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 esteemed4 as his son, and to labour with him in his office. I was very fond of the old gentleman. He was the confidential5 agent of many country squires6, and had attained9 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 tragic10 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 genealogy11, 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 standing12, he would mulct him pretty well, and abuse him to me afterwards as negligent13 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 dingy15 office in Gray’s Inn Lane. It was the summons for me, and I went into his private room just as a gentleman—whom I knew well enough by sight as an Irish lawyer of more reputation than he deserved—was leaving.
My uncle was slowly rubbing his hands together and considering. I was there two or three minutes before he spoke16. 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 inquiries18 as to the existence of any descendants of the younger branch of a family to whom some valuable estates had descended19 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 scrap20 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 scent21, 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 kin14 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 dependants22 of the family. What had become of him? I travelled backwards23 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 hereditary24 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 regiment25, and it was long before I could hear from him; it was more than a year before I got a short, haughty26 letter—I fancy he had a soldier’s contempt for a civilian28, an Irishman’s hatred29 for an Englishman, an exiled Jacobite’s jealousy30 of one who prospered31 and lived tranquilly32 under the government he looked upon as an usurpation33. “Bridget Fitzgerald,” he said, “had been faithful to the fortunes of his sister—had followed her abroad, and to England when Mrs. Starkey had thought fit to return. Both her sister and her husband were dead; he knew nothing of Bridget Fitzgerald at the present time: probably Sir Philip Tempest, his nephew’s guardian34, 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 applied35 to, told me that he paid an annuity36 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 bleak37 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 steward38, while the Squire7, 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 conjecture39 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 instinctively40 suspected to be the object of my search, in a sheltered covert42 on one side of my path. I lingered and watched her. She must have been considerably43 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 erectness45 of her figure. She drooped46 again in a minute or two, and seemed looking for something on the ground, as, with bent47 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 semblance48 of hurried walk or discomposure of any kind. The door was slightly ajar. I knocked, and the majestic49 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 eyebrows50 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 assent51.
“I have something to say to you. May I come in? I am unwilling52 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 hood17 of her gray, draping cloak, which had previously53 hid part of the character of her countenance54. The cottage was rude and bare enough. But before that picture of the Virgin55, of which I have made mention, there stood a little cup filled with fresh primroses56. While she paid her reverence57 to the Madonna, I understood why she had been out seeking through the clumps58 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 solitary59 weeping; but it was neither cunning nor malignant60.
“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, wailing61 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 lone62 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 poetic63 names of the Litany.
“O Rose of Sharon! O Tower of David! O Star of the Sea! have you no comfort for my sore heart? Am I for ever to hope? Grant me at least despair!”—and so on she went, heedless of my presence. Her prayers grew wilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the borders of madness and blasphemy64. 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 yearned65 so to see her, and my heart’s will is fearful and strong: it would have drawn66 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 desolate67 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 possessed68 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 solitude69 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 rumours71 reached her that Mary had made a great marriage; and this sting of doubt was added,—whether the mother might not be close to her child under her new name, and even hearing of her every day, and yet never recognising the lost one under the appellation72 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 hearth73, 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 noted74 down one or two particulars out of Bridget’s narrative75 that I thought might be of use to me; for I was stimulated76 to further search in a strange and extraordinary manner. It seemed as if it were impressed upon me, that I must take up the quest where Bridget had laid it down; and this for no reason that had previously influenced me (such as my uncle’s anxiety on the subject, my own reputation as a lawyer, and so on), but from some strange power which had taken possession of my will only that very morning, and which forced it in the direction it chose.
“I will go,” said I. “I will spare nothing in the search. Trust to me. I will learn all that can be learnt. You shall know all that money, or pains, or wit can discover. It is true she may be long dead: but she may have left a child.”
“A child!” she cried, as if for the first time this idea had struck her mind. “Hear him, Blessed Virgin! he says she may have left a child. And you have never told me, though I have prayed so for a sign, waking or sleeping!”
“Nay,” said I, “I know nothing but what you tell me. You say you heard of her marriage.”
But she caught nothing of what I said. She was praying to the Virgin in a kind of ecstacy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my very presence.
From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest’s. The wife of the foreign officer had been a cousin of his father’s, and from him I thought I might gain some particulars as to the existence of the Count de la Tour d’Auvergne, and where I could find him; for I knew questions de vive voix aid the flagging recollection, and I was determined78 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 tempestuous80 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 attaining81 to my object. I did not see the sweeping82 moors83 when I walked out: when I held a book in my hand, and read the words, their sense did not penetrate84 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 immediate79 danger was over, my life seemed to slip away in delicious languor85 for two or three months. I did not ask—so much did I dread86 falling into the old channel of thought—whether any reply had been received to my letter to Sir Philip. I turned my whole imagination right away from all that subject. My uncle remained with me until nigh summer, and then returned to his business in London; leaving me perfectly87 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 alluded88 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, rambling90 inn at Harrogate, close to the Medicinal Spring; but it was already becoming too small for the accommodation of the influx91 of visitors, and many lodged92 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 landlady93 become with me during my long illness. She would chide94 me for being out so late on the moors, or for having been too long without food, quite in a motherly way; while he consulted me about vintages and wines, and taught me many a Yorkshire wrinkle about horses. In my walks I met other strangers from time to time. Even before my uncle had left me, I had noticed, with half-torpid curiosity, a young lady of very striking appearance, who went about always accompanied by an elderly companion,—hardly a gentlewoman, but with something in her look that prepossessed me in her favour. The younger lady always put her veil down when any one approached; so it had been only once or twice, when I had come upon her at a sudden turn in the path, that I had even had a glimpse of her face. I am not sure if it was beautiful, though in after-life I grew to think it so. But it was at this time over-shadowed by a sadness that never varied95: a pale, quiet, resigned look of intense suffering, that irresistibly96 attracted me,—not with love, but with a sense of infinite compassion97 for one so young yet so hopelessly unhappy. The companion wore something of the same look: quiet, melancholy98, 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, lodging99 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 seclusion100?” 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 pranks101 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 hovered102 about their walks, drawn towards them with a strange fascination103, which was not diminished by their evident annoyance104 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 acquiesced105 in by them, but eagerly prosecuted106 by me. I can hardly tell when intense curiosity became merged107 in love, but in less than ten days after my uncle’s departure I was passionately108 enamoured of Mrs. Lucy, as her attendant called her; carefully—for this I noted well—avoiding any address which appeared as if there was an equality of station between them. I noticed also that Mrs. Clarke, the elderly woman, after her first reluctance110 to allow me to pay them any attentions had been overcome, was cheered by my evident attachment111 to the young girl; it seemed to lighten her heavy burden of care, and she evidently favoured my visits to the farm-house where they lodged. It was not so with Lucy. A more attractive person I never saw, in spite of her depression of manner, and shrinking avoidance of me. I felt sure at once, that whatever was the source of her grief, it rose from no fault of her own. It was difficult to draw her into conversation; but when at times, for a moment or two, I beguiled112 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 justify113 me in tempting114 Mrs. Clarke and Lucy forth115 upon the moors, to gaze at the great purple dome116 above.
It seemed to me that Lucy was aware of my love; but that, for some motive117 which I could not guess, she would fain have repelled118 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 complexion119 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 exertion120 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 adorn121 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 shrouded122 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 innocence123, 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 plunge124 into the subject.
“We have thought, sir—at least I have thought—that you know very little of us, nor we of you, indeed; not enough to warrant the intimate acquaintance we have fallen into. I beg your pardon, sir,” she went on, nervously125; “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 forsaken126 by all, except the great God, and even He permits a strange and evil power to afflict127 us—what am I to do? Where is it to end?” She wrung128 her hands in her distress129; 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 implore130. You have been good and kind to us, and we shall always recollect77 you with gratitude131; 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 intimacy132 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 daunted133 me in my wish to become Lucy’s husband; nor will I shrink from any difficulty that, as such an aspirant134, 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 prospects135. I do not shun136 inquiry137.”
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 allude89 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 ascertain138 all about you; but I would rather hear it from yourself.” You see I wanted to pique139 her into telling me something definite.
“You do not know our true names, sir,” said she, hastily.
“Well, I may have conjectured140 as much. But tell me, then, I conjure141 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 legitimate142 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 loathe143 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 stunned144 by her last words; but only for a moment. At any rate, till I knew definitely what was this mysterious stain upon one so simple and pure, as Lucy seemed, I would not desert her, and so I said; and she made answer:—
“If you are daring in your heart to think harm of my child, sir, after knowing her as you have done, you are no good man yourself; but I am so foolish and helpless in my great sorrow, that I would fain hope to find a friend in you. I cannot help trusting that, although you may no longer feel towards her as a lover, you will have pity upon us; and perhaps, by your learning, you can tell us where to go for aid.”
“I implore you to tell me what this mystery is,” I cried, almost maddened by this suspense145.
“I cannot,” said she, solemnly. “I am under a deep vow146 of secrecy147. 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 repugnance148 you may feel towards one so grievously afflicted149.”
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 monstrous150 thing.”
Just at this moment came a peal151 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 verging152 on boisterousness153, 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 agitation154 her friend was in: she herself usually so gentle and quiet. I half rose to go to the window, and satisfy my instinctive41 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 discordant155 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 shudder156 ran through my frame. In a minute or two she released me.
“Go,” repeated she. “Be warned, I ask you once more. I do not think you can stand this knowledge that you seek. If I had had my own way, Lucy should never have yielded, and promised to tell you all. Who knows what may come of it?”
“I am firm in my wish to know all. I return at ten to-morrow morning, and then expect to see Mistress Lucy herself.”
I turned away; having my own suspicions, I confess, as to Mistress Clarke’s sanity157.
Conjectures158 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 impatience159 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 passionate109 speeches, she lifted her soft eyes to me, and said—
“But you know that you have something to learn about me yet. I only want to say this: I shall not think less of you—less well of you, I mean—if you, too, fall away from me when you know all. Stop!” said she, as if fearing another burst of mad words. “Listen to me. My father is a man of great wealth. I never knew my mother; she must have died when I was very young. When first I remember anything, I was living in a great, lonely house, with my dear and faithful Mistress Clarke. My father, even, was not there; he was—he is—a soldier, and his duties lie abroad. But he came, from time to time, and every time I think he loved me more and more. He brought me rarities from foreign lands, which prove to me now how much he must have thought of me during his absences. I can sit down and measure the depth of his lost love now, by such standards as these. I never thought whether he loved me or not, then; it was so natural, that it was like the air I breathed. Yet he was an angry man at times, even then; but never with me. He was very reckless, too; and, once or twice, I heard a whisper among the servants that a doom160 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 mansion161, 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 wilful162 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 abscences 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 blessing163 as was my wont164, he received me with fierce and angry words. ‘Why had I,’ so he asked, ‘been delighting myself in such wanton mischief165—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 liar166, 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 undue167 familiarity—all unbecoming a gentlewoman—with his grooms168. 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 dreaded169 horses; besides that, my father’s servants—those whom he brought with him from foreign parts—were wild fellows, whom I had always avoided, and to whom I had never spoken, except as a lady must needs from time to time speak to her father’s people. Yet my father called me by names of which I hardly know the meaning, but my heart told me they were such as shame any modest woman; and from that day he turned quite against me;—nay, sir, not many weeks after that, he came in with a riding-whip in his hand; and, accusing me harshly of evil doings, of which I knew no more than you, sir, he was about to strike me, and I, all in bewildering tears, was ready to take his stripes as great kindness compared to his harder words, when suddenly he stopped his arm mid-way, gasped170 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 mischievous171 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 piety172 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 witchcraft173 on one side, as mere174 superstitions175; 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 disabused176 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 likeness177, so far as form and feature and minutest touch of dress could go, but with a loathsome178 demon179 soul looking out of the gray eyes, that were in turns mocking and voluptuous180. My heart stood still within me; every hair rose up erect44; 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 curdled181 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 harpsichord182 when the strings183 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 humble184 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, meekly185.
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 asunder186. 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 shuddering187 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 entreat188 you, madam, all that you can conjecture respecting this demoniac persecution189 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 miserably190 exhausted191 by the swooning affright which had taken possession of me. When I reached the inn, I staggered in like one overcome by wine. I went to my own private room. It was some time before I saw that the weekly post had come in, and brought me my letters. There was one from my uncle, one from my home in Devonshire, and one, re-directed over the first address, sealed with a great coat of arms. It was from Sir Philip Tempest: my letter of inquiry respecting Mary Fitzgerald had reached him at Liège, where it so happened that the Count de la Tour d’Auvergne was quartered at the very time. He remembered his wife’s beautiful attendant; she had had high words with the deceased countess, respecting her intercourse192 with an English gentleman of good standing, who was also in the foreign service. The countess augured193 evil of his intentions; while Mary, proud and vehement194, 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 conclusive195, but which, taken together, make a mass of presumptive evidence. As far as I could make out from the Count’s foreign pronunciation, Gisborne was the name of the Englishman: I know that Gisborne of Skipford was abroad and in the foreign service at that time—he was a likely fellow enough for such an exploit, and, above all, certain expressions recur196 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 apparently197 close on the discovery which I had striven so many months to attain8. But success had lost its zest198. 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 anticipation199.
“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 lured200 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 remorse201, but I used to think the remembrance of the mother’s cruel death made him love the child yet dearer.”
I told her, as briefly202 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 persecutes203 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 defiled204 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 bruited205 through the household at Skipford.”
“Tell me,” I demanded.
“They came from servants, who would fain account for everything. They say that, many years ago, Mr. Gisborne killed a dog belonging to an old witch at Coldholme; that she cursed, with a dreadful and mysterious curse, the creature, whatever it might be, that he should love best; and that it struck so deeply into his heart that for years he kept himself aloof206 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 yearns207 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 guilt208 than that of killing209 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 beseech210 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 rumour70 or careless hearsay211 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 proceeding212 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 confided213 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 tainted214 by its evil, haunting presence. It had, in all probability, so my uncle conceived, tried to suggest wicked thoughts and to tempt27 to wicked actions; but she, in her saintly maidenhood215, 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, secondly216, 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 subduing217 apparitions218, and sending them back whence they came; and, lastly, he spoke low of dreadful ways of compelling witches to undo219 their witchcraft. But I could not endure to hear of those tortures and burnings. I said that Bridget was rather a wild and savage220 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 redeem221.
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 assented222 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 sullen223 grandeur224 of a throneless queen. I read in her face that she recognised me, and that I was not unwelcome; but she stood silent till I had opened my errand.
“I have news of your daughter,” said I, resolved to speak straight to all that I knew she felt of love, and not to spare her. “She is dead!”
The stern figure scarcely trembled, but her hand sought the support of the door-post.
“I knew that she was dead,” said she, deep and low, and then was silent for an instant. “My tears that should have flowed for her were burnt up long years ago. Young man, tell me about her.”
“Not yet,” said I, having a strange power given me of confronting one, whom, nevertheless, in my secret soul I dreaded.
“You had once a little dog,” I continued. The words called out in her more show of emotion than the intelligence of her daughter’s death. She broke in upon my speech:—
“I had! It was hers—the last thing I had of hers—and it was shot for wantonness! It died in my arms. The man who killed that dog rues225 it to this day. For that dumb beast’s blood, his best-beloved stands accursed.”
Her eyes distended226, 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 vehemence227, 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 prostrate228 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 confirmation229 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 strife230 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 tinge231 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 avert232 her grave and loving eyes from that wrinkled and careworn233 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 mimicry234 as Bridget clasped hers in her ecstasy235 that was deepening into a prayer. Mistress Clarke cried out—Bridget arose slowly, her gaze fixed236 on the creature beyond: drawing her breath with a hissing237 sound, never moving her terrible eyes, that were steady as stone, she made a dart238 at the phantom239, 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 receding240 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 blighted241 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 tangled242 wood-paths of the old neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a matter so complicated and mysterious. Meeting a countryman, I asked my way to the nearest clergyman, and went, hoping to obtain some counsel from him. But he proved to be a coarse and common-minded man, giving no time or attention to the intricacies of a case, but dashing out a strong opinion involving immediate action. For instance, as soon as I named Bridget Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:—
“The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist! I’d have had her ducked long since but for that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest. He has had to threaten honest folk about here over and over again, or they’d have had her up before the justices for her black doings. And it’s the law of the land that witches should be burnt! Ay, and of Scripture243, 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 adjourned244 for our conference at his suggestion. I left him as soon as I could, and returned to Coldholme, shaping my way past deserted245 Starkey Manor-House, and coming upon it by the back. At that side were the oblong remains246 of the old moat, the waters of which lay placid247 and motionless under the crimson248 rays of the setting sun; with the forest-trees lying straight along each side, and their deep-green foliage249 mirrored to blackness in the burnished250 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 shutter251 softly flapping to and fro in the twilight252 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 vehemently253 that at length the old hinges gave way, and with a crash it fell inwards, leaving me suddenly face to face with Bridget—I, red, heated, agitated254 with my so long-baffled efforts—she, stiff as any stone, standing right facing me, her eyes dilated255 with terror, her ashen256 lips trembling, but her body motionless. In her hands she held her crucifix, as if by that holy symbol she sought to oppose my entrance. At sight of me, her whole frame relaxed, and she sank back upon a chair. Some mighty257 tension had given way. Still her eyes looked fearfully into the gloom of the outer air, made more opaque258 by the glimmer259 of the lamp inside, which she had placed before the picture of the Virgin.
“Is she there?” asked Bridget, hoarsely260.
“No! Who? I am alone. You remember me.”
“Yes,” replied she, still terror-stricken. “But she—that creature—has been looking in upon me through that window all day long. I closed it up with my shawl; and then I saw her feet below the door, as long as it was light, and I knew she heard my very breathing—nay, worse, my very prayers; and I could not pray, for her listening choked the words ere they rose to my lips. Tell me, who is she?—what means that double girl I saw this morning? One had a look of my dead Mary; but the other curdled my blood, and yet it was the same!”
She had taken hold of my arm, as if to secure herself some human companionship. She shook all over with the slight, never-ceasing tremor262 of intense terror. I told her my tale, as I have told it you, sparing none of the details.
How Mistress Clarke had informed me that the resemblance had driven Lucy forth from her father’s house—how I had disbelieved, until, with mine own eyes, I had seen another Lucy standing behind my Lucy, the same in form and feature, but with the demon-soul looking out of the eyes. I told her all, I say, believing that she—whose curse was working so upon the life of her innocent grandchild—was the only person who could find the remedy and the redemption. When I had done, she sat silent for many minutes.
“You love Mary’s child?” she asked.
“I do, in spite of the fearful working of the curse—I love her. Yet I shrink from her ever since that day on the moor-side. And men must shrink from one so accompanied; friends and lovers must stand afar off. Oh, Bridget Fitzgerald! loosen the curse! Set her free!”
“Where is she?”
I eagerly caught at the idea that her presence was needed, in order that, by some strange prayer or exorcism, the spell might be reversed.
“I will go and bring her to you,” I exclaimed. But Bridget tightened263 her hold upon my arm.
“Not so,” said she, in a low, hoarse261 voice. “It would kill me to see her again as I saw her this morning. And I must live till I have worked my work. Leave me!” said she, suddenly, and again taking up the cross. “I defy the demon I have called up. Leave me to wrestle264 with it!”
She stood up, as if in an ecstasy of inspiration, from which all fear was banished265. I lingered—why, I can hardly tell—until once more she bade me begone. As I went along the forest way, I looked back, and saw her planting the cross in the empty threshold, where the door had been.
The next morning Lucy and I went to seek her, to bid her join her prayers with ours. The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze. No human being was there: the cross remained on the threshold, but Bridget was gone.
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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7
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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8
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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9
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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10
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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11
genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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12
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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13
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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14
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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15
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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16
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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17
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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18
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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19
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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20
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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21
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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22
dependants
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| 受赡养者，受扶养的家属( dependant的名词复数 ) | |
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23
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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24
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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25
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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26
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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27
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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28
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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29
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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30
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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31
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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33
usurpation
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| n.篡位；霸占 | |
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34
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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35
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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36
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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37
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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38
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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39
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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40
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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41
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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42
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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43
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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44
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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45
erectness
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| n.直立 | |
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46
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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48
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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49
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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50
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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51
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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52
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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53
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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54
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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55
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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56
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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57
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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58
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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59
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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60
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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61
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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62
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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63
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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64
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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65
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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67
desolate
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|
| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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68
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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69
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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70
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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71
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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72
appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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73
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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74
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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75
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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76
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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77
recollect
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|
| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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78
determined
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|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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79
immediate
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|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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80
tempestuous
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|
| adj.狂暴的 | |
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81
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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82
sweeping
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|
| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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83
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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84
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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85
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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86
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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87
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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88
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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90
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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91
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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92
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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93
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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94
chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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95
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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96
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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97
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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98
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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99
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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100
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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101
pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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102
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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103
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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104
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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105
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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107
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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108
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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109
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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110
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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111
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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112
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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113
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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114
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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115
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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116
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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117
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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118
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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119
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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120
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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121
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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122
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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123
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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124
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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125
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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126
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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127
afflict
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| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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128
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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129
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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130
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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131
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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132
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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133
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
aspirant
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| n.热望者；adj.渴望的 | |
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135
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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136
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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137
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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138
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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139
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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140
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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142
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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143
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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144
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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145
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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146
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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147
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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148
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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149
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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151
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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152
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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153
boisterousness
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| n.喧闹；欢跃；（风暴）狂烈 | |
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154
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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155
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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156
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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157
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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158
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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159
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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160
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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161
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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162
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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163
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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164
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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165
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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166
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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167
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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168
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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169
dreaded
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|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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170
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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171
mischievous
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|
| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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172
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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173
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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174
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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175
superstitions
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|
| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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176
disabused
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|
| v.去除…的错误想法( disabuse的过去式和过去分词 )；使醒悟 | |
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177
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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178
loathsome
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|
| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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179
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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180
voluptuous
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|
| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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181
curdled
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| v.（使）凝结( curdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
harpsichord
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| n.键琴（钢琴前身） | |
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183
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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184
humble
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|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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185
meekly
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|
| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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186
asunder
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|
| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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187
shuddering
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|
| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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188
entreat
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|
| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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189
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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190
miserably
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|
| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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191
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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192
intercourse
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|
| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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193
augured
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|
| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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194
vehement
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|
| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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195
conclusive
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|
| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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196
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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197
apparently
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|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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198
zest
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|
| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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199
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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200
lured
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|
| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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201
remorse
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|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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202
briefly
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|
| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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203
persecutes
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|
| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的第三人称单数 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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204
defiled
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|
| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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205
bruited
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|
| v.传播（传说或谣言）( bruit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
aloof
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|
| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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207
yearns
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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208
guilt
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|
| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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209
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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210
beseech
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|
| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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211
hearsay
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|
| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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212
proceeding
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|
| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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213
confided
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|
| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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214
tainted
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|
| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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215
maidenhood
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|
| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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216
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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217
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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218
apparitions
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|
| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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219
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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220
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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221
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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222
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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223
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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224
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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225
rues
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| v.对…感到后悔( rue的第三人称单数 ) | |
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226
distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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227
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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228
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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229
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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230
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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231
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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232
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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233
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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234
mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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235
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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236
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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237
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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238
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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239
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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240
receding
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|
| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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241
blighted
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|
| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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242
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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243
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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244
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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245
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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246
remains
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|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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247
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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248
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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249
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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250
burnished
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|
| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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251
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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252
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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253
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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254
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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255
dilated
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|
| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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256
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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257
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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258
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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259
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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260
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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261
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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262
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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263
tightened
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|
| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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264
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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