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 repellant. It was

evident that when he thought of Mary--her short life--how he had

wronged her, and of her violent death, he could hardly find words

severe enough for his own conduct; and from this point of view, the

curse that Bridget had laid upon him and his, was regarded by him as

a prophetic doom, to the utterance of which she was moved by a Higher

Power, working for the fulfilment of a deeper vengeance than for the

death of the poor dog. But then, again, when he came to speak of his

daughter, the repugnance which the conduct of the demoniac creature

had produced in his mind, was but ill-disguised under a show of

profound indifference as to Lucy's fate. One almost felt as if he

would have been as content to put her out of existence, as he would

have been to destroy some disgusting reptile that had invaded his

chamber or his couch.

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 acknowledgement which belongs to a man of the world. Then

he turned to scan me with his keen glance. After some alight

conversation, entered into on his part, I am certain, with an

intention of discovering on what terms of confidence I stood with my

uncle, he paused, and said gravely -

"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,

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 recognized my voice; and, starting up, caught

at my robes, dragging me before the blessed shrine, and throwing

herself down, and forcing me, as much by her evident desire as by her

action, to kneel beside her, she exclaimed:

"'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. Jaques.

"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 brused and crushed her heart. Henceforward

her former self must be buried,--yea, buried quick, if need be,--but

never more to make sign, or utter cry on earth! She has become a

Poor Clare, in order that, by perpetual penance and constant service

of others, she may at length so act as to obtain final absolution and

rest for her soul. Until then, the innocent must suffer. It is to

plead for the innocent that I come to you; not in the name of the

witch, Bridget Fitzgerald, but of the penitent and servant of all

men, the Poor Clare, Sister Magdalen."

"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 clearly 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 the rule the Poor Clares would willingly do it; but

their founder appointed a remedy for such extreme cases as you

suggest. They have a bell--'tis but a small one, as I have heard,

and has yet never been rung in the memory 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 adjured 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 the great cannon swept sullenly

over the town. But if they expected the disturbance to die away, and

spend itself in a few hours' fury, they were mistaken. In a day or

two, the rioters held possession of the principal municipal

buildings. Then the Austrians poured forth in bright flaming array,

calm and smiling, as they marched to the posts assigned, as if the

fierce mob were no more to them then the swarms of buzzing summer

flies. Their practised manoeuvres, their well-aimed shot, told with

terrible effect; but in the place of one slain rioter, three sprang

up of his blood to avenge his loss. But a deadly foe, a ghastly ally

of the Austrians, was at work. Food, scarce and dear for months, was

now hardly to be obtained at any price. Desperate efforts were being

made to bring provisions into the city, for the rioters had friends

without. Close to the city port, nearest to the Scheldt, a great

struggle took place. I was there, helping the rioters, whose cause I

had adopted. We had a savage encounter with the Austrians. Numbers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

at their sides; sometimes I saw the cross held above a dying man, and

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

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

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

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

their faces hidden by their veils, were the Poor Clares--sent forth

now because dire agony was abroad and imminent danger at hand.

Therefore, they left their cloistered shelter, and came into that

thick and evil melee.

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

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

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

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

recognized his opponent.

"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

tears running down their cheeks, who had snatched up what provisions

they had in the vessels in which they stood, so that the burden of

these was in many cases much greater than that which they contained;

children, with flushed faces, grasping tight the morsel of bitten

cake or bread, in their eagerness to carry it safe to the help of the

Poor Clares; strong men--yea, both Anversois and Austrians--pressing

onward with set teeth, and no word spoken; and over all, and through

all, came that sharp tinkle--that cry for help in extremity.

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.

THE END.
Poor Clare - short story by Elizabeth C. Gaskell

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