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 lips. Tell me, who is she?--what means that double girl

I saw this morning? One had a look of my dead Mary; but the other

curdled my blood, and yet it was the same!”

She had taken hold of my arm, as if to secure herself some human

companionship. She shook all over with the slight, never-ceasing tremor

of intense terror. I told her my tale, as I have told it you, sparing

none of the details.

How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had driven Lucy

forth from her father’s house--how I had disbelieved, until, with mine

own eyes, I had seen another Lucy standing behind my Lucy, the same in

form and feature, but with the demon-soul looking out of the eyes. I

told her all, I say, believing that she--whose curse was working so upon

the life of her innocent grandchild--was the only person who could find

the remedy and the redemption. When I had done, she sat silent for many

minutes.

“You love Mary’s child?” she asked.

“I do, in spite of the fearful working of the curse--I love her. Yet I

shrink from her ever since that day on the moor-side. And men must

shrink from one so accompanied; friends and lovers must stand afar off.

Oh, Bridget Fitzgerald! loosen the curse! Set her free!”

“Where is she?”

I eagerly caught at the idea that her presence was needed, in order

that, by some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be reversed.

“I will go and bring her to you,” I exclaimed. 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.

CHAPTER III.

What was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself. As for

Lucy, she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon her. Her

gentleness and piety, under the pressure of so horrible a life, seemed

over-passive to me. She never complained. Mrs. Clarke complained more

than ever. As for me, I was more in love with the real Lucy than ever;

but I shrunk from the false similitude with an intensity proportioned to

my love. I found out by instinct that Mrs. Clarke had occasional

temptations to leave Lucy. The good lady’s nerves were shaken, and, from

what she said, I could almost have concluded that the object of the

Double was to drive away from Lucy this last and almost earliest friend.

At times, I could scarcely bear to own it, but I myself felt inclined to

turn recreant; and I would accuse Lucy of being too patient--too

resigned. One after another, she won the little children of Coldholme.

(Mrs. Clarke and she had resolved to stay there, for was it not as good

a place as any other to such as they? and did not all our faint hopes

rest on Bridget--never seen or heard of now, but still we trusted to

come back, or give some token?) So, as I say, one after another, the

little children came about my Lucy, won by her soft tones, and her

gentle smiles, and kind actions. Alas! one after another they fell away,

and shrunk from her path with blanching terror; and we too surely

guessed the reason why. It was the last drop. I could bear it no longer.

I resolved no more to linger around the spot, but to go back to my

uncle, and among the learned divines of the city of London, seek for

some power whereby to annul the curse.

My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite testimonials

relating to Lucy’s descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and from

Mr. Gisborne. The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he was again

serving in the Austrian army), a letter alternately passionately

self-reproachful and stoically repellent. It was evident that when he

thought of Mary--her short life--how he had wronged her, and of her

violent death, he could hardly find words severe enough for his own

conduct; and from this point of view, the curse that Bridget had laid

upon him and his was regarded by him as a prophetic doom, to the

utterance of which she was moved by a Higher Power, working for the

fulfilment of a deeper vengeance than for the death of the poor dog. But

then, again, when he came to speak of his daughter, the repugnance which

the conduct of the demoniac creature had produced in his mind, was but

ill disguised under a show of profound indifference as to Lucy’s fate.

One almost felt as if he would have been as content to put her out of

existence, as he would have been to destroy some disgusting reptile that

had invaded his chamber or his couch.

The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy’s; and that was all--was nothing.

My uncle and I sat in the gloom of a London November evening, in our

house in Ormond Street. I was out of health, and felt as if I were in an

inextricable coil of misery. Lucy and I wrote to each other, but that

was little; and we dared not see each other for dread of the fearful

Third, who had more than once taken her place at our meetings. My uncle

had, on the day I speak of, bidden prayers to be put up, on the ensuing

Sabbath, in many a church and meeting-house in London, for one

grievously tormented by an evil spirit. He had faith in prayers--I had

none; I was fast losing faith in all things. So we sat--he trying to

interest me in the old talk of other days, I oppressed by one

thought--when our old servant, Anthony, opened the door, and, without

speaking, showed in a very gentlemanly and prepossessing man, who had

something remarkable about his dress, betraying his profession to be

that of the Roman Catholic priesthood. He glanced at my uncle first,

then at me. It was to me he bowed.

“I did not give my name,” said he, “because you would hardly have

recognised it; unless, sir, when in the north, you heard of Father

Bernard, the chaplain at Stoney Hurst?”

I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I had

utterly forgotten it; so I professed myself a complete stranger to him;

while my ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as much as it

was in his nature to hate anything, placed a chair for the visitor, and

bade Anthony bring glasses and a fresh jug of claret.

Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful ease and

pleasant acknowledgment which belongs to the man of the world. Then he

turned to scan me with his keen glance. After some slight conversation,

entered into on his part, I am certain, with an intention of discovering

on what terms of confidence I stood with my uncle, he paused, and said

gravely--

“I am sent here with a message to you, sir, from a woman to whom you

have shown kindness, and who is one of my penitents, in Antwerp--one

Bridget Fitzgerald.”

“Bridget Fitzgerald!” exclaimed I. “In Antwerp? Tell me, sir, all that

you can about her.”

“There is much to be said,” he replied. “But may I inquire if this

gentleman--if your uncle is acquainted with the particulars of which you

and I stand informed?”

“All that I know, he knows,” said I, eagerly laying my hand on my

uncle’s arm, as he made a motion as if to quit the room.

“Then I have to speak before two gentlemen who, however they may differ

from me in faith, are yet fully impressed with the fact, that there are

evil powers going about continually to take cognizance of our evil

thoughts; and, if their Master gives them power, to bring them into

overt action. Such is my theory of the nature of that sin, of which I

dare not disbelieve--as some sceptics would have us do--the sin of

witchcraft. Of this deadly sin, you and I are aware Bridget Fitzgerald

has been guilty. Since you saw her last, many prayers have been offered

in our churches, many masses sung, many penances undergone, in order

that, if God and the Holy Saints so willed it, her sin might be blotted

out. But it has not been so willed.”

“Explain to me,” said I, “who you are, and how you come connected with

Bridget. Why is she at Antwerp? I pray you, sir, tell me more. If I am

impatient, excuse me; I am ill and feverish, and in consequence

bewildered.”

There was something to me inexpressibly soothing in the tone of voice

with which he began to narrate, as it were from the beginning, his

acquaintance with Bridget.

“I had known Mr. and Mrs. Starkey during their residence abroad, and so

it fell out naturally that, when I came as chaplain to the Sherburnes at

Stoney Hurst, our acquaintance was renewed; and thus I became the

confessor of the whole family, isolated as they were from the offices of

the Church, Sherburne being their nearest neighbour who professed the

true faith. Of course, you are aware that facts revealed in confession

are sealed as in the grave; but I learnt enough of Bridget’s character

to be convinced that I had to do with no common woman; one powerful for

good as for evil. I believe that I was able to give her spiritual

assistance from time to time, and that she looked upon me as a servant

of that Holy Church, which has such wonderful power of moving men’s

hearts, and relieving them of the burden of their sins. I have known her

cross the moors on the wildest nights of storm, to confess and be

absolved; and then she would return, calmed and subdued, to her daily

work about her mistress, no one witting where she had been during the

hours that most passed in sleep upon their beds. After her daughter’s

departure--after Mary’s mysterious disappearance--I had to impose many a

long penance, in order to wash away the sin of impatient repining that

was fast leading her into the deeper guilt of blasphemy. She set out on

that long journey of which you have possibly heard--that fruitless

journey in search of Mary--and during her absence, my superiors ordered

my return to my former duties at Antwerp, and for many years I heard no

more of Bridget.

“Not many months ago, as I was passing homewards in the evening, along

one of the streets near St. Jacques, leading into the Meer Straet, I saw

a woman sitting crouched up under the shrine of the Holy Mother of

Sorrows. Her hood was drawn over her head, so that the shadow caused by

the light of the lamp above fell deep over her face; her hands were

clasped round her knees. It was evident that she was some one in

hopeless trouble, and as such it was my duty to stop and speak. I

naturally addressed her first in Flemish, believing her to be one of the

lower class of inhabitants. She shook her head, but did not look up.

Then I tried French, and she replied in that language, but speaking it

so indifferently, that I was sure she was either English or Irish, and

consequently spoke to her in my own native tongue. She recognised my

voice; and, starting up, caught at my robes, dragging me before the

blessed shrine, and throwing herself down, and forcing me, as much by

her evident desire as by her action, to kneel beside her, she exclaimed:

“‘O Holy Virgin! you will never hearken to me again, but hear him; for

you know him of old, that he does your bidding, and strives to heal

broken hearts. Hear him!’

“She turned to me.

“‘She will hear you, if you will only pray. She never hears me: she and

all the saints in Heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the Evil One

carries them off, as he carried that first away. O, Father Bernard, pray

for me!’

“I prayed for one in sore distress, of what nature I could not say; but

the Holy Virgin would know. Bridget held me fast, gasping with eagerness

at the sound of my words. When I had ended, I rose, and, making the sign

of the Cross over her, I was going to bless her in the name of the Holy

Church, when she shrank away like some terrified creature, and said:

“‘I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven.’

“‘Arise, my daughter,’ said I, ‘and come with me.’ And I led the way

into one of the confessionals of St. Jacques.

“She knelt; I listened. No words came. The evil powers had stricken her

dumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when she

approached confession.

“She was too poor to pay for the necessary forms of exorcism; and

hitherto those priests to whom she had addressed herself were either so

ignorant of the meaning of her broken French, or her Irish-English, or

else esteemed her to be one crazed--as, indeed, her wild and excited

manner might easily have led any one to think--that they had neglected

the sole means of loosening her tongue, so that she might confess her

deadly sin, and after due penance, obtain absolution. But I knew Bridget

of old, and felt that she was a penitent sent to me. I went through

those holy offices appointed by our church for the relief of such a

case. I was the more bound to do this, as I found that she had come to

Antwerp for the sole purpose of discovering me, and making confession to

me. Of the nature of that fearful confession I am forbidden to speak.

Much of it you know; possibly all.

“It now remains for her to free herself from mortal guilt, and to set

others free from the consequences thereof. No prayers, no masses, will

ever do it, although they may strengthen her with that strength by which

alone acts of deepest love and purest self-devotion may be performed.

Her words of passion, and cries for revenge--her unholy prayers could

never reach the ears of the Holy Saints! Other powers intercepted them,

and wrought so that the curses thrown up to Heaven have fallen on her

own flesh and blood; and so, through her very strength of love, have

bruised and crushed her heart. Henceforward her former self must be

buried,--yea, buried quick, if need be,--but never more to make sign, or

utter cry on earth! She has become a Poor Clare, in order that, by

perpetual penance and constant service of others, she may at length so

act as to obtain final absolution and rest for her soul. Until then, the

innocent must suffer. It is to plead for the innocent that I come to

you; not in the name of the witch, Bridget Fitzgerald, but of the

penitent and servant of all men, the Poor Clare, Sister Magdalen.”

“Sir,” said I, “I listen to your request with respect; only I may tell

you it is not needed to urge me to do all that I can on behalf of one,

love for whom is part of my very life. If for a time I have absented

myself from her, it is to think and work for her redemption. I, a member

of the English Church--my uncle, a Puritan--pray morning and night for

her by name: the congregations of London, on the next Sabbath, will pray

for one unknown, that she may be set free from the Powers of Darkness.

Moreover, I must tell you, sir, that those evil ones touch not the great

calm of her soul. She lives her own pure and loving life, unharmed and

untainted, though all men fall off from her. I would I could have her

faith!”

My uncle now spoke.

“Nephew,” said he, “it seems to me that this gentleman, although

professing what I consider an erroneous creed, has touched upon the

right point in exhorting Bridget to acts of love and mercy, whereby to

wipe out her sin of hate and vengeance. Let us strive after our fashion,

by almsgiving and visiting of the needy and fatherless, to make our

prayers acceptable. Meanwhile, I myself will go down into the north, and

take charge of the maiden. I am too old to be daunted by man or demon. I

will bring her to this house as to a home; and let the Double come if it

will! A company of godly divines shall give it the meeting, and we will

try issue.”

The kindly, brave old man! But Father Bernard sat on musing.

“All hate,” said he, “cannot be quenched in her heart; all Christian

forgiveness cannot have entered into her soul, or the demon would have

lost its power. You said, I think, that her grandchild was still

tormented?”

“Still tormented!” I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress Clarke’s last

letter.

He rose to go. We afterwards heard that the occasion of his coming to

London was a secret political mission on behalf of the Jacobites.

Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man.

Months and months passed away without any change. Lucy entreated my

uncle to leave her where she was,--dreading, as I learnt, lest if she

came, with her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me,

that my love could not stand the repeated shocks to which I should be

doomed. And this she thought from no distrust of the strength of my

affection, but from a kind of pitying sympathy for the terror to the

nerves which she observed that the demoniac visitation caused in all.

I was restless and miserable. I devoted myself to good works; but I

performed them from no spirit of love, but solely from the hope of

reward and payment, and so the reward was never granted. At length, I

asked my uncle’s leave to travel; and I went forth, a wanderer, with no

distincter end than that of many another wanderer--to get away from

myself. A strange impulse led me to Antwerp, in spite of the wars and

commotions then raging in the Low Countries--or rather, perhaps, the

very craving to become interested in something external, led me into the

thick of the struggle then going on with the Austrians. The cities of

Flanders were all full at that time of civil disturbances and

rebellions, only kept down by force, and the presence of an Austrian

garrison in every place.

I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry for Father Bernard. He was away

in the country for a day or two. Then I asked my way to the Convent of

Poor Clares; but, being healthy and prosperous, I could only see the

dim, pent-up, gray walls, shut closely in by narrow streets, in the

lowest part of the town. My landlord told me, that had I been stricken

by some loathsome disease, or in desperate case of any kind, the Poor

Clares would have taken me, and tended me. He spoke of them as an order

of mercy of the strictest kind, dressing scantily in the coarsest

materials, going barefoot, living on what the inhabitants of Antwerp

chose to bestow, and sharing even those fragments and crumbs with the

poor and helpless that swarmed all around; receiving no letters or

communication with the outer world; utterly dead to everything but the

alleviation of suffering. He smiled at my inquiring whether I could get

speech of one of them; and told me that they were even forbidden to

speak for the purposes of begging their daily food; while yet they

lived, and fed others upon what was given in charity.

“But,” exclaimed I, “supposing all men forgot them! Would they quietly

lie down and die, without making sign of their extremity?”

“If such were their rule, the Poor Clares would willingly do it; but

their founder appointed a remedy for such extreme case as you suggest.

They have a bell--’tis but a small one, as I have heard, and has yet

never been rung in the memory of man: when the Poor Clares have been

without food for twenty-four hours, they may ring this bell, and then

trust to our good people of Antwerp for rushing to the rescue of the

Poor Clares, who have taken such blessed care of us in all our straits.”

It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I did not

say what I thought. I rather turned the conversation, by asking my

landlord if he knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain Sister

Magdalen.

“Yes,” said he, rather under his breath; “news will creep out, even from

a convent of Poor Clares. Sister Magdalen is either a great sinner or a

great saint. She does more, as I have heard, than all the other nuns put

together; yet, when last month they would fain have made her

mother-superior, she begged rather that they would place her below all

the rest, and make her the meanest servant of all.”

“You never saw her?” asked I.

“Never,” he replied.

I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered in

Antwerp. The political state of things became worse than ever, increased

to its height by the scarcity of food consequent on many deficient

harvests. I saw groups of fierce, squalid men, at every corner of the

street, glaring out with wolfish eyes at my sleek skin and handsome

clothes.

At last Father Bernard returned. We had a long conversation, in which he

told me that, curiously enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy’s father, was serving

in one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at Antwerp. I asked

Father Bernard if he would make us acquainted; which he consented to do.

But, a day or two afterwards, he told me that, on hearing my name, Mr.

Gisborne had declined responding to any advances on my part, saying he

had abjured his country, and hated his countrymen.

Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his daughter

Lucy. Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of making his

acquaintance. Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of the hidden

fermentation, for some coming evil, working among the “blouses” of

Antwerp, and he would fain have had me depart from out the city; but I

rather craved the excitement of danger, and stubbornly refused to leave.

One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to an

Austrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral.

“That is Mr. Gisborne,” said he, as soon as the gentleman was past.

I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer. He carried

himself in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and from

his years, might have had some excuse for a slight stoop. As I looked at

the man, he turned round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face. Deeply

lined, sallow, and scathed was that countenance; scarred by passion as

well as by the fortunes of war. ’Twas but a moment our eyes met. We each

turned round, and went on our separate way.

But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; the

thorough appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on it,

made but an incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of his

countenance. Because he was Lucy’s father, I sought instinctively to

meet him everywhere. At last he must have become aware of my

pertinacity, for he gave me a haughty scowl whenever I passed him. In

one of these encounters, however, I chanced to be of some service to

him. He was turning the corner of a street, and came suddenly on one of

the groups of discontented Flemings of whom I have spoken. Some words

were exchanged, when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a slight

but skilful cut drew blood from one of those who had insulted him, as he

fancied, though I was too far off to hear the words. They would all have

fallen upon him had I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, then well

known in Antwerp, of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who were

perpetually patrolling the streets, and who came in numbers to the

rescue. I think that neither Mr. Gisborne nor the mutinous group of

plebeians owed me much gratitude for my interference. He had planted

himself against a wall, in a skilful attitude of fence, ready with his

bright glancing rapier to do battle with all the heavy, fierce, unarmed

men, some six or seven in number. But when his own soldiers came up, he

sheathed his sword; and, giving some careless word of command, sent them

away again, and continued his saunter all alone down the street, the

workmen snarling in his rear, and more than half-inclined to fall on me

for my cry for rescue. I cared not if they did, my life seemed so

dreary a burden just then; and, perhaps, it was this daring loitering

among them that prevented their attacking me. Instead, they suffered me

to fall into conversation with them; and I heard some of their

grievances. Sore and heavy to be borne were they, and no wonder the

sufferers were savage and desperate.

The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have got

out of me the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it. Another

of the group heard his inquiry, and made answer:

“I know the man. He is one Gisborne, aide-de-camp to the

General-Commandant. I know him well.”

He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low and

muttering voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excited

their evil blood, and which they evidently wished me not to hear, I

sauntered away and back to my lodgings.

That night Antwerp was in open revolt. The inhabitants rose in rebellion

against their Austrian masters. The Austrians, holding the gates of the

city, remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel; only, from time to

time, the boom of a great cannon swept sullenly over the town. But, if

they expected the disturbance to die away, and spend itself in a few

hours’ fury, they were mistaken. In a day or two, the rioters held

possession of the principal municipal buildings. Then the Austrians

poured forth in bright flaming array, calm and smiling, as they marched

to the posts assigned, as if the fierce mob were no more to them than

the swarms of buzzing summer flies. Their practised manœuvres, their

well-aimed shot, told with terrible effect; but in the place of one

slain rioter, three sprang up of his blood to avenge his loss. But a

deadly foe, a ghastly ally of the Austrians, was at work. Food, scarce

and dear for months, was now hardly to be obtained at any price.

Desperate efforts were being made to bring provisions into the city, for

the rioters had friends without. Close to the city port nearest to the

Scheldt, a great struggle took place. I was there, helping the rioters,

whose cause I had adopted. We had a savage encounter with the Austrians.

Numbers fell on both sides; I saw them lie bleeding for a moment; then a

volley of smoke obscured them; and when it cleared away, they were

dead--trampled upon or smothered, pressed down and hidden by the

freshly-wounded whom those last guns had brought low. And then a

gray-robed and gray-veiled figure came right across the flashing guns,

and stooped over some one, whose life-blood was ebbing away; sometimes

it was to give him drink from cans which they carried slung at their

sides, sometimes I saw the cross held above a dying man, and rapid

prayers were being uttered, unheard by men in that hellish din and

clangour, but listened to by One above. I saw all this as in a dream:

the reality of that stern time was battle and carnage. But I knew that

these gray figures, their bare feet all wet with blood, and their faces

hidden by their veils, were the Poor Clares--sent forth now because dire

agony was abroad and imminent danger at hand. Therefore, they left

their cloistered shelter, and came into that thick and evil mêlée.

Close to me--driven past me by the struggle of many fighters--came the

Antwerp burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon his face; and in an

instant more, he was thrown by the press upon the Austrian officer

Gisborne, and ere either had recovered the shock, the burgess had

recognised his opponent.

“Ha! the Englishman Gisborne!” he cried, and threw himself upon him with

redoubled fury. He had struck him hard--the Englishman was down; when

out of the smoke came a dark-gray figure, and threw herself right under

the uplifted flashing sword. The burgess’s arm stood arrested. Neither

Austrians nor Anversois willingly harmed the Poor Clares.

“Leave him to me!” said a low stern voice. “He is mine enemy--mine for

many years.”

Those words were the last I heard. I myself was struck down by a bullet.

I remember nothing more for days. When I came to myself, I was at the

extremity of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit my strength.

My landlord sat watching me. He, too, looked pinched and shrunken; he

had heard of my wounded state, and sought me out. Yes! the struggle

still continued, but the famine was sore; and some, he had heard, had

died for lack of food. The tears stood in his eyes as he spoke. But soon

he shook off his weakness, and his natural cheerfulness returned. Father

Bernard had been to see me--no one else. (Who should, indeed?) Father

Bernard would come back that afternoon--he had promised. But Father

Bernard never came, although I was up and dressed, and looking eagerly

for him.

My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself: of what it

was composed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and with every

mouthful I seemed to gain strength. The good man sat looking at my

evident enjoyment with a happy smile of sympathy; but, as my appetite

became satisfied, I began to detect a certain wistfulness in his eyes,

as if craving for the food I had so nearly devoured--for, indeed, at

that time I was hardly aware of the extent of the famine. Suddenly,

there was a sound of many rushing feet past our window. My landlord

opened one of the sides of it, the better to learn what was going on.

Then we heard a faint, cracked, tinkling bell, coming shrill upon the

air, clear and distinct from all other sounds. “Holy Mother!” exclaimed

my landlord, “the Poor Clares!”

He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into my hands,

bidding me follow. Down-stairs he ran, clutching at more food, as the

women of his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a moment we were

in the street, moving along with the great current, all tending towards

the Convent of the Poor Clares. And still, as if piercing our ears with

its inarticulate cry, came the shrill tinkle of the bell. In that

strange crowd were old men trembling and sobbing, as they carried their

little pittance of food; women with the tears running down their cheeks,

who had snatched up what provisions they had in the vessels in which

they stood, so that the burden of these was in many cases much greater

than that which they contained; children, with flushed faces, grasping

tight the morsel of bitten cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it

safe to the help of the Poor Clares; strong men--yea, both Anversois and

Austrians--pressing onwards with set teeth, and no word spoken; and over

all, and through all, came that sharp tinkle--that cry for help in

extremity.

We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and piteous

faces: they were issuing out of the convent to make way for the

offerings of others. “Haste, haste!” said they. “A Poor Clare is dying!

A Poor Clare is dead for hunger! God forgive us, and our city!”

We pressed on. The stream bore us along where it would. We were carried

through refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over whose doors the

conventual name of the occupant was written. Thus it was that I, with

others, was forced into Sister Magdalen’s cell. On her couch lay

Gisborne, pale unto death, but not dead. By his side was a cup of water,

and a small morsel of mouldy bread, which he had pushed out of his

reach, and could not move to obtain. Over against his bed were these

words, copied in the English version: “Therefore, if thine enemy hunger,

feed him; if he thirst, give him drink.”

Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, like some

famished wild animal. For now it was no longer the sharp tinkle, but

that one solemn toll, which in all Christian countries tells of the

passing of the spirit out of earthly life into eternity; and again a

murmur gathered and grew, as of many people speaking with awed breath,

“A Poor Clare is dying! a Poor Clare is dead!”

Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried into

the chapel belonging to the Poor Clares. On a bier before the high

altar, lay a woman--lay sister Magdalen--lay Bridget Fitzgerald. By her

side stood Father Bernard, in his robes of office, and holding the

crucifix on high while he pronounced the solemn absolution of the

Church, as to one who had newly confessed herself of deadly sin. I

pushed on with passionate force, till I stood close to the dying woman,

as she received extreme unction amid the breathless and awed hush of the

multitude around. Her eyes were glazing, her limbs were stiffening; but

when the rite was over and finished, she raised her gaunt figure slowly

up, and her eyes brightened to a strange intensity of joy, as, with the

gesture of her finger and the trance-like gleam of her eye, she seemed

like one who watched the disappearance of some loathed and fearful

creature.

“She is freed from the curse!” said she, as she fell back dead.

* * * * *

Now, of all our party who had first listened to my Lady Ludlow, Mr.

Preston was the only one who had not told us something, either of

information, tradition, history, or legend. We naturally turned to him;

but we did not like asking him directly for his contribution, for he was

a grave, reserved, and silent man.

He understood us, however, and, rousing himself as it were, he said:

“I know you wish me to tell you, in my turn, of something which I have

learnt or heard during my life. I could tell you something of my own

life, and of a life dearer still to my memory; but I have shrunk from

narrating anything so purely personal. Yet, shrink as I will, no other

but those sad recollections will present themselves to my mind. I call

them sad when I think of the end of it all. However, I am not going to

moralize. If my dear brother’s life and death does not speak for itself,

no words of mine will teach you what may be learnt from it.”

THE HALF-BROTHERS.

My mother was twice married. She never spoke of her first husband, and

it is only from other people that I have learnt what little I know about

him. I believe, she was scarcely seventeen when she was married to him:

and he was barely one-and-twenty. He rented a small farm up in

Cumberland, somewhere towards the sea-coast; but he was perhaps too

young and inexperienced to have the charge of land and cattle: anyhow,

his affairs did not prosper, and he fell into ill health, and died of

consumption before they had been three years man and wife, leaving my

mother a young widow of twenty, with a little child only just able to

walk, and the farm on her hands for four years more by the lease, with

half the stock on it dead, or sold off one by one to pay the more

pressing debts, and with no money to purchase more, or even to buy the

provisions needed for the small consumption of every day. There was

another child coming, too; and sad and sorry, I believe, she was to

think of it. A dreary winter she must have had in her lonesome dwelling,

with never another near it for miles around; her sister came to bear her

company, and they two planned and plotted how to make every penny they

could raise go as far as possible. I can’t tell you how it happened that

my little sister, whom I never saw, came to sicken and die; but, as if

my poor mother’s cup was not full enough, only a fortnight before

Gregory was born the little girl took ill of scarlet fever, and in a

week she lay dead. My mother was, I believe, just stunned with this last

blow. My aunt has told me that she did not cry; aunt Fanny would have

been thankful if she had; but she sat holding the poor wee lassie’s

hand, and looking in her pretty, pale, dead face, without so much as

shedding a tear. And it was all the same, when they had to take her away

to be buried. She just kissed the child, and sat her down in the

window-seat to watch the little black train of people (neighbours--my

aunt, and one far-off cousin, who were all the friends they could

muster) go winding away amongst the snow, which had fallen thinly over

the country the night before. When my aunt came back from the funeral,

she found my mother in the same place, and as dry-eyed as ever. So she

continued until after Gregory was born; and, somehow, his coming seemed

to loosen the tears, and she cried day and night, day and night, till my

aunt and the other watcher looked at each other in dismay, and would

fain have stopped her if they had but known how. But she bade them let

her alone, and not be over-anxious, for every drop she shed eased her

brain, which had been in a terrible state before for want of the power

to cry. She seemed after that to think of nothing but her new little

baby; she hardly appeared to remember either her husband or her little

daughter that lay dead in Brigham churchyard--at least so aunt Fanny

said; but she was a great talker, and my mother was very silent by

nature, and I think aunt Fanny may have been mistaken in believing that

my mother never thought of her husband and child just because she never

spoke about them. Aunt Fanny was older than my mother, and had a way of

treating her like a child; but, for all that, she was a kind,

warm-hearted creature, who thought more of her sister’s welfare than she

did of her own; and it was on her bit of money that they principally

lived, and on what the two could earn by working for the great Glasgow

sewing-merchants. But by-and-by my mother’s eye-sight began to fail. It

was not that she was exactly blind, for she could see well enough to

guide herself about the house, and to do a good deal of domestic work;

but she could no longer do fine sewing and earn money. It must have been

with the heavy crying she had had in her day, for she was but a young

creature at this time, and as pretty a young woman, I have heard people

say, as any on the country side. She took it sadly to heart that she

could no longer gain anything towards the keep of herself and her child.

My aunt Fanny would fain have persuaded her that she had enough to do in

managing their cottage and minding Gregory; but my mother knew that they

were pinched, and that aunt Fanny herself had not as much to eat, even

of the commonest kind of food, as she could have done with; and as for

Gregory, he was not a strong lad, and needed, not more food--for he

always had enough, whoever went short--but better nourishment, and more

flesh-meat. One day--it was aunt Fanny who told me all this about my

poor mother, long after her death--as the sisters were sitting together,

aunt Fanny working, and my mother hushing Gregory to sleep, William

Preston, who was afterwards my father, came in. He was reckoned an old

bachelor; I suppose he was long past forty, and he was one of the

wealthiest farmers thereabouts, and had known my grandfather well, and

my mother and my aunt in their more prosperous days. He sat down, and

began to twirl his hat by way of being agreeable; my aunt Fanny talked,

and he listened and looked at my mother. But he said very little, either

on that visit, or on many another that he paid before he spoke out what

had been the real purpose of his calling so often all along, and from

the very first time he came to their house. One Sunday, however, my aunt

Fanny stayed away from church, and took care of the child, and my mother

went alone. When she came back, she ran straight up-stairs, without

going into the kitchen to look at Gregory or speak any word to her

sister, and aunt Fanny heard her cry as if her heart was breaking; so

she went up and scolded her right well through the bolted door, till at

last she got her to open it. And then she threw herself on my aunt’s

neck, and told her that William Preston had asked her to marry him, and

had promised to take good charge of her boy, and to let him want for

nothing, neither in the way of keep nor of education, and that she had

consented. Aunt Fanny was a good deal shocked at this; for, as I have

said, she had often thought that my mother had forgotten her first

husband very quickly, and now here was proof positive of it, if she

could so soon think of marrying again. Besides, as aunt Fanny used to

say, she herself would have been a far more suitable match for a man of

William Preston’s age than Helen, who, though she was a widow, had not

seen her four-and-twentieth summer. However, as aunt Fanny said, they

had not asked her advice; and there was much to be said on the other

side of the question. Helen’s eye-sight would never be good for much

again, and as William Preston’s wife she would never need to do

anything, if she chose to sit with her hands before her; and a boy was a

great charge to a widowed mother; and now there would be a decent,

steady man to see after him. So, by-and-by, aunt Fanny seemed to take a

brighter view of the marriage than did my mother herself, who hardly

ever looked up, and never smiled after the day when she promised William

Preston to be his wife. But much as she had loved Gregory before, she

seemed to love him more now. She was continually talking to him when

they were alone, though he was far too young to understand her moaning

words, or give her any comfort, except by his caresses.

At last William Preston and she were wed; and she went to be mistress of

a well-stocked house, not above half-an-hour’s walk from where aunt

Fanny lived. I believe she did all that she could to please my father;

and a more dutiful wife, I have heard him himself say, could never have

been. But she did not love him, and he soon found it out. She loved

Gregory, and she did not love him. Perhaps, love would have come in

time, if he had been patient enough to wait; but it just turned him sour

to see how her eye brightened and her colour came at the sight of that

little child, while for him who had given her so much, she had only

gentle words as cold as ice. He got to taunt her with the difference in

her manner, as if that would bring love: and he took a positive dislike

to Gregory,--he was so jealous of the ready love that always gushed out

like a spring of fresh water when he came near. He wanted her to love

him more, and perhaps that was all well and good; but he wanted her to

love her child less, and that was an evil wish. One day, he gave way to

his temper, and cursed and swore at Gregory, who had got into some

mischief, as children will; my mother made some excuse for him; my

father said it was hard enough to have to keep another man’s child,

without having it perpetually held up in its naughtiness by his wife,

who ought to be always in the same mind that he was; and so from little

they got to more; and the end of it was, that my mother took to her bed

before her time, and I was born that very day. My father was glad, and

proud, and sorry, all in a breath; glad and proud that a son was born to

him; and sorry for his poor wife’s state, and to think how his angry

words had brought it on. But he was a man who liked better to be angry

than sorry, so he soon found out that it was all Gregory’s fault, and

owed him an additional grudge for having hastened my birth. He had

another grudge against him before long. My mother began to sink the day

after I was born. My father sent to Carlisle for doctors, and would have

coined his heart’s blood into gold to save her, if that could have been;

but it could not. My aunt Fanny used to say sometimes, that she thought

that Helen did not wish to live, and so just let herself die away

without trying to take hold on life; but when I questioned her, she

owned that my mother did all the doctors bade her do, with the same sort

of uncomplaining patience with which she had acted through life. One of

her last requests was to have Gregory laid in her bed by my side, and

then she made him take hold of my little hand. Her husband came in while

she was looking at us so, and when he bent tenderly over her to ask her

how she felt now, and seemed to gaze on us two little half-brothers,

with a grave sort of kindliness, she looked up in his face and smiled,

almost her first smile at him; and such a sweet smile! as more besides

aunt Fanny have said. In an hour she was dead. Aunt Fanny came to live

with us. It was the best thing that could be done. My father would have

been glad to return to his old mode of bachelor life, but what could he

do with two little children? He needed a woman to take care of him, and

who so fitting as his wife’s elder sister? So she had the charge of me

from my birth; and for a time I was weakly, as was but natural, and she

was always beside me, night and day watching over me, and my father

nearly as anxious as she. For his land had come down from father to son

for more than three hundred years, and he would have cared for me merely

as his flesh and blood that was to inherit the land after him. But he

needed something to love, for all that, to most people, he was a stern,

hard man, and he took to me as, I fancy, he had taken to no human being

before--as he might have taken to my mother, if she had had no former

life for him to be jealous of. I loved him back again right heartily. I

loved all around me, I believe, for everybody was kind to me. After a

time, I overcame my original weakliness of constitution, and was just a

bonny, strong-looking lad whom every passer-by noticed, when my father

took me with him to the nearest town.

At home I was the darling of my aunt, the tenderly-beloved of my father,

the pet and plaything of the old domestic, the “young master” of the

farm-labourers, before whom I played many a lordly antic, assuming a

sort of authority which sat oddly enough, I doubt not, on such a baby as

I was.

Gregory was three years older than I. Aunt Fanny was always kind to him

in deed and in action, but she did not often think about him, she had

fallen so completely into the habit of being engrossed by me, from the

fact of my having come into her charge as a delicate baby. My father

never got over his grudging dislike to his stepson, who had so

innocently wrestled with him for the possession of my mother’s heart. I

mistrust me, too, that my father always considered him as the cause of

my mother’s death and my early delicacy; and utterly unreasonable as

this may seem, I believe my father rather cherished his feeling of

alienation to my brother as a duty, than strove to repress it. Yet not

for the world would my father have grudged him anything that money could

purchase. That was, as it were, in the bond when he had wedded my

mother. Gregory was lumpish and loutish, awkward and ungainly, marring

whatever he meddled in, and many a hard word and sharp scolding did he

get from the people about the farm, who hardly waited till my father’s

back was turned before they rated the stepson. I am ashamed--my heart is

sore to think how I fell into the fashion of the family, and slighted my

poor orphan step-brother. I don’t think I ever scouted him, or was

wilfully ill-natured to him; but the habit of being considered in all

things, and being treated as something uncommon and superior, made me

insolent in my prosperity, and I exacted more than Gregory was always

willing to grant, and then, irritated, I sometimes repeated the

disparaging words I had heard others use with regard to him, without

fully understanding their meaning. Whether he did or not I cannot tell.

I am afraid he did. He used to turn silent and quiet--sullen and sulky

my father thought it; stupid, aunt Fanny used to call it. But every one

said he was stupid and dull, and this stupidity and dullness grew upon

him. He would sit without speaking a word, sometimes, for hours; then my

father would bid him rise and do some piece of work, maybe, about the

farm. And he would take three or four tellings before he would go. When

we were sent to school, it was all the same. He could never be made to

remember his lessons; the schoolmaster grew weary of scolding and

flogging, and at last advised my father just to take him away, and set

him to some farm-work that might not be above his comprehension. I think

he was more gloomy and stupid than ever after this, yet he was not a

cross lad; he was patient and good-natured, and would try to do a kind

turn for any one, even if they had been scolding or cuffing him not a

minute before. But very often his attempts at kindness ended in some

mischief to the very people he was trying to serve, owing to his

awkward, ungainly ways. I suppose I was a clever lad; at any rate, I

always got plenty of praise; and was, as we called it, the cock of the

school. The schoolmaster said I could learn anything I chose, but my

father, who had no great learning himself, saw little use in much for

me, and took me away betimes, and kept me with him about the farm.

Gregory was made into a kind of shepherd, receiving his training under

old Adam, who was nearly past his work. I think old Adam was almost the

first person who had a good opinion of Gregory. He stood to it that my

brother had good parts, though he did not rightly know how to bring them

out; and, for knowing the bearings of the Fells, he said he had never

seen a lad like him. My father would try to bring Adam round to speak of

Gregory’s faults and shortcomings; but, instead of that, he would praise

him twice as much as soon as he found out what my father’s object was.

One winter-time, when I was about sixteen, and Gregory nineteen, I was

sent by my father on an errand to a place about seven miles distant by

the road, but only about four by the Fells. He bade me return by the

road, whichever way I took in going, for the evenings closed in early,

and were often thick and misty; besides which, old Adam, now paralytic

and bedridden, foretold a downfall of snow before long. I soon got to my

journey’s end, and soon had done my business; earlier by an hour, I

thought, than my father had expected, so I took the decision of the way

by which I would return into my own hands, and set off back again over

the Fells, just as the first shades of evening began to fall. It looked

dark and gloomy enough; but everything was so still that I thought I

should have plenty of time to get home before the snow came down. Off I

set at a pretty quick pace. But night came on quicker. The right path

was clear enough in the day-time, although at several points two or

three exactly similar diverged from the same place; but when there was a

good light, the traveller was guided by the sight of distant objects,--a

piece of rock,--a fall in the ground--which were quite invisible to me

now. I plucked up a brave heart, however, and took what seemed to me the

right road. It was wrong, however, and led me whither I knew not, but to

some wild boggy moor where the solitude seemed painful, intense, as if

never footfall of man had come thither to break the silence. I tried to

shout,--with the dimmest possible hope of being heard--rather to

reassure myself by the sound of my own voice; but my voice came husky

and short, and yet it dismayed me; it seemed so weird and strange in

that noiseless expanse of black darkness. Suddenly the air was filled

thick with dusky flakes, my face and hands were wet with snow. It cut me

off from the slightest knowledge of where I was, for I lost every idea

of the direction from which I had come, so that I could not even retrace

my steps; it hemmed me in, thicker, thicker, with a darkness that might

be felt. The boggy soil on which I stood quaked under me if I remained

long in one place, and yet I dared not move far. All my youthful

hardiness seemed to leave me at once. I was on the point of crying, and

only very shame seemed to keep it down. To save myself from shedding

tears, I shouted--terrible, wild shouts for bare life they were. I

turned sick as I paused to listen; no answering sound came but the

unfeeling echoes. Only the noiseless, pitiless snow kept falling

thicker, thicker--faster, faster! I was growing numb and sleepy. I tried

to move about, but I dared not go far, for fear of the precipices which,

I knew, abounded in certain places on the Fells. Now and then, I stood

still and shouted again; but my voice was getting choked with tears, as

I thought of the desolate, helpless death I was to die, and how little

they at home, sitting round the warm, red, bright fire, wotted what was

become of me,--and how my poor father would grieve for me--it would

surely kill him--it would break his heart, poor old man! Aunt Fanny

too--was this to be the end of all her cares for me? I began to review

my life in a strange kind of vivid dream, in which the various scenes of

my few boyish years passed before me like visions. In a pang of agony,

caused by such remembrance of my short life, I gathered up my strength

and called out once more, a long, despairing, wailing cry, to which I

had no hope of obtaining any answer, save from the echoes around, dulled

as the sound might be by the thickened air. To my surprise, I heard a

cry--almost as long, as wild as mine--so wild that it seemed unearthly,

and I almost thought it must be the voice of some of the mocking spirits

of the Fells, about whom I had heard so many tales. My heart suddenly

began to beat fast and loud. I could not reply for a minute or two. I

nearly fancied I had lost the power of utterance. Just at this moment a

dog barked. Was it Lassie’s bark--my brother’s collie?--an ugly enough

brute, with a white, ill-looking face, that my father always kicked

whenever he saw it, partly for its own demerits, partly because it

belonged to my brother. On such occasions, Gregory would whistle Lassie

away, and go off and sit with her in some out-house. My father had once

or twice been ashamed of himself, when the poor collie had yowled out

with the suddenness of the pain, and had relieved himself of his

self-reproach by blaming my brother, who, he said, had no notion of

training a dog, and was enough to ruin any collie in Christendom with

his stupid way of allowing them to lie by the kitchen fire. To all which

Gregory would answer nothing, nor even seem to hear, but go on looking

absent and moody.

Yes! there again! It was Lassie’s bark! Now or never! I lifted up my

voice and shouted “Lassie! Lassie! For God’s sake, Lassie!” Another

moment, and the great white-faced Lassie was curving and gambolling with

delight round my feet and legs, looking, however, up in my face with her

intelligent, apprehensive eyes, as if fearing lest I might greet her

with a blow, as I had done oftentimes before. But I cried with gladness,

as I stooped down and patted her. My mind was sharing in my body’s

weakness, and I could not reason, but I knew that help was at hand. A

gray figure came more and more distinctly out of the thick,

close-pressing darkness. It was Gregory wrapped in his maud.

“Oh, Gregory!” said I, and I fell upon his neck, unable to speak another

word. He never spoke much, and made me no answer for some little time.

Then he told me we must move, we must walk for the dear life--we must

find our road home, if possible; but we must move or we should be frozen

to death.

“Don’t you know the way home?” asked I.

“I thought I did when I set out, but I am doubtful now. The snow blinds

me, and I am feared that in moving about just now, I have lost the right

gait homewards.”

He had his shepherd’s staff with him, and by dint of plunging it before

us at every step we took--clinging close to each other, we went on

safely enough, as far as not falling down any of the steep rocks, but it

was slow, dreary work. My brother, I saw, was more guided by Lassie and

the way she took than anything else, trusting to her instinct. It was

too dark to see far before us; but he called her back continually, and

noted from what quarter she returned, and shaped our slow steps

accordingly. But the tedious motion scarcely kept my very blood from

freezing. Every bone, every fibre in my body seemed first to ache, and

then to swell, and then to turn numb with the intense cold. My brother

bore it better than I, from having been more out upon the hills. He did

not speak, except to call Lassie. I strove to be brave, and not

complain; but now I felt the deadly fatal sleep stealing over me.

“I can go no farther,” I said, in a drowsy tone. I remember, I suddenly

became dogged and resolved. Sleep I would, were it only for five

minutes. If death were to be the consequence, sleep I would. Gregory

stood still. I suppose, he recognised the peculiar phase of suffering to

which I had been brought by the cold.

“It is of no use,” said he, as if to himself. “We are no nearer home

than we were when we started, as far as I can tell. Our only chance is

in Lassie. Here! roll thee in my maud, lad, and lay thee down on this

sheltered side of this bit of rock. Creep close under it, lad, and I’ll

lie by thee, and strive to keep the warmth in us. Stay! hast gotten

aught about thee they’ll know at home?”

I felt him unkind thus to keep me from slumber, but on his repeating the

question, I pulled out my pocket-handkerchief, of some showy pattern,

which Aunt Fanny had hemmed for me--Gregory took it, and tied it round

Lassie’s neck.

“Hie thee, Lassie, hie thee home!” And the white-faced, ill-favoured

brute was off like a shot in the darkness. Now I might lie down--now I

might sleep. In my drowsy stupor I felt that I was being tenderly

covered up by my brother; but what with I neither knew nor cared--I was

too dull, too selfish, too numb to think and reason, or I might have

known that in that bleak bare place there was nought to wrap me in, save

what was taken off another. I was glad enough when he ceased his cares

and lay down by me. I took his hand.

“Thou canst not remember, lad, how we lay together thus by our dying

mother. She put thy small, wee hand in mine--I reckon, she sees us now;

and belike we shall soon be with her. Anyhow, God’s will be done.”

“Dear Gregory,” I muttered, and crept nearer to him for warmth. He was

talking still, and again about our mother, when I fell asleep. In an

instant--or so it seemed--there were many voices about me--many faces

hovering round me--the sweet luxury of warmth was stealing into every

part of me. I was in my own little bed at home. I am thankful to say, my

first word was “Gregory?”

A look passed from one to another--my father’s stern old face strove in

vain to keep its sternness; his mouth quivered, his eyes filled slowly

with unwonted tears.

“I would have given him half my land--I would have blessed him as my

son,--oh God! I would have knelt at his feet, and asked him to forgive

my hardness of heart.”

I heard no more. A whirl came through my brain, catching me back to

death.

I came slowly to my consciousness, weeks afterwards. My father’s hair

was white when I recovered, and his hands shook as he looked into my

face.

We spoke no more of Gregory. We could not speak of him; but he was

strangely in our thoughts. Lassie came and went with never a word of

blame; nay, my father would try to stroke her, but she shrank away; and

he, as if reproved by the poor dumb beast, would sigh, and be silent and

abstracted for a time.

Aunt Fanny--always a talker--told me all. How, on that fatal night, my

father, irritated by my prolonged absence, and probably more anxious

than he cared to show, had been fierce and imperious, even beyond his

wont, to Gregory: had upbraided him with his father’s poverty, his own

stupidity which made his services good for nothing--for so, in spite of

the old shepherd, my father always chose to consider them. At last,

Gregory had risen up, and whistled Lassie out with him--poor Lassie,

crouching underneath his chair for fear of a kick or a blow. Some time

before, there had been some talk between my father and my aunt

respecting my return; and when Aunt Fanny told me all this, she said she

fancied that Gregory might have noticed the coming storm, and gone out

silently to meet me. Three hours afterwards, when all were running about

in wild alarm, not knowing whither to go in search of me--not even

missing Gregory, or heeding his absence, poor fellow--poor, poor

fellow!--Lassie came home, with my handkerchief tied round her neck.

They knew and understood, and the whole strength of the farm was turned

out to follow her, with wraps, and blankets, and brandy, and everything

that could be thought of. I lay in chilly sleep, but still alive,

beneath the rock that Lassie guided them to. I was covered over with my

brother’s plaid, and his thick shepherd’s coat was carefully wrapped

round my feet. He was in his shirt-sleeves--his arm thrown over me--a

quiet smile (he had hardly ever smiled in life) upon his still, cold

face.

My father’s last words were, “God forgive me my hardness of heart

towards the fatherless child!”

And what marked the depth of his feeling of repentance, perhaps more

than all, considering the passionate love he bore my mother, was this:

we found a paper of directions after his death, in which he desired that

he might lie at the foot of the grave, in which, by his desire, poor

Gregory had been laid with OUR MOTHER.

THE END.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

* * * * *

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End of Project Gutenberg's Round the Sofa; vol. 2, by Elizabeth C. Gaskell