Chapter II

I now come to the time in which I myself was mixed up with the people

that I have been writing about. And to make you understand how I

became connected with them, I must give you some little account of

myself. My father was the younger son of a Devonshire gentleman of

moderate property; my eldest uncle succeeded to the estate of his

forefathers, my second became an eminent attorney in London, and my

father took orders. Like most poor clergymen, he had a large family;

and I have no doubt was glad enough when my London uncle, who was a

bachelor, offered to take charge of me, and bring me up to be his

successor in business.

In this way I came to live in London, in my uncle's house, not far

from Gray's Inn, and to be treated and esteemed as his son, and to

labour with him in his office. I was very fond of the old gentleman.

He was the confidential agent of many country squires, and had

attained to his present position as much by knowledge of human nature

as by knowledge of law; though he was learned enough in the latter.

He used to say his business was law, his pleasure heraldry. From his

intimate acquaintance with family history, and all the tragic courses

of life therein involved, to hear him talk, at leisure times, about

any coat of arms that came across his path was as good as a play or a

romance. Many cases of disputed property, dependent on a love of

genealogy, were brought to him, as to a great authority on such

points. If the lawyer who came to consult him was young, he would

take no fee, only give him a long lecture on the importance of

attending to heraldry; if the lawyer was of mature age and good

standing, he would mulct him pretty well, and abuse him to me

afterwards as negligent of one great branch of the profession. His

house was in a stately new street called Ormond Street, and in it he

had a handsome library; but all the books treated of things that were

past; none of them planned or looked forward into the future. I

worked away--partly for the sake of my family at home, partly because

my uncle had really taught me to enjoy the kind of practice in which

he himself took such delight. I suspect I worked too hard; at any

rate, in seventeen hundred and eighteen I was far from well, and my

good uncle was disturbed by my ill looks.

One day, he rang the bell twice into the clerk's room at the dingy

office in Grey's Inn Lane. It was the summons for me, and I went

into his private room just as a gentleman--whom I knew well enough by

sight as an Irish lawyer of more reputation than he deserved--was

leaving.

My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering. I

was there two or three minutes before he spoke. Then he told me that

I must pack up my portmanteau that very afternoon, and start that

night by post-horse for West Chester. I should get there, if all

went well, at the end of five days' time, and must then wait for a

packet to cross over to Dublin; from thence I must proceed to a

certain town named Kildoon, and in that neighbourhood I was to

remain, making certain inquiries as to the existence of any

descendants of the younger branch of a family to whom some valuable

estates had descended in the female line. The Irish lawyer whom I

had seen was weary of the case, and would willingly have given up the

property, without further ado, to a man who appeared to claim them;

but on laying his tables and trees before my uncle, the latter had

foreseen so many possible prior claimants, that the lawyer had begged

him to undertake the management of the whole business. In his youth,

my uncle would have liked nothing better than going over to Ireland

himself, and ferreting out every scrap of paper or parchment, and

every word of tradition respecting the family. As it was, old and

gouty, he deputed me.

Accordingly, I went to Kildoon. I suspect I had something of my

uncle's delight in following up a genealogical scent, for I very soon

found out, when on the spot, that Mr. Rooney, the Irish lawyer, would

have got both himself and the first claimant into a terrible scrape,

if he had pronounced his opinion that the estates ought to be given

up to him. There were three poor Irish fellows, each nearer of kin

to the last possessor; but, a generation before, there was a still

nearer relation, who had never been accounted for, nor his existence

ever discovered by the lawyers, I venture to think, till I routed him

out from the memory of some of the old dependants of the family.

What had become of him? I travelled backwards and forwards; I

crossed over to France, and came back again with a slight clue, which

ended in my discovering that, wild and dissipated himself, he had

left one child, a son, of yet worse character than his father; that

this same Hugh Fitzgerald had married a very beautiful serving-woman

of the Byrnes--a person below him in hereditary rank, but above him

in character; that he had died soon after his marriage, leaving one

child, whether a boy or a girl I could not learn, and that the mother

had returned to live in the family of the Byrnes. Now, the chief of

this latter family was serving in the Duke of Berwick's regiment, and

it was long before I could hear from him; it was more than a year

before I got a short, haughty letter--I fancy he had a soldier's

contempt for a civilian, an Irishman's hatred for an Englishman, an

exiled Jacobite's jealousy of one who prospered and lived tranquilly

under the government he looked upon as an usurpation. "Bridget

Fitzgerald," he said, "had been faithful to the fortunes of his

sister--had followed her abroad, and to England when Mrs. Starkey had

thought fit to return. Both his sister and her husband were dead, he

knew nothing of Bridget Fitzgerald at the present time: probably Sir

Philip Tempest, his nephew's guardian, might be able to give me some

information." I have not given the little contemptuous terms; the

way in which faithful service was meant to imply more than it said--

all that has nothing to do with my story. Sir Philip, when applied

to, told me that he paid an annuity regularly to an old woman named

Fitzgerald, living at Coldholme (the village near Starkey Manor-

house). Whether she had any descendants he could not say.

One bleak March evening, I came in sight of the places described at

the beginning of my story. I could hardly understand the rude

dialect in which the direction to old Bridget's house was given.

"Yo' see yon furleets," all run together, gave me no idea that I was

to guide myself by the distant lights that shone in the windows of

the Hall, occupied for the time by a farmer who held the post of

steward, while the Squire, now four or five and twenty, was making

the grand tour. However, at last, I reached Bridget's cottage--a

low, moss-grown place: the palings that had once surrounded it were

broken and gone; and the underwood of the forest came up to the

walls, and must have darkened the windows. It was about seven

o'clock--not late to my London notions--but, after knocking for some

time at the door and receiving no reply, I was driven to conjecture

that the occupant of the house was gone to bed. So I betook myself

to the nearest church I had seen, three miles back on the road I had

come, sure that close to that I should find an inn of some kind; and

early the next morning I set off back to Coldholme, by a field-path

which my host assured me I should find a shorter cut than the road I

had taken the night before. It was a cold, sharp morning; my feet

left prints in the sprinkling of hoar-frost that covered the ground;

nevertheless, I saw an old woman, whom I instinctively suspected to

be the object of my search, in a sheltered covert on one side of my

path. I lingered and watched her. She must have been considerably

above the middle size in her prime, for when she raised herself from

the stooping position in which I first saw her, there was something

fine and commanding in the erectness of her figure. She drooped

again in a minute or two, and seemed looking for something on the

ground, as, with bent head, she turned off from the spot where I

gazed upon her, and was lost to my sight. I fancy I missed my way,

and made a round in spite of the landlord's directions; for by the

time I had reached Bridget's cottage she was there, with no semblance

of hurried walk or discomposure of any kind. The door was slightly

ajar. I knocked, and the majestic figure stood before me, silently

awaiting the explanation of my errand. Her teeth were all gone, so

the nose and chin were brought near together; the gray eyebrows were

straight, and almost hung over her deep, cavernous eyes, and the

thick white hair lay in silvery masses over the low, wide, wrinkled

forehead. For a moment, I stood uncertain how to shape my answer to

the solemn questioning of her silence.

"Your name is Bridget Fitzgerald, I believe?"

She bowed her head in assent.

"I have something to say to you. May I come in? I am unwilling to

keep you standing."

"You cannot tire me," she said, and at first she seemed inclined to

deny me the shelter of her roof. But the next moment--she had

searched the very soul in me with her eyes during that instant--she

led me in, and dropped the shadowing hood of her gray, draping cloak,

which had previously hid part of the character of her countenance.

The cottage was rude and bare enough. But before the picture of the

Virgin, of which I have made mention, there stood a little cup filled

with fresh primroses. While she paid her reverence to the Madonna, I

understood why she had been out seeking through the clumps of green

in the sheltered copse. Then she turned round, and bade me be

seated. The expression of her face, which all this time I was

studying, was not bad, as the stories of my last night's landlord had

led me to expect; it was a wild, stern, fierce, indomitable

countenance, seamed and scarred by agonies of solitary weeping; but

it was neither cunning nor malignant.

"My name is Bridget Fitzgerald," said she, by way of opening our

conversation.

"And your husband was Hugh Fitzgerald, of Knock Mahon, near Kildoon,

in Ireland?"

A faint light came into the dark gloom of her eyes.

"He was."

"May I ask if you had any children by him?"

The light in her eyes grew quick and red. She tried to speak, I

could see; but something rose in her throat, and choked her, and

until she could speak calmly, she would fain not speak at all before

a stranger. In a minute or so she said--"I had a daughter--one Mary

Fitzgerald,"--then her strong nature mastered her strong will, and

she cried out, with a trembling wailing cry: "Oh, man! what of her?-

-what of her?"

She rose from her seat, and came and clutched at my arm, and looked

in my eyes. There she read, as I suppose, my utter ignorance of what

had become of her child; for she went blindly back to her chair, and

sat rocking herself and softly moaning, as if I were not there; I not

daring to speak to the lone and awful woman. After a little pause,

she knelt down before the picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart, and

spoke to her by all the fanciful and poetic names of the Litany.

"O Rose of Sharon! O Tower of David! O Star of the Sea! have ye no

comfort for my sore heart? Am I for ever to hope? Grant me at least

despair!"--and so on she went, heedless of my presence. Her prayers

grew wilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the

borders of madness and blasphemy. Almost involuntarily, I spoke as

if to stop her.

"Have you any reason to think that your daughter is dead?

She rose from her knees, and came and stood before me.

"Mary Fitzgerald is dead," said she. "I shall never see her again in

the flesh. No tongue ever told me; but I know she is dead. I have

yearned so to see her, and my heart's will is fearful and strong: it

would have drawn her to me before now, if she had been a wanderer on

the other side of the world. I wonder often it has not drawn her out

of the grave to come and stand before me, and hear me tell her how I

loved her. For, sir, we parted unfriends."

I knew nothing but the dry particulars needed for my lawyer's quest,

but I could not help feeling for the desolate woman; and she must

have read the unusual sympathy with her wistful eyes.

"Yes, sir, we did. She never knew how I loved her; and we parted

unfriends; and I fear me that I wished her voyage might not turn out

well, only meaning,--O, blessed Virgin! you know I only meant that

she should come home to her mother's arms as to the happiest place on

earth; but my wishes are terrible--their power goes beyond my

thought--and there is no hope for me, if my words brought Mary harm."

"But," I said, "you do not know that she is dead. Even now, you

hoped she might be alive. Listen to me," and I told her the tale I

have already told you, giving it all in the driest manner, for I

wanted to recall the clear sense that I felt almost sure she had

possessed in her younger days, and by keeping up her attention to

details, restrain the vague wildness of her grief.

She listened with deep attention, putting from time to time such

questions as convinced me I had to do with no common intelligence,

however dimmed and shorn by solitude and mysterious sorrow. Then she

took up her tale; and in few brief words, told me of her wanderings

abroad in vain search after her daughter; sometimes in the wake of

armies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in city. The lady, whose

waiting-woman Mary had gone to be, had died soon after the date of

her last letter home; her husband, the foreign officer, had been

serving in Hungary, whither Bridget had followed him, but too late to

find him. Vague rumours reached her that Mary had made a great

marriage: and this sting of doubt was added,--whether the mother

might not be close to her child under her new name, and even hearing

of her every day; and yet never recognizing the lost one under the

appellation she then bore. At length the thought took possession of

her, that it was possible that all this time Mary might be at home at

Coldholme, in the Trough of Bolland, in Lancashire, in England; and

home came Bridget, in that vain hope, to her desolate hearth, and

empty cottage. Here she had thought it safest to remain; if Mary was

in life, it was here she would seek for her mother.

I noted down one or two particulars out of Bridget's narrative that I

thought might be of use to me: for I was stimulated to further

search in a strange and extraordinary manner. It seemed as if it

were impressed upon me, that I must take up the quest where Bridget

had laid it down; and this for no reason that had previously

influenced me (such as my uncle's anxiety on the subject, my own

reputation as a lawyer, and so on), but from some strange power which

had taken possession of my will only that very morning, and which

forced it in the direction it chose.

"I will go," said I. "I will spare nothing in the search. Trust to

me. I will learn all that can be learnt. You shall know all that

money, or pains, or wit can discover. It is true she may be long

dead: but she may have left a child."

"A child!" she cried, as if for the first time this idea had struck

her mind. "Hear him, Blessed Virgin! he says she may have left a

child. And you have never told me, though I have prayed so for a

sign, waking or sleeping!"

"Nay," said I, "I know nothing but what you tell me. You say you

heard of her marriage."

But she caught nothing of what I said. She was praying to the Virgin

in a kind of ecstasy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my

very presence.

From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest's. The wife of the

foreign officer had been a cousin of his father's, and from him I

thought I might gain some particulars as to the existence of the

Count de la Tour d'Auvergne, and where I could find him; for I knew

questions de vive voix aid the flagging recollection, and I was

determined to lose no chance for want of trouble. But Sir Philip had

gone abroad, and it would be some time before I could receive an

answer. So I followed my uncle's advice, to whom I had mentioned how

wearied I felt, both in body and mind, by my will-o'-the-wisp search.

He immediately told me to go to Harrogate, there to await Sir

Philip's reply. I should be near to one of the places connected with

my search, Coldholme; not far from Sir Philip Tempest, in case he

returned, and I wished to ask him any further questions; and, in

conclusion, my uncle bade me try to forget all about my business for

a time.

This was far easier said than done. I have seen a child on a common

blown along by a high wind, without power of standing still and

resisting the tempestuous force. I was somewhat in the same

predicament as regarded my mental state. Something resistless seemed

to urge my thoughts on, through every possible course by which there

was a chance of attaining to my object. I did not see the sweeping

moors when I walked out: when I held a book in my hand, and read the

words, their sense did not penetrate to my brain. If I slept, I went

on with the same ideas, always flowing in the same direction. This

could not last long without having a bad effect on the body. I had

an illness, which, although I was racked with pain, was a positive

relief to me, as it compelled me to live in the present suffering,

and not in the visionary researches I had been continually making

before. My kind uncle came to nurse me; and after the immediate

danger was over, my life seemed to slip away in delicious languor for

two or three months. I did not ask--so much did I dread falling into

the old channel of thought--whether any reply had been received to my

letter to Sir Philip. I turned my whole imagination right away from

all that subject. My uncle remained with me until nigh midsummer,

and then returned to his business in London; leaving me perfectly

well, although not completely strong. I was to follow him in a

fortnight; when, as he said, "we would look over letters, and talk

about several things." I knew what this little speech alluded to,

and shrank from the train of thought it suggested, which was so

intimately connected with my first feelings of illness. However, I

had a fortnight more to roam on those invigorating Yorkshire moors.

In those days, there was one large, rambling inn, at Harrogate, close

to the Medicinal Spring; but it was already becoming too small for

the accommodation of the influx of visitors, and many lodged round

about, in the farm-houses of the district. It was so early in the

season, that I had the inn pretty much to myself; and, indeed, felt

rather like a visitor in a private house, so intimate had the

landlord and landlady become with me during my long illness. She

would chide me for being out so late on the moors, or for having been

too long without food, quite in a motherly way; while he consulted me

about vintages and wines, and taught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle

about horses. In my walks I met other strangers from time to time.

Even before my uncle had left me, I had noticed, with half-torpid

curiosity, a young lady of very striking appearance, who went about

always accompanied by an elderly companion,--hardly a gentlewoman,

but with something in her look that prepossessed me in her favour.

The younger lady always put her veil down when any one approached; so

it had been only once or twice, when I had come upon her at a sudden

turn in the path, that I had even had a glimpse at her face. I am

not sure if it was beautiful, though in after-life I grew to think it

so. But it was at this time overshadowed by a sadness that never

varied: a pale, quiet, resigned look of intense suffering, that

irresistibly attracted me,--not with love, but with a sense of

infinite compassion for one so young yet so hopelessly unhappy. The

companion wore something of the same look: quiet melancholy,

hopeless, yet resigned. I asked my landlord who they were. He said

they were called Clarke, and wished to be considered as mother and

daughter; but that, for his part, he did not believe that to be their

right name, or that there was any such relationship between them.

They had been in the neighbourhood of Harrogate for some time,

lodging in a remote farm-house. The people there would tell nothing

about them; saying that they paid handsomely, and never did any harm;

so why should they be speaking of any strange things that might

happen? That, as the landlord shrewdly observed, showed there was

something out of the common way he had heard that the elderly woman

was a cousin of the farmer's where they lodged, and so the regard

existing between relations might help to keep them quiet.

"What did he think, then, was the reason for their extreme

seclusion?" asked I.

"Nay, he could not tell,--not he. He had heard that the young lady,

for all as quiet as she seemed, played strange pranks at times." He

shook his head when I asked him for more particulars, and refused to

give them, which made me doubt if he knew any, for he was in general

a talkative and communicative man. In default of other interests,

after my uncle left, I set myself to watch these two people. I

hovered about their walks drawn towards them with a strange

fascination, which was not diminished by their evident annoyance at

so frequently meeting me. One day, I had the sudden good fortune to

be at hand when they were alarmed by the attack of a bull, which, in

those unenclosed grazing districts, was a particularly dangerous

occurrence. I have other and more important things to relate, than

to tell of the accident which gave me an opportunity of rescuing

them, it is enough to say, that this event was the beginning of an

acquaintance, reluctantly acquiesced in by them, but eagerly

prosecuted by me. I can hardly tell when intense curiosity became

merged in love, but in less than ten days after my uncle's departure

I was passionately enamoured of Mistress Lucy, as her attendant

called her; carefully--for this I noted well--avoiding any address

which appeared as if there was an equality of station between them.

I noticed also that Mrs. Clarke, the elderly woman, after her first

reluctance to allow me to pay them any attentions had been overcome,

was cheered by my evident attachment to the young girl; it seemed to

lighten her heavy burden of care, and she evidently favoured my

visits to the farmhouse where they lodged. It was not so with Lucy.

A more attractive person I never saw, in spite of her depression of

manner, and shrinking avoidance of me. I felt sure at once, that

whatever was the source of her grief, it rose from no fault of her

own. It was difficult to draw her into conversation; but when at

times, for a moment or two, I beguiled her into talk, I could see a

rare intelligence in her face, and a grave, trusting look in the

soft, gray eyes that were raised for a minute to mine. I made every

excuse I possibly could for going there. I sought wild flowers for

Lucy's sake; I planned walks for Lucy's sake; I watched the heavens

by night, in hopes that some unusual beauty of sky would justify me

in tempting Mrs. Clarke and Lucy forth upon the moors, to gaze at the

great purple dome above.

It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some

motive which I could not guess, she would fain have repelled me; but

then again I saw, or fancied I saw, that her heart spoke in my

favour, and that there was a struggle going on in her mind, which at

times (I loved so dearly) I could have begged her to spare herself,

even though the happiness of my whole life should have been the

sacrifice; for her complexion grew paler, her aspect of sorrow more

hopeless, her delicate frame yet slighter. During this period I had

written, I should say, to my uncle, to beg to be allowed to prolong

my stay at Harrogate, not giving any reason; but such was his

tenderness towards me, that in a few days I heard from him, giving me

a willing permission, and only charging me to take care of myself,

and not use too much exertion during the hot weather.

One sultry evening I drew near the farm. The windows of their

parlour were open, and I heard voices when I turned the corner of the

house, as I passed the first window (there were two windows in their

little ground-floor room). I saw Lucy distinctly; but when I had

knocked at their door--the house-door stood always ajar--she was

gone, and I saw only Mrs. Clarke, turning over the work-things lying

on the table, in a nervous and purposeless manner. I felt by

instinct that a conversation of some importance was coming on, in

which I should be expected to say what was my object in paying these

frequent visits. I was glad of the opportunity. My uncle had

several times alluded to the pleasant possibility of my bringing home

a young wife, to cheer and adorn the old house in Ormond Street. He

was rich, and I was to succeed him, and had, as I knew, a fair

reputation for so young a lawyer. So on my side I saw no obstacle.

It was true that Lucy was shrouded in mystery; her name (I was

convinced it was not Clarke), birth, parentage, and previous life

were unknown to me. But I was sure of her goodness and sweet

innocence, and although I knew that there must be something painful

to be told, to account for her mournful sadness, yet I was willing to

bear my share in her grief, whatever it might be.

Mrs. Clarke began, as if it was a relief to her to plunge into the

subject.

"We have thought, sir--at least I have thought--that you knew very

little of us, nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant the

intimate acquaintance we have fallen into. I beg your pardon, sir,"

she went on, nervously; "I am but a plain kind of woman, and I mean

to use no rudeness; but I must say straight out that I--we--think it

would be better for you not to come so often to see us. She is very

unprotected, and--"

"Why should I not come to see you, dear madam?" asked I, eagerly,

glad of the opportunity of explaining myself. "I come, I own,

because I have learnt to love Mistress Lucy, and wish to teach her to

love me.

Mistress Clarke shook her head, and sighed.

"Don't, sir--neither love her, nor, for the sake of all you hold

sacred, teach her to love you! If I am too late, and you love her

already, forget her,--forget these last few weeks. O! I should

never have allowed you to come!" she went on passionately; "but what

am I to do? We are forsaken by all, except the great God, and even

He permits a strange and evil power to afflict us--what am I to do!

Where is it to end?" She wrung her hands in her distress; then she

turned to me: "Go away, sir! go away, before you learn to care any

more for her. I ask it for your own sake--I implore! You have been

good and kind to us, and we shall always recollect you with

gratitude; but go away now, and never come back to cross our fatal

path!"

"Indeed, madam," said I, "I shall do no such thing. You urge it for

my own sake. I have no fear, so urged--nor wish, except to hear

more--all. I cannot have seen Mistress Lucy in all the intimacy of

this last fortnight, without acknowledging her goodness and

innocence; and without seeing--pardon me, madam--that for some reason

you are two very lonely women, in some mysterious sorrow and

distress. Now, though I am not powerful myself, yet I have friends

who are so wise and kind that they may be said to possess power.

Tell me some particulars. Why are you in grief--what is your secret-

-why are you here? I declare solemnly that nothing you have said has

daunted me in my wish to become Lucy's husband; nor will I shrink

from any difficulty that, as such an aspirant, I may have to

encounter. You say you are friendless--why cast away an honest

friend? I will tell you of people to whom you may write, and who

will answer any questions as to my character and prospects. I do not

shun inquiry."

She shook her head again. "You had better go away, sir. You know

nothing about us."

"I know your names," said I, "and I have heard you allude to the part

of the country from which you came, which I happen to know as a wild

and lonely place. There are so few people living in it that, if I

chose to go there, I could easily ascertain all about you; but I

would rather hear it from yourself." You see I wanted to pique her

into telling me something definite.

"You do not know our true names, sir," said she, hastily.

"Well, I may have conjectured as much. But tell me, then, I conjure

you. Give me your reasons for distrusting my willingness to stand by

what I have said with regard to Mistress Lucy."

"Oh, what can I do?" exclaimed she. "If I am turning away a true

friend, as he says?--Stay!" coming to a sudden decision--" I will

tell you something--I cannot tell you all--you would not believe it.

But, perhaps, I can tell you enough to prevent your going on in your

hopeless attachment. I am not Lucy's mother."

"So I conjectured," I said. "Go on."

"I do not even know whether she is the legitimate or illegitimate

child of her father. But he is cruelly turned against her; and her

mother is long dead; and for a terrible reason, she has no other

creature to keep constant to her but me. She--only two years ago--

such a darling and such a pride in her father's house! Why, sir,

there is a mystery that might happen in connection with her any

moment; and then you would go away like all the rest; and, when you

next heard her name, you would loathe her. Others, who have loved

her longer, have done so before now. My poor child! whom neither God

nor man has mercy upon--or, surely, she would die!"

The good woman was stopped by her crying. I confess, I was a little

stunned by her last words; but only for a moment. At any rate, till

I knew definitely what was this mysterious stain upon one so simple

and pure, as Lucy seemed, I would not desert her, and so I said; and

she made me answer:-

"If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir,

after knowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but

I am so foolish and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain

hope to find a friend in you. I cannot help trusting that, although

you may no longer feel toward her as a lover, you will have pity upon

us; and perhaps, by your learning you can tell us where to go for

aid."

"I implore you to tell me what this mystery is," I cried, almost

maddened by this suspense.

"I cannot," said she, solemnly. "I am under a deep vow of secrecy.

If you are to be told, it must be by her." She left the room, and I

remained to ponder over this strange interview. I mechanically

turned over the few books, and with eyes that saw nothing at the

time, examined the tokens of Lucy's frequent presence in that room.

When I got home at night, I remembered how all these trifles spoke of

a pure and tender heart and innocent life. Mistress Clarke returned;

she had been crying sadly.

"Yes," said she, "it is as I feared: she loves you so much that she

is willing to run the fearful risk of telling you all herself--she

acknowledges it is but a poor chance; but your sympathy will be a

balm, if you give it. To-morrow, come here at ten in the morning;

and, as you hope for pity in your hour of agony, repress all show of

fear or repugnance you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted."

I half smiled. "Have no fear," I said. It seemed too absurd to

imagine my feeling dislike to Lucy.

"Her father loved her well," said she, gravely, "yet he drove her out

like some monstrous thing."

Just at this moment came a peal of ringing laughter from the garden.

It was Lucy's voice; it sounded as if she were standing just on one

side of the open casement--and as though she were suddenly stirred to

merriment--merriment verging on boisterousness, by the doings or

sayings of some other person. I can scarcely say why, but the sound

jarred on me inexpressibly. She knew the subject of our

conversation, and must have been at least aware of the state of

agitation her friend was in; she herself usually so gentle and quiet.

I half rose to go to the window, and satisfy my instinctive curiosity

as to what had provoked this burst of, ill-timed laughter; but Mrs.

Clarke threw her whole weight and power upon the hand with which she

pressed and kept me down.

"For God's sake!" she said, white and trembling all over, "sit still;

be quiet. Oh! be patient. To-morrow you will know all. Leave us,

for we are all sorely afflicted. Do not seek to know more about us."

Again that laugh--so musical in sound, yet so discordant to my heart.

She held me tight--tighter; without positive violence I could not

have risen. I was sitting with my back to the window, but I felt a

shadow pass between the sun's warmth and me, and a strange shudder

ran through my frame. In a minute or two she released me.

"Go," repeated she. "Be warned, I ask you once more. I do not think

you can stand this knowledge that you seek. If I had had my own way,

Lucy should never have yielded, and promised to tell you all. Who

knows what may come of it?"

"I am firm in my wish to know all. I return at ten tomorrow morning,

and then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself."

I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to Mistress

Clarke's sanity.

Conjectures as to the meaning of her hints, and uncomfortable

thoughts connected with that strange laughter, filled my mind. I

could hardly sleep. I rose early; and long before the hour I had

appointed, I was on the path over the common that led to the old

farm-house where they lodged. I suppose that Lucy had passed no

better a night than I; for there she was also, slowly pacing with her

even step, her eyes bent down, her whole look most saintly and pure.

She started when I came close to her, and grew paler as I reminded

her of my appointment, and spoke with something of the impatience of

obstacles that, seeing her once more, had called up afresh in my

mind. All strange and terrible hints, and giddy merriment were

forgotten. My heart gave forth words of fire, and my tongue uttered

them. Her colour went and came, as she listened; but, when I had

ended my passionate speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me, and

said -

"But you know that you have something to learn about me yet. I only

want to say this: I shall not think less of you--less well of you, I

mean--if you, too, fall away from me when you know all. Stop!" said

she, as if fearing another burst of mad words. "Listen to me. My

father is a man of great wealth. I never knew my mother; she must

have died when I was very young. When first I remember anything, I

was living in a great, lonely house, with my dear and faithful

Mistress Clarke. My father, even, was not there; he was--he is--a

soldier, and his duties lie aboard. But he came from time to time,

and every time I think he loved me more and more. He brought me

rarities from foreign lands, which prove to me now how much he must

have thought of me during his absences. I can sit down and measure

the depth of his lost love now, by such standards as these. I never

thought whether he loved me or not, then; it was so natural, that it

was like the air I breathed. Yet he was an angry man at times, even

then; but never with me. He was very reckless, too; and, once or

twice, I heard a whisper among the servants that a doom was over him,

and that he knew it, and tried to drown his knowledge in wild

activity, and even sometimes, sir, in wine. So I grew up in this

grand mansion, in that lonely place. Everything around me seemed at

my disposal, and I think every one loved me; I am sure I loved them.

Till about two years ago--I remember it well--my father had come to

England, to us; and he seemed so proud and so pleased with me and all

I had done. And one day his tongue seemed loosened with wine, and he

told me much that I had not known till then,--how dearly he had loved

my mother, yet how his wilful usage had caused her death; and then he

went on to say how he loved me better than any creature on earth, and

how, some day, he hoped to take me to foreign places, for that he

could hardly bear these long absences from his only child. Then he

seemed to change suddenly, and said, in a strange, wild way, that I

was not to believe what he said; that there was many a thing he loved

better--his horse--his dog--I know not what.

"And 'twas only the next morning that, when I came into his room to

ask his blessing as was my wont, he received me with fierce and angry

words. 'Why had I,' so he asked, 'been delighting myself in such

wanton mischief--dancing over the tender plants in the flower-beds,

all set with the famous Dutch bulbs he had brought from Holland?' I

had never been out of doors that morning, sir, and I could not

conceive what he meant, and so I said; and then he swore at me for a

liar, and said I was of no true blood, for he had seen me doing all

that mischief himself--with his own eyes. What could I say? He

would not listen to me, and even my tears seemed only to irritate

him. That day was the beginning of my great sorrows. Not long

after, he reproached me for my undue familiarity--all unbecoming a

gentlewoman--with his grooms. I had been in the stable-yard,

laughing and talking, he said. Now, sir, I am something of a coward

by nature, and I had always dreaded horses; be-sides that, my

father's servants--those whom he brought with him from foreign parts-

-were wild fellows, whom I had always avoided, and to whom I had

never spoken, except as a lady must needs from time to time speak to

her father's people. Yet my father called me by names of which I

hardly know the meaning, but my heart told me they were such as shame

any modest woman; and from that day he turned quite against me;--nay,

sir, not many weeks after that, he came in with a riding-whip in his

hand; and, accusing me harshly of evil doings, of which I knew no

more than you, sir, he was about to strike me, and I, all in

bewildering tears, was ready to take his stripes as great kindness

compared to his harder words, when suddenly he stopped his arm mid-

way, gasped and staggered, crying out, 'The curse--the curse!' I

looked up in terror. In the great mirror opposite I saw myself, and

right behind, another wicked, fearful self, so like me that my soul

seemed to quiver within me, as though not knowing to which similitude

of body it belonged. My father saw my double at the same moment,

either in its dreadful reality, whatever that might be, or in the

scarcely less terrible reflection in the mirror; but what came of it

at that moment I cannot say, for I suddenly swooned away; and when I

came to myself I was lying in my bed, and my faithful Clarke sitting

by me. I was in my bed for days; and even while I lay there my

double was seen by all, flitting about the house and gardens, always

about some mischievous or detestable work. What wonder that every

one shrank from me in dread--that my father drove me forth at length,

when the disgrace of which I was the cause was past his patience to

bear. Mistress Clarke came with me; and here we try to live such a

life of piety and prayer as may in time set me free from the curse."

All the time she had been speaking, I had been weighing her story in

my mind. I had hitherto put cases of witchcraft on one side, as mere

superstitions; and my uncle and I had had many an argument, he

supporting himself by the opinion of his good friend Sir Matthew

Hale. Yet this sounded like the tale of one bewitched; or was it

merely the effect of a life of extreme seclusion telling on the

nerves of a sensitive girl? My scepticism inclined me to the latter

belief, and when she paused I said:

"I fancy that some physician could have disabused your father of his

belief in visions--"

Just at that instant, standing as I was opposite to her in the full

and perfect morning light, I saw behind her another figure--a ghastly

resemblance, complete in likeness, so far as form and feature and

minutest touch of dress could go, but with a loathsome demon soul

looking out of the gray eyes, that were in turns mocking and

voluptuous. My heart stood still within me; every hair rose up

erect; my flesh crept with horror. I could not see the grave and

tender Lucy--my eyes were fascinated by the creature beyond. I know

not why, but I put out my hand to clutch it; I grasped nothing but

empty air, and my whole blood curdled to ice. For a moment I could

not see; then my sight came back, and I saw Lucy standing before me,

alone, deathly pale, and, I could have fancied, almost, shrunk in

size.

"IT has been near me?" she said, as if asking a question.

The sound seemed taken out of her voice; it was husky as the notes on

an old harpsichord when the strings have ceased to vibrate. She read

her answer in my face, I suppose, for I could not speak. Her look

was one of intense fear, but that died away into an aspect of most

humble patience. At length she seemed to force herself to face

behind and around her: she saw the purple moors, the blue distant

hills, quivering in the sunlight, but nothing else.

"Will you take me home?" she said, meekly.

I took her by the hand, and led her silently through the budding

heather--we dared not speak; for we could not tell but that the dread

creature was listening, although unseen,--but that IT might appear

and push us asunder. I never loved her more fondly than now when--

and that was the unspeakable misery--the idea of her was becoming so

inextricably blended with the shuddering thought of IT. She seemed

to understand what I must be feeling. She let go my hand, which she

had kept clasped until then, when we reached the garden gate, and

went forwards to meet her anxious friend, who was standing by the

window looking for her. I could not enter the house: I needed

silence, society, leisure, change--I knew not what--to shake off the

sensation of that creature's presence. Yet I lingered about the

garden--I hardly know why; I partly suppose, because I feared to

encounter the resemblance again on the solitary common, where it had

vanished, and partly from a feeling of inexpressible compassion for

Lucy. In a few minutes Mistress Clarke came forth and joined me. We

walked some paces in silence.

"You know all now," said she, solemnly.

"I saw IT," said I, below my breath.

"And you shrink from us, now," she said, with a hopelessness which

stirred up all that was brave or good in me.

"Not a whit," said I. "Human flesh shrinks from encounter with the

powers of darkness: and, for some reason unknown to me, the pure and

holy Lucy is their victim."

"The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children," she

said.

"Who is her father?" asked I. "Knowing as much as I do, I may surely

know more--know all. Tell me, I entreat you, madam, all that you can

conjecture respecting this demoniac persecution of one so good."

"I will; but not now. I must go to Lucy now. Come this afternoon, I

will see you alone; and oh, sir! I will trust that you may yet find

some way to help us in our sore trouble!"

I was miserably exhausted by the swooning affright which had taken

possession of me. When I reached the inn, I staggered in like one

overcome by wine. I went to my own private room. It was some time

before I saw that the weekly post had come in, and brought me my

letters. There was one from my uncle, one from my home in

Devonshire, and one, re-directed over the first address, sealed with

a great coat of arms, It was from Sir Philip Tempest: my letter of

inquiry respecting Mary Fitzgerald had reached him at Liege, where it

so happened that the Count de la Tour d'Auvergne was quartered at the

very time. He remembered his wife's beautiful attendant; she had had

high words with the deceased countess, respecting her intercourse

with an English gentleman of good standing, who was also in the

foreign service. The countess augured evil of his intentions; while

Mary, proud and vehement, asserted that he would soon marry her, and

resented her mistress's warnings as an insult. The consequence was,

that she had left Madame de la Tour d'Auvergne's service, and, as the

Count believed, had gone to live with the Englishman; whether he had

married her, or not, he could not say. "But," added Sir Philip

Tempest, you may easily hear what particulars you wish to know

respecting Mary Fitzgerald from the Englishman himself, if, as I

suspect, he is no other than my neighbour and former acquaintance,

Mr. Gisborne, of Skipford Hall, in the West Riding. I am led to the

belief that he is no other, by several small particulars, none of

which are in themselves conclusive, but which, taken together,

furnish a mass of presumptive evidence. As far as I could make out

from the Count's foreign pronunciation, Gisborne was the name of the

Englishman: I know that Gisborne of Skipford was abroad and in the

foreign service at that time--he was a likely fellow enough for such

an exploit, and, above all, certain expressions recur to my mind

which he used in reference to old Bridget Fitzgerald, of Coldholme,

whom he once encountered while staying with me at Starkey Manor-

house. I remember that the meeting seemed to have produced some

extraordinary effect upon his mind, as though he had suddenly

discovered some connection which she might have had with his previous

life. I beg you to let me know if I can be of any further service to

you. Your uncle once rendered me a good turn, and I will gladly

repay it, so far as in me lies, to his nephew."

I was now apparently close on the discovery which I had striven so

many months to attain. But success had lost its zest. I put my

letters down, and seemed to forget them all in thinking of the

morning I had passed that very day. Nothing was real but the unreal

presence, which had come like an evil blast across my bodily eyes,

and burnt itself down upon my brain. Dinner came, and went away

untouched. Early in the afternoon I walked to the farm-house. I

found Mistress Clarke alone, and I was glad and relieved. She was

evidently prepared to tell me all I might wish to hear.

"You asked me for Mistress Lucy's true name; it is Gisborne," she

began.

"Not Gisborne of Skipford?" I exclaimed, breathless with

anticipation.

"The same," said she, quietly, not regarding my manner. "Her father

is a man of note; although, being a Roman Catholic, he cannot take

that rank in this country to which his station entitles him. The

consequence is that he lives much abroad--has been a soldier, I am

told."

"And Lucy's mother?" I asked.

She shook her head. "I never knew her," said she. "Lucy was about

three years old when I was engaged to take charge of her. Her mother

was dead."

"But you know her name?--you can tell if it was Mary Fitzgerald?"

She looked astonished. "That was her name. But, sir, how came you

to be so well acquainted with it? It was a mystery to the whole

household at Skipford Court. She was some beautiful young woman whom

he lured away from her protectors while he was abroad. I have heard

said he practised some terrible deceit upon her, and when she came to

know it, she was neither to have nor to hold, but rushed off from his

very arms, and threw herself into a rapid stream and was drowned. It

stung him deep with remorse, but I used to think the remembrance of

the mother's cruel death made him love the child yet dearer."

I told her, as briefly as might be, of my researches after the

descendant and heir of the Fitzgeralds of Kildoon, and added--

something of my old lawyer spirit returning into me for the moment--

that I had no doubt but that we should prove Lucy to be by right

possessed of large estates in Ireland.

No flush came over her gray face; no light into her eyes. "And what

is all the wealth in the whole world to that poor girl?" she said.

"It will not free her from the ghastly bewitchment which persecutes

her. As for money, what a pitiful thing it is! it cannot touch her."

"No more can the Evil Creature harm her," I said. "Her holy nature

dwells apart, and cannot be defiled or stained by all the devilish

arts in the whole world."

"True! but it is a cruel fate to know that all shrink from her,

sooner or later, as from one possessed--accursed."

"How came it to pass?" I asked.

"Nay, I know not. Old rumours there are, that were bruited through

the household at Skipford."

"Tell me," I demanded.

"They came from servants, who would fain account for every thing.

They say that, many years ago, Mr. Gisborne killed a dog belonging to

an old witch at Coldholme; that she cursed, with a dreadful and

mysterious curse, the creature, whatever it might be, that he should

love best; and that it struck so deeply into his heart that for years

he kept himself aloof from any temptation to love aught. But who

could help loving Lucy?"

"You never heard the witch's name?" I gasped.

"Yes--they called her Bridget: they said he would never go near the

spot again for terror of her. Yet he was a brave man!"

"Listen," said I, taking hold of her arm, the better to arrest her

full attention: "if what I suspect holds true, that man stole

Bridget's only child--the very Mary Fitzgerald who was Lucy's mother;

if so, Bridget cursed him in ignorance of the deeper wrong he had

done her. To this hour she yearns after her lost child, and

questions the saints whether she be living or not. The roots of that

curse lie deeper than she knows: she unwittingly banned him for a

deeper guilt than that of killing a dumb beast. The sins of the

fathers are indeed visited upon the children."

"But," said Mistress Clarke, eagerly, "she would never let evil rest

on her own grandchild? Surely, sir, if what you say be true, there

are hopes for Lucy. Let us go--go at once, and tell this fearful

woman all that you suspect, and beseech her to take off the spell she

has put upon her innocent grandchild."

It seemed to me, indeed, that something like this was the best course

we could pursue. But first it was necessary to ascertain more than

what mere rumour or careless hearsay could tell. My thoughts turned

to my uncle--he could advise me wisely--he ought to know all. I

resolved to go to him without delay; but I did not choose to tell

Mistress Clarke of all the visionary plans that flitted through my

mind. I simply declared my intention of proceeding straight to

London on Lucy's affairs. I bade her believe that my interest on the

young lady's behalf was greater than ever, and that my whole time

should be given up to her cause. I saw that Mistress Clarke

distrusted me, because my mind was too full of thoughts for my words

to flow freely. She sighed and shook her head, and said, "Well, it

is all right!" in such a tone that it was an implied reproach. But I

was firm and constant in my heart, and I took confidence from that.

I rode to London. I rode long days drawn out into the lovely summer

nights: I could not rest. I reached London. I told my uncle all,

though in the stir of the great city the horror had faded away, and I

could hardly imagine that he would believe the account I gave him of

the fearful double of Lucy which I had seen on the lonely moor-side.

But my uncle had lived many years, and learnt many things; and, in

the deep secrets of family history that had been confided to him, he

had heard of cases of innocent people bewitched and taken possession

of by evil spirits yet more fearful than Lucy's. For, as he said, to

judge from all I told him, that resemblance had no power over her--

she was too pure and good to be tainted by its evil, haunting

presence. It had, in all probability, so my uncle conceived, tried

to suggest wicked thoughts and to tempt to wicked actions but she, in

her saintly maidenhood, had passed on undefiled by evil thought or

deed. It could not touch her soul: but true, it set her apart from

all sweet love or common human intercourse. My uncle threw himself

with an energy more like six-and-twenty than sixty into the

consideration of the whole case. He undertook the proving Lucy's

descent, and volunteered to go and find out Mr. Gisborne, and obtain,

firstly, the legal proofs of her descent from the Fitzgeralds of

Kildoon, and, secondly, to try and hear all that he could respecting

the working of the curse, and whether any and what means had been

taken to exorcise that terrible appearance. For he told me of

instances where, by prayers and long fasting, the evil possessor had

been driven forth with howling and many cries from the body which it

had come to inhabit; he spoke of those strange New England cases

which had happened not so long before; of Mr. Defoe, who had written

a book, wherein he had named many modes of subduing apparitions, and

sending them back whence they came; and, lastly, he spoke low of

dreadful ways of compelling witches to undo their witchcraft. But I

could not endure to hear of those tortures and burnings. I said that

Bridget was rather a wild and savage woman than a malignant witch;

and, above all, that Lucy was of her kith and kin; and that, in

putting her to the trial, by water or by fire, we should be

torturing--it might be to the death--the ancestress of her we sought

to redeem.

My uncle thought awhile, and then said, that in this last matter I

was right--at any rate, it should not be tried, with his consent,

till all other modes of remedy had failed; and he assented to my

proposal that I should go myself and see Bridget, and tell her all.

In accordance with this, I went down once more to the wayside inn

near Coldholme. It was late at night when I arrived there; and,

while I supped, I inquired of the landlord more particulars as to

Bridget's ways. Solitary and savage had been her life for many

years. Wild and despotic were her words and manner to those few

people who came across her path. The country-folk did her imperious

bidding, because they feared to disobey. If they pleased her, they

prospered; if, on the contrary, they neglected or traversed her

behests, misfortune, small or great, fell on them and theirs. It was

not detestation so much as an indefinable terror that she excited.

In the morning I went to see her. She was standing on the green

outside her cottage, and received me with the sullen grandeur of a

throneless queen. I read in her face that she recognized me, and

that I was not unwelcome; but she stood silent till I had opened my

errand.

"I have news of your daughter," said I, resolved to speak straight to

all that I knew she felt of love, and not to spare her. "She is

dead!"

The stern figure scarcely trembled, but her hand sought the support

of the door-post.

"I knew that she was dead," said she, deep and low, and then was

silent for an instant. "My tears that should have flowed for her

were burnt up long years ago. Young man, tell me about her."

"Not yet," said I, having a strange power given me of confronting

one, whom, nevertheless, in my secret soul I dreaded.

"You had once a little dog," I continued. The words called out in

her more show of emotion than the intelligence of her daughter's

death. She broke in upon my speech:-

"I had! It was hers--the last thing I had of hers--and it was shot

for wantonness! It died in my arms. The man who killed that dog

rues it to this day. For that dumb beast's blood, his best-beloved

stands accursed."

Her eyes distended, as if she were in a trance and saw the working of

her curse. Again I spoke:-

"O, woman!" I said, "that best-beloved, standing accursed before men,

is your dead daughter's child."

The life, the energy, the passion, came back to the eyes with which

she pierced through me, to see if I spoke truth; then, without

another question or word, she threw herself on the ground with

fearful vehemence, and clutched at the innocent daisies with

convulsed hands.

"Bone of my bone! flesh of my flesh! have I cursed thee--and art thou

accursed?"

So she moaned, as she lay prostrate in her great agony. I stood

aghast at my own work. She did not hear my broken sentences; she

asked no more, but the dumb confirmation which my sad looks had given

that one fact, that her curse rested on her own daughter's child.

The fear grew on me lest she should die in her strife of body and

soul; and then might not Lucy remain under the spell as long as she

lived?

Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming through the woodland path that

led to Bridget's cottage; Mistress Clarke was with her: I felt at my

heart that it was she, by the balmy peace which the look of her sent

over me, as she slowly advanced, a glad surprise shining out of her

soft quiet eyes. That was as her gaze met mine. As her looks fell

on the woman lying stiff, convulsed on the earth, they became full of

tender pity; and she came forward to try and lift her up. Seating

herself on the turf, she took Bridget's head into her lap; and, with

gentle touches, she arranged the dishevelled gray hair streaming

thick and wild from beneath her mutch.

"God help her!" murmured Lucy. "How she suffers!"

At her desire we sought for water; but when we returned, Bridget had

recovered her wandering senses, and was kneeling with clasped hands

before Lucy, gazing at that sweet sad face as though her troubled

nature drank in health and peace from every moment's contemplation.

A faint tinge on Lucy's pale cheeks showed me that she was aware of

our return; otherwise it appeared as if she was conscious of her

influence for good over the passionate and troubled woman kneeling

before her, and would not willingly avert her grave and loving eyes

from that wrinkled and careworn countenance.

Suddenly--in the twinkling of an eye--the creature appeared, there,

behind Lucy; fearfully the same as to outward semblance, but kneeling

exactly as Bridget knelt, and clasping her hands in jesting mimicry

as Bridget clasped hers in her ecstasy that was deepening into a

prayer. Mistress Clarke cried out--Bridget arose slowly, her gaze

fixed on the creature beyond: drawing her breath with a hissing

sound, never moving her terrible eyes, that were steady as stone, she

made a dart at the phantom, and caught, as I had done, a mere handful

of empty air. We saw no more of the creature--it vanished as

suddenly as it came, but Bridget looked slowly on, as if watching

some receding form. Lucy sat still, white, trembling, drooping--I

think she would have swooned if I had not been there to uphold her.

While I was attending to her, Bridget passed us, without a word to

any one, and, entering her cottage, she barred herself in, and left

us without.

All our endeavours were now directed to get Lucy back to the house

where she had tarried the night before. Mistress Clarke told me

that, not hearing from me (some letter must have miscarried), she had

grown impatient and despairing, and had urged Lucy to the enterprise

of coming to seek her grandmother; not telling her, indeed, of the

dread reputation she possessed, or how we suspected her of having so

fearfully blighted that innocent girl; but, at the same time, hoping

much from the mysterious stirring of blood, which Mistress Clarke

trusted in for the removal of the curse. They had come, by a

different route from that which I had taken, to a village inn not far

from Coldholme, only the night before. This was the first interview

between ancestress and descendant.

All through the sultry noon I wandered along the tangled brush-wood

of the old neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a

matter so complicated and mysterious. Meeting a countryman, I asked

my way to the nearest clergyman, and went, hoping to obtain some

counsel from him. But he proved to be a coarse and common-minded

man, giving no time or attention to the intricacies of a case, but

dashing out a strong opinion involving immediate action. For

instance, as soon as I named Bridget Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:-

"The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist! I'd have had her ducked long

since but for that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest. He has had to

threaten honest folk about here over and over again, or they'd have

had her up before the justices for her black doings. And it's the

law of the land that witches should be burnt! Ay, and of Scripture,

too, sir! Yet you see a papist, if he's a rich squire, can overrule

both law and Scripture. I'd carry a faggot myself to rid the country

of her!"

Such a one could give me no help. I rather drew back what I had

already said; and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him

to several pots of beer, in the village inn, to which we had

adjourned for our conference at his suggestion. I left him as soon

as I could, and returned to Coldholme, shaping my way past deserted

Starkey Manor-house, and coming upon it by the back. At that side

were the oblong remains of the old moat, the waters of which lay

placid and motionless under the crimson rays of the setting sun; with

the forest-trees lying straight along each side, and their deep-green

foliage mirrored to blackness in the burnished surface of the moat

below--and the broken sun-dial at the end nearest the hall--and the

heron, standing on one leg at the water's edge, lazily looking down

for fish--the lonely and desolate house scarce needed the broken

windows, the weeds on the door-sill, the broken shutter softly

flapping to and fro in the twilight breeze, to fill up the picture of

desertion and decay. I lingered about the place until the growing

darkness warned me on. And then I passed along the path, cut by the

orders of the last lady of Starkey Manor-House, that led me to

Bridget's cottage. I resolved at once to see her; and, in spite of

closed doors--it might be of resolved will--she should see me. So I

knocked at her door, gently, loudly, fiercely. I shook it so

vehemently that a length the old hinges gave way, and with a crash it

fell inwards, leaving me suddenly face to face with Bridget--I, red,

heated, agitated with my so long baffled efforts--she, stiff as any

stone, standing right facing me, her eyes dilated with terror, her

ashen lips trembling, but her body motionless. In her hands she held

her crucifix, as if by that holy symbol she sought to oppose my

entrance

Read next: Chapter III

Read previous: Chapter I

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