady, for
all as quiet as she seemed, played strange pranks at times.' He shook
his head when I asked him for more particulars, and refused to give
them, which made me doubt if he knew any, for he was in general a
talkative and communicative man. In default of other interests, after
my uncle left, I set myself to watch these two people. I hovered about
their walks, drawn towards them with a strange fascination, which was
not diminished by their evident annoyance at so frequently meeting me.
One day, I had the sudden good fortune to be at hand when they were
alarmed by the attack of a bull, which, in those unenclosed grazing
districts, was a particularly dangerous occurrence. I have other and
more important things to relate, than to tell of the accident which
gave me an opportunity of rescuing them; it is enough to say, that this
event was the beginning of an acquaintance, reluctantly acquiesced in
by them, but eagerly prosecuted by me. I can hardly tell when intense
curiosity became merged in love, but in less than ten days after my
uncle's departure I was passionately enamoured of Mrs. 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 farm-house 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, grey
eyes that were raised for a minute to mine. I made every excuse I
possibly could for going there. I sought wild flowers for Lucy's sake;
I planned walks for Lucy's sake; I watched the heavens by night, in
hopes that some unusual beauty of sky would justify me in tempting Mrs.
Clarke and Lucy forth upon the moors, to gaze at the great purple dome
above.
It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some
motive which I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but
then again I saw, or fancied I saw, that her heart spoke in my favour,
and that there was a struggle going on in her mind, which at times (I
loved so dearly) I could have begged her to spare herself, even though
the happiness of my whole life should have been the sacrifice; for her
complexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more hopeless, her delicate
frame yet slighter. During this period I had written, I should say, to
my uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong my stay at Harrogate, not
giving any reason; but such was his tenderness towards me, that in a
few days I heard from him, giving me a willing permission, and only
charging me to take care of myself, and not use too much exertion
during the hot weather.
One sultry evening I drew near the farm. The windows of their parlour
were open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the house, as
I passed the first window (there were two windows in their little
ground-floor room). I saw Lucy distinctly; but when I had knocked at
their door--the house-door stood always ajar--she was gone, and I saw
only Mrs. Clarke, turning over the work-things lying on the table, in a
nervous and purposeless manner. I felt by instinct that a conversation
of some importance was coming on, in which I should be expected to say
what was my object in paying these frequent visits. I was glad of the
opportunity. My uncle had several times alluded to the pleasant
possibility of my bringing home a young wife, to cheer and adorn the
old house in Ormond Street. He was rich, and I was to succeed him, and
had, as I knew, a fair reputation for so young a lawyer. So on my side
I saw no obstacle. It was true that Lucy was shrouded in mystery; her
name (I was convinced it was not Clarke), birth, parentage, and
previous life were unknown to me. But I was sure of her goodness and
sweet innocence, and although I knew that there must be something
painful to be told, to account for her mournful sadness, yet I was
willing to bear my share in her grief, whatever it might be.
Mrs. Clarke began, as if it was a relief to her to plunge into the
subject.
'We have thought, sir--at least I have thought--that you know very
little of us, nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant the intimate
acquaintance we have fallen into. I beg your pardon, sir,' she went on,
nervously; 'I am but a plain kind of woman, and I mean to use no
rudeness; but I must say straight out that I--we--think it would be
better for you not to come so often to see us. She is very unprotected,
and----'
'Why should I not come to see you, dear madam?' asked I, eagerly, glad
of the opportunity of explaining myself. 'I come, I own, because I have
learnt to love Mistress Lucy, and wish to teach her to love me.'
Mistress Clarke shook her head, and sighed.
'Don't, sir--neither love her, nor, for the sake of all you hold
sacred, teach her to love you! If I am too late, and you love her
already, forget her,--forget these last few weeks. O! I should never
have allowed you to come!' she went on, passionately; 'but what am I to
do? We are forsaken by all, except the great God, and even He permits a
strange and evil power to afflict us--what am I to do? Where is it to
end?' She wrung her hands in her distress; then she turned to me: 'Go
away, sir; go away, before you learn to care any more for her. I ask it
for your own sake--I implore. You have been good and kind to us, and we
shall always recollect you with gratitude; but go away now, and never
come back to cross our fatal path!'
'Indeed, madam,' said I, 'I shall do no such thing. You urge it for my
own sake. I have no fear, so urged--nor wish, except to hear more--all.
I cannot have seen Mistress Lucy in all the intimacy of this last
fortnight, without acknowledging her goodness and innocence; and
without seeing--pardon me, madam--that for some reason you are two very
lonely women, in some mysterious sorrow and distress. Now, though I am
not powerful myself, yet I have friends who are so wise and kind, that
they may be said to possess power. Tell me some particulars. Why are
you in grief--what is your secret--why are you here? I declare solemnly
that nothing you have said has daunted me in my wish to become Lucy's
husband; nor will I shrink from any difficulty that, as such an
aspirant, I may have to encounter. You say you are friendless--why cast
away an honest friend? I will tell you of people to whom you may write,
and who will answer any questions as to my character and prospects. I
do not shun inquiry.'
She shook her head again. 'You had better go away, sir. You know
nothing about us.'
'I know your names,' said I, 'and I have heard you allude to the part
of the country from which you came, which I happen to know as a wild
and lonely place. There are so few people living in it that, if I chose
to go there, I could easily ascertain all about you; but I would rather
hear it from yourself.' You see I wanted to pique her into telling me
something definite.
'You do not know our true names, sir,' said she, hastily.
'Well, I may have conjectured as much. But tell me, then, I conjure
you. Give me your reasons for distrusting my willingness to stand by
what I have said with regard to Mistress Lucy.'
'Oh, what can I do?' exclaimed she. 'If I am turning away a true friend
as he says?--Stay!' coming to a sudden decision--'I will tell you
something--I cannot tell you all--you would not believe it. But,
perhaps, I can tell you enough to prevent your going on in your
hopeless attachment. I am not Lucy's mother.'
'So I conjectured,' I said. 'Go on.'
'I do not even know whether she is the legitimate or illegitimate child
of her father. But he is cruelly turned against her; and her mother is
long dead; and, for a terrible reason, she has no other creature to
keep constant to her but me. She--only two years ago--such a darling
and such a pride in her father's house! Why, sir, there is a mystery
that might happen in connection with her any moment; and then you would
go away like all the rest; and, when you next heard her name, you would
loathe her. Others, who have loved her longer, have done so before now.
My poor child, whom neither God nor man has mercy upon--or, surely, she
would die!'
The good woman was stopped by her crying. I confess, I was a little
stunned by her last words; but only for a moment. At any rate, till I
knew definitely what was this mysterious stain upon one so simple and
pure, as Lucy seemed, I would not desert her, and so I said; and she
made answer:
'If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir, after
knowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but I am so
foolish and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain hope to find
a friend in you. I cannot help trusting that, although you may no
longer feel towards her as a lover, you will have pity upon us; and
perhaps, by your learning, you can tell us where to go for aid.'
'I implore you to tell me what this mystery is,' I cried, almost
maddened by this suspense.
'I cannot,' said she, solemnly. 'I am under a deep vow of secrecy. If
you are to be told, it must be by her.' She left the room, and I
remained to ponder over this strange interview. I mechanically turned
over the few books, and with eyes that saw nothing at the time,
examined the tokens of Lucy's frequent presence in that room.
When I got home at night, I remembered how all these trifles spoke of a
pure and tender heart and innocent life. Mistress Clarke returned; she
had been crying sadly.
'Yes,' said she, 'it is as I feared: she loves you so much that she is
willing to run the fearful risk of telling you all herself--she
acknowledges it is but a poor chance; but your sympathy will be a balm,
if you give it. To-morrow, come here at ten in the morning; and as you
hope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of fear or
repugnance you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted.'
I half smiled. 'Have no fear,' I said. It seemed too absurd to imagine
my feeling dislike to Lucy.
'Her father loved her well,' said she, gravely, 'yet he drove her out
like some monstrous thing.'
Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden. It
was Lucy's voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one side
of the open casement--and as though she were suddenly stirred to
merriment--merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings or
sayings of some other person. I can scarcely say why, but the sound
jarred on me inexpressibly. She knew the subject of our conversation,
and must have been at least aware of the state of agitation her friend
was in: she herself usually so gentle and quiet. I half rose to go to
the window, and satisfy my instinctive curiosity as to what had
provoked this burst of ill-timed laughter; but Mrs. Clarke threw her
whole weight and power upon the hand with which she pressed and kept me
down.
'For God's sake!' she said, white and trembling all over, 'sit still;
be quiet. Oh! be patient. To-morrow you will know all. Leave us, for we
are all sorely afflicted. Do not seek to know more about us.'
Again that laugh--so musical in sound, yet so discordant to my heart.
She held me tight--tighter; without positive violence I could not have
risen. I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a shadow
pass between the sun's warmth and me, and a strange shudder ran through
my frame. In a minute or two she released me.
'Go,' repeated she. 'Be warned, I ask you once more. I do not think you
can stand this knowledge that you seek. If I had had my own way, Lucy
should never have yielded, and promised to tell you all. Who knows what
may come of it?'
'I am firm in my wish to know all. I return at ten to-morrow morning,
and then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself.'
I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to Mistress
Clarke's sanity.
Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable thoughts
connected with that strange laughter, filled my mind. I could hardly
sleep. I rose early; and long before the hour I had appointed, I was on
the path over the common that led to the old farm-house where they
lodged. I suppose that Lucy had passed no better a night than I; for
there she was also, slowly pacing with her even step, her eyes bent
down, her whole look most saintly and pure. She started when I came
close to her, and grew paler as I reminded her of my appointment, and
spoke with something of the impatience of obstacles that, seeing her
once more, had called up afresh in my mind. All strange and terrible
hints, and giddy merriment were forgotten. My heart gave forth words of
fire, and my tongue uttered them. Her colour went and came, as she
listened; but, when I had ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her
soft eyes to me, and said:
'But you know that you have something to learn about me yet. I only
want to say this: I shall not think less of you--less well of you, I
mean--if you, too, fall away from me when you know all. Stop!' said
she, as if fearing another burst of mad words. 'Listen to me. My father
is a man of great wealth. I never knew my mother; she must have died
when I was very young. When first I remember anything, I was living in
a great, lonely house, with my dear and faithful Mistress Clarke. My
father, even, was not there; he was--he is--a soldier, and his duties
lie abroad. 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 loved
them. Till about two years ago--I remember it well--my father had come
to England, to us; and he seemed so proud and so pleased with me and
all I had done. And one day his tongue seemed loosened with wine, and
he told me much that I had not known till then,--how dearly he had
loved my mother, yet how his wilful usage had caused her death; and
then he went on to say how he loved me better than any creature on
earth, and how, some day, he hoped to take me to foreign places, for
that he could hardly bear these long absences from his only child. Then
he seemed to change suddenly, and said, in a strange, wild way, that I
was not to believe what he said; that there was many a thing he loved
better--his horse--his dog--I know not what.
'And 'twas only the next morning that, when I came into his room to ask
his blessing as was my wont, he received me with fierce and angry
words. 'Why had I,' so he asked, 'been delighting myself in such wanton
mischief--dancing over the tender plants in the flower-beds, all set
with the famous Dutch bulbs he had brought from Holland?' I had never
been out of doors that morning, sir, and I could not conceive what he
meant, and so I said; and then he swore at me for a liar, and said I
was of no true blood, for he had seen me doing all that mischief
himself--with his own eyes. What could I say? He would not listen to
me, and even my tears seemed only to irritate him. That day was the
beginning of my great sorrows. Not long after, he reproached me for my
undue familiarity--all unbecoming a gentlewoman--with his grooms. I had
been in the stable-yard, laughing and talking, he said. Now, sir, I am
something of a coward by nature, and I had always dreaded horses;
besides that, my father's servants--those whom he brought with him from
foreign parts--were wild fellows, whom I had always avoided, and to
whom I had never spoken, except as a lady must needs from time to time
speak to her father's people. Yet my father called me by names of which
I hardly know the meaning, but my heart told me they were such as shame
any modest woman; and from that day he turned quite against me;--nay,
sir, not many weeks after that, he came in with a riding-whip in his
hand; and, accusing me harshly of evil doings, of which I knew no more
than you, sir, he was about to strike me, and I, all in bewildering
tears, was ready to take his stripes as great kindness compared to his
harder words, when suddenly he stopped his arm mid-way, gasped and
staggered, crying out, 'The curse--the curse!' I looked up in terror.
In the great mirror opposite I saw myself, and, right behind, another
wicked, fearful self, so like me that my soul seemed to quiver within
me, as though not knowing to which similitude of body it belonged. My
father saw my double at the same moment, either in its dreadful
reality, whatever that might be, or in the scarcely less terrible
reflection in the mirror; but what came of it at that moment I cannot
say, for I suddenly swooned away; and when I came to myself I was lying
in my bed, and my faithful Clarke sitting by me. I was in my bed for
days; and even while I lay there my double was seen by all, flitting
about the house and gardens, always about some mischievous or
detestable work. What wonder that every one shrank from me in
dread--that my father drove me forth at length, when the disgrace of
which I was the cause was past his patience to bear. Mistress Clarke
came with me; and here we try to live such a life of piety and prayer
as may in time set me free from the curse.'
All the time she had been speaking, I had been weighing her story in my
mind. I had hitherto put cases of witchcraft on one side, as mere
superstitions; and my uncle and I had had many an argument, he
supporting himself by the opinion of his good friend Sir Matthew Hale.
Yet this sounded like the tale of one bewitched; or was it merely the
effect of a life of extreme seclusion telling on the nerves of a
sensitive girl? My scepticism inclined me to the latter belief, and
when she paused I said:
'I fancy that some physician could have disabused your father of his
belief in visions----'
Just at that instant, standing as I was opposite to her in the full and
perfect morning light, I saw behind her another figure--a ghastly
resemblance, complete in likeness, so far as form and feature and
minutest touch of dress could go, but with a loathsome demon soul
looking out of the grey eyes, that were in turns mocking and
voluptuous. My heart stood still within me; every hair rose up erect;
my flesh crept with horror. I could not see the grave and tender
Lucy--my eyes were fascinated by the creature beyond. I know not why,
but I put out my hand to clutch it; I grasped nothing but empty air,
and my whole blood curdled to ice. For a moment I could not see; then
my sight came back, and I saw Lucy standing before me, alone, deathly
pale, and, I could have fancied, almost, shrunk in size.
'IT has been near me?' she said, as if asking a question.
The sound seemed taken out of her voice; it was husky as the notes on
an old harpsichord when the strings have ceased to vibrate. She read
her answer in my face, I suppose, for I could not speak. Her look was
one of intense fear, but that died away into an aspect of most humble
patience. At length she seemed to force herself to face behind and
around her: she saw the purple moors, the blue distant hills, quivering
in the sunlight, but nothing else.
'Will you take me home?' she said, meekly.
I took her by the hand, and led her silently through the budding
heather--we dared not speak; for we could not tell but that the dread
creature was listening, although unseen,--but that IT might appear and
push us asunder. I never loved her more fondly than now when--and that
was the unspeakable misery--the idea of her was becoming so
inextricably blended with the shuddering thought of IT. She seemed to
understand what I must be feeling. She let go my hand, which she had
kept clasped until then, when we reached the garden gate, and went
forwards to meet her anxious friend, who was standing by the window
looking for her. I could not enter the house: I needed silence,
society, leisure, change--I knew not what--to shake off the sensation
of that creature's presence. Yet I lingered about the garden--I hardly
know why; I partly suppose, because I feared to encounter the
resemblance again on the solitary common, where it had vanished, and
partly from a feeling of inexpressible compassion for Lucy. In a few
minutes Mistress Clarke came forth and joined me. We walked some paces
in silence.
'You know all now,' said she, solemnly.
'I saw IT,' said I, below my breath.
'And you shrink from us, now,' she said, with a hopelessness which
stirred up all that was brave or good in me.
'Not a whit,' said I. 'Human flesh shrinks from encounter with the
powers of darkness: and, for some reason unknown to me, the pure and
holy Lucy is their victim.'
'The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children,' she said.
'Who is her father?' asked I. 'Knowing as much as I do, I may surely
know more--know all. Tell me, I entreat you, madam, all that you can
conjecture respecting this demoniac persecution of one so good.'
'I will; but not now. I must go to Lucy now. Come this afternoon, I
will see you alone; and oh, sir! I will trust that you may yet find
some way to help us in our sore trouble!'
I was miserably exhausted by the swooning affright which had taken
possession of me. When I reached the inn, I staggered in like one
overcome by wine. I went to my own private room. It was some time
before I saw that the weekly post had come in, and brought me my
letters. There was one from my uncle, one from my home in Devonshire,
and one, re-directed over the first address, sealed with a great coat
of arms. It was from Sir Philip Tempest: my letter of inquiry
respecting Mary Fitzgerald had reached him at Liège, 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, make a mass of presumptive
evidence. As far as I could make out from the Count's foreign
pronunciation, Gisborne was the name of the Englishman: I know that
Gisborne of Skipford was abroad and in the foreign service at that
time--he was a likely fellow enough for such an exploit, and, above
all, certain expressions recur to my mind which he used in reference to
old Bridget Fitzgerald, of Coldholme, whom he once encountered while
staying with me at Starkey Manor-House. I remember that the meeting
seemed to have produced some extraordinary effect upon his mind, as
though he had suddenly discovered some connection which she might have
had with his previous life. I beg you to let me know if I can be of any
further service to you. Your uncle once rendered me a good turn, and I
will gladly repay it, so far as in me lies, to his nephew.'
I was now apparently close on the discovery which I had striven so many
months to attain. But success had lost its zest. I put my letters down,
and seemed to forget them all in thinking of the morning I had passed
that very day. Nothing was real but the unreal presence, which had come
like an evil blast across my bodily eyes, and burnt itself down upon my
brain. Dinner came, and went away untouched. Early in the afternoon I
walked to the farm-house. I found Mistress Clarke alone, and I was glad
and relieved. She was evidently prepared to tell me all I might wish to
hear.
'You asked me for Mistress Lucy's true name; it is Gisborne,' she
began.
'Not Gisborne of Skipford?' I exclaimed, breathless with anticipation.
'The same,' said she, quietly, not regarding my manner. 'Her father is
a man of note; although, being a Roman Catholic, he cannot take that
rank in this country to which his station entitles him. The consequence
is that he lives much abroad--has been a soldier, I am told.'
'And Lucy's mother?' I asked.
She shook her head. 'I never knew her,' said she. 'Lucy was about three
years old when I was engaged to take charge of her. Her mother was
dead.'
'But you know her name?--you can tell if it was Mary Fitzgerald?'
She looked astonished. 'That was her name. But, sir, how came you to be
so well acquainted with it? It was a mystery to the whole household at
Skipford Court. She was some beautiful young woman whom he lured away
from her protectors while he was abroad. I have heard said he practised
some terrible deceit upon her, and when she came to know it, she was
neither to have nor to hold, but rushed off from his very arms, and
threw herself into a rapid stream and was drowned. It stung him deep
with remorse, but I used to think the remembrance of the mother's cruel
death made him love the child yet dearer.'
I told her, as briefly as might be, of my researches after the
descendant and heir of the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added--something
of my old lawyer spirit returning into me for the moment--that I had no
doubt but that we should prove Lucy to be by right possessed of large
estates in Ireland.
No flush came over her grey face; no light into her eyes. 'And what is
all the wealth in the whole world to that poor girl?' she said. 'It
will not free her from the ghastly bewitchment which persecutes her. As
for money, what a pitiful thing it is; it cannot touch her.'
'No more can the Evil Creature harm her,' I said. 'Her holy nature
dwells apart, and cannot be defiled or stained by all the devilish arts
in the whole world.'
'True! but it is a cruel fate to know that all shrink from her, sooner
or later, as from one possessed--accursed.'
'How came it to pass?' I asked.
'Nay, I know not. Old rumours there are, that were bruited through the
household at Skipford.'
'Tell me,' I demanded.
'They came from servants, who would fain account for everything. They
say that, many years ago, Mr. Gisborne killed a dog belonging to an old
witch at Coldholme; that she cursed, with a dreadful and mysterious
curse, the creature, whatever it might be, that he should love best;
and that it struck so deeply into his heart that for years he kept
himself aloof from any temptation to love aught. But who could help
loving Lucy?'
'You never heard the witch's name?' I gasped.
'Yes--they called her Bridget; they said he would never go near the
spot again for terror of her. Yet he was a brave man!'
'Listen,' said I, taking hold of her arm, the better to arrest her full
attention; 'if what I suspect holds true, that man stole Bridget's only
child--the very Mary Fitzgerald who was Lucy's mother; if so, Bridget
cursed him in ignorance of the deeper wrong he had done her. To this
hour she yearns after her lost child, and questions the saints whether
she be living or not. The roots of that curse lie deeper than she
knows: she unwittingly banned him for a deeper guilt than that of
killing a dumb beast. The sins of the fathers are indeed visited upon
the children.'
'But,' said Mistress Clarke, eagerly, 'she would never let evil rest on
her own grandchild? Surely, sir, if what you say be true, there are
hopes for Lucy. Let us go--go at once, and tell this fearful woman all
that you suspect, and beseech her to take off the spell she has put
upon her innocent grandchild.'
It seemed to me, indeed, that something like this was the best course
we could pursue. But first it was necessary to ascertain more than what
mere rumour or careless hearsay could tell. My thoughts turned to my
uncle--he could advise me wisely--he ought to know all. I resolved to
go to him without delay; but I did not choose to tell Mistress Clarke
of all the visionary plans that flitted through my mind. I simply
declared my intention of proceeding straight to London on Lucy's
affairs. I bade her believe that my interest on the young lady's behalf
was greater than ever, and that my whole time should be given up to her
cause. I saw that Mistress Clarke distrusted me, because my mind was
too full of thoughts for my words to flow freely. She sighed and shook
her head, and said, 'Well, it is all right!' in such a tone that it was
an implied reproach. But I was firm and constant in my heart, and I
took confidence from that.
I rode to London. I rode long days drawn out into the lovely summer
nights: I could not rest. I reached London. I told my uncle all, though
in the stir of the great city the horror had faded away, and I could
hardly imagine that he would believe the account I gave him of the
fearful double of Lucy which I had seen on the lonely moor-side. But my
uncle had lived many years, and learnt many things; and, in the deep
secrets of family history that had been confided to him, he had heard
of cases of innocent people bewitched and taken possession of by evil
spirits yet more fearful than Lucy's. For, as he said, to judge from
all I told him, that resemblance had no power over her--she was too
pure and good to be tainted by its evil, haunting presence. It had, in
all probability, so my uncle conceived, tried to suggest wicked
thoughts and to tempt to wicked actions; but she, in her saintly
maidenhood, had passed on undefiled by evil thought or deed. It could
not touch her soul: but true, it set her apart from all sweet love or
common human intercourse. My uncle threw himself with an energy more
like six-and-twenty than sixty into the consideration of the whole
case. He undertook the proving Lucy's descent, and volunteered to go
and find out Mr. Gisborne, and obtain, firstly, the legal proofs of her
descent from the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and, secondly, to try and hear
all that he could respecting the working of the curse, and whether any
and what means had been taken to exorcise that terrible appearance. For
he told me of instances where, by prayers and long fasting, the evil
possessor had been driven forth with howling and many cries from the
body which it had come to inhabit; he spoke of those strange New
England cases which had happened not so long before; of Mr. Defoe, who
had written a book, wherein he had named many modes of subduing
apparitions, and sending them back whence they came; and, lastly, he
spoke low of dreadful ways of compelling witches to undo their
witchcraft. But I could not endure to hear of those tortures and
burnings. I said that Bridget was rather a wild and savage woman than a
malignant witch; and, above all, that Lucy was of her kith and kin; and
that, in putting her to the trial, by water or by fire, we should be
torturing--it might be to the death--the ancestress of her we sought to
redeem.
My uncle thought awhile, and then said, that in this last matter I was
right--at any rate, it should not be tried, with his consent, till all
other modes of remedy had failed; and he assented to my proposal that I
should go myself and see Bridget, and tell her all.
In accordance with this, I went down once more to the wayside inn near
Coldholme. It was late at night when I arrived there; and, while I
supped, I inquired of the landlord more particulars as to Bridget's
ways. Solitary and savage had been her life for many years. Wild and
despotic were her words and manner to those few people who came across
her path. The country-folk did her imperious bidding, because they
feared to disobey. If they pleased her, they prospered; if, on the
contrary, they neglected or traversed her behests, misfortune, small or
great, fell on them and theirs. It was not detestation so much as an
indefinable terror that she excited.
In the morning I went to see her. She was standing on the green outside
her cottage, and received me with the sullen grandeur of a throneless
queen. I read in her face that she recognised me, and that I was not
unwelcome; but she stood silent till I had opened my errand.
'I have news of your daughter,' said I, resolved to speak straight to
all that I knew she felt of love, and not to spare her. 'She is dead!'
The stern figure scarcely trembled, but her hand sought the support of
the door-post.
'I knew that she was dead,' said she, deep and low, and then was silent
for an instant. 'My tears that should have flowed for her were burnt up
long years ago. Young man, tell me about her.'
'Not yet,' said I, having a strange power given me of confronting one,
whom, nevertheless, in my secret soul I dreaded.
'You had once a little dog,' I continued. The words called out in her
more show of emotion than the intelligence of her daughter's death. She
broke in upon my speech:
'I had! It was hers--the last thing I had of hers--and it was shot for
wantonness! It died in my arms. The man who killed that dog rues it to
this day. For that dumb beast's blood, his best-beloved stands
accursed.'
Her eyes distended, as if she were in a trance and saw the working of
her curse. Again I spoke:
'O, woman!' I said, 'that best-beloved, standing accursed before men,
is your dead daughter's child.'
The life, the energy, the passion came back to the eyes with which she
pierced through me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without another
question or word, she threw herself on the ground with fearful
vehemence, and clutched at the innocent daisies with convulsed hands.
'Bone of my bone! flesh of my flesh! have I cursed thee--and art thou
accursed?'
So she moaned, as she lay prostrate in her great agony. I stood aghast
at my own work. She did not hear my broken sentences; she asked no
more, but the dumb confirmation which my sad looks had given that one
fact, that her curse rested on her own daughter's child. The fear grew
on me lest she should die in her strife of body and soul; and then
might not Lucy remain under the spell as long as she lived?
Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming through the woodland path that
led to Bridget's cottage; Mistress Clarke was with her: I felt at my
heart that it was she, by the balmy peace which the look of her sent
over me, as she slowly advanced, a glad surprise shining out of her
soft quiet eyes. That was as her gaze met mine. As her looks fell on
the woman lying stiff, convulsed on the earth, they became full of
tender pity; and she came forward to try and lift her up. Seating
herself on the turf, she took Bridget's head into her lap; and, with
gentle touches, she arranged the dishevelled grey hair streaming thick
and wild from beneath her mutch.
'God help her!' murmured Lucy. 'How she suffers!'
At her desire we sought for water; but when we returned, Bridget had
recovered her wandering senses, and was kneeling with clasped hands
before Lucy, gazing at that sweet sad face as though her troubled
nature drank in health and peace from every moment's contemplation. A
faint tinge on Lucy's pale cheeks showed me that she was aware of our
return; otherwise it appeared as if she was conscious of her influence
for good over the passionate and troubled woman kneeling before her,
and would not willingly avert her grave and loving eyes from that
wrinkled and careworn countenance.
Suddenly--in the twinkling of an eye--the creature appeared, there,
behind Lucy; fearfully the same as to outward semblance, but kneeling
exactly as Bridget knelt, and clasping her hands in jesting mimicry as
Bridget clasped hers in her ecstasy that was deepening into a prayer.
Mistress Clarke cried out--Bridget arose slowly, her gaze fixed on the
creature beyond: drawing her breath with a hissing sound, never moving
her terrible eyes, that were steady as stone, she made a dart at the
phantom, and caught, as I had done, a mere handful of empty air. We saw
no more of the creature--it vanished as suddenly as it came, but
Bridget looked slowly on, as if watching some receding form. Lucy sat
still, white, trembling, drooping--I think she would have swooned if I
had not been there to uphold her. While I was attending to her, Bridget
passed us, without a word to any one, and, entering her cottage, she
barred herself in, and left us without.
All our endeavours were now directed to get Lucy back to the house
where she had tarried the night before. Mistress Clarke told me that,
not hearing from me (some letter must have miscarried), she had grown
impatient and despairing, and had urged Lucy to the enterprise of
coming to seek her grandmother; not telling her, indeed, of the dread
reputation she possessed, or how we suspected her of having so
fearfully blighted that innocent girl; but, at the same time, hoping
much from the mysterious stirring of blood, which Mistress Clarke
trusted in for the removal of the curse. They had come, by a different
route from that which I had taken, to a village inn not far from
Coldholme, only the night before. This was the first interview between
ancestress and descendant.
All through the sultry noon I wandered along the tangled wood-paths of
the old neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a matter
so complicated and mysterious. Meeting a countryman, I asked my way to
the nearest clergyman, and went, hoping to obtain some counsel from
him. But he proved to be a coarse and common-minded man, giving no time
or attention to the intricacies of a case, but dashing out a strong
opinion involving immediate action. For instance, as soon as I named
Bridget Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:
'The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist! I'd have had her ducked long
since but for that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest. He has had to
threaten honest folk about here over and over again, or they'd have had
her up before the justices for her black doings. And it's the law of
the land that witches should be burnt! Ay, and of Scripture, too, sir!
Yet you see a papist, if he's a rich squire, can overrule both law and
Scripture. I'd carry a fagot myself to rid the country of her!'
Such a one could give me no help. I rather drew back what I had already
said; and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him to
several pots of beer, in the village inn, to which we had adjourned for
our conference at his suggestion. I left him as soon as I could, and
returned to Coldholme, shaping my way past deserted Starkey
Manor-House, and coming upon it by the back. At that side were the
oblong remains of the old moat, the waters of which lay placid and
motionless under the crimson rays of the setting sun; with the
forest-trees lying straight along each side, and their deep-green
foliage mirrored to blackness in the burnished surface of the moat
below--and the broken sun-dial at the end nearest the hall--and the
heron, standing on one leg at the water's edge, lazily looking down for
fish--the lonely and desolate house scarce needed the broken windows,
the weeds on the door-sill, the broken shutter softly flapping to and
fro in the twilight breeze, to fill up the picture of desertion and
decay. I lingered about the place until the growing darkness warned me
on. And then I passed along the path, cut by the orders of the last
lady of Starkey Manor-House, that led me to Bridget's cottage. I
resolved at once to see her; and, in spite of closed doors--it might be
of resolved will--she should see me. So I knocked at her door, gently,
loudly, fiercely. I shook it so vehemently that at length the old
hinges gave way, and with a crash it fell inwards, leaving me suddenly
face to face with Bridget--I, red, heated, agitated with my so
long-baffled efforts--she, stiff as any stone, standing right facing
me, her eyes dilated with terror, her ashen lips trembling, but her
body motionless. In her hands she held her crucifix, as if by that holy
symbol she sought to oppose my entrance. At sight of me, her whole
frame relaxed, and she sank back upon a chair. Some mighty tension had
given way. Still her eyes looked fearfully into the gloom of the outer
air, made more opaque by the glimmer of the lamp inside, which she had
placed before the picture of the Virgin.
'Is she there?' asked Bridget, hoarsely.
'No! Who? I am alone. You remember me.'
'Yes,' replied she, still terror-stricken. 'But she--that creature--has
been looking in upon me through that window all day long. I closed it
up with my shawl; and then I saw her feet below the door, as long as it
was light, and I knew she heard my very breathing--nay, worse, my very
prayers; and I could not pray, for her listening choked the words ere
they rose to my lip. Tell me, who is she?--what means that double girl
I saw this morning? One had a look of my dead Mary; but the other
curdled my blood, and yet it was the same!'
She had taken hold of my arm, as if to secure herself some human
companionship. She shook all over with the slight, never-ceasing tremor
of intense terror. I told her my tale, as I have told it you, sparing
none of the details.
How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had driven
Lucy forth from her father's house--how I had disbelieved, until, with
mine own eyes, I had seen another Lucy standing behind my Lucy, the
same in form and feature, but with the demon-soul looking out of the
eyes. I told her all, I say, believing that she--whose curse was
working so upon the life of her innocent grandchild--was the only
person who could find the remedy and the redemption. When I had done,
she sat silent for many minutes.
'You love Mary's child?' she asked.
'I do, in spite of the fearful working of the curse--I love her. Yet I
shrink from her ever since that day on the moor-side. And men must
shrink from one so accompanied; friends and lovers must stand afar off.
Oh, Bridget Fitzgerald! loosen the curse! Set her free!'
'Where is she?'
I eagerly caught at the idea that her presence was needed, in order
that, by some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be reversed.
'I will go and bring her to you,' I exclaimed. But Bridget tightened
her hold upon my arm.
'Not so,' said she, in a low, hoarse voice. 'It would kill me to see
her again as I saw her this morning. And I must live till I have worked
my work. Leave me!' said she, suddenly, and again taking up the cross.
'I defy the demon I have called up. Leave me to wrestle with it!'
She stood up, as if in an ecstasy of inspiration, from which all fear
was banished. I lingered--why, I can hardly tell--until once more she
bade me begone. As I went along the forest way, I looked back, and saw
her planting the cross in the empty threshold, where the door had been.
The next morning Lucy and I went to seek her, to bid her join her
prayers with ours. The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze. No
human being was there: the cross remained on the threshold, but Bridget
was gone.