CHAPTER III.
WHAT was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself. As forLucy, she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon her. Hergentleness and piety, under the pressure of so horrible a life, seemedover-passive to me. She never complained. Mrs. Clarke complained morethan ever. As for me, I was more in love with the real Lucy than ever;but I shrunk from the false similitude with an intensity proportioned tomy love. I found out by instinct that Mrs. Clarke had occasionaltemptations to leave Lucy. The good lady’s nerves were shaken, and, fromwhat she said, I could almost have concluded that the object of theDouble was to drive away from Lucy this last, and almost earliest friend.At times, I could scarcely bear to own it, but I myself felt inclined toturn recreant; and I would accuse Lucy of being too patient—too resigned.One after another, she won the little children of Coldholme. (Mrs.Clarke and she had resolved to stay there, for was it not as good a placeas any other, to such as they? and did not all our faint hopes rest onBridget—never seen or heard of now, but still we trusted to come back, orgive some token?) So, as I say, one after another, the little childrencame about my Lucy, won by her soft tones, and her gentle smiles, andkind actions. Alas! one after another they fell away, and shrunk fromher path with blanching terror; and we too surely guessed the reason why.It was the last drop. I could bear it no longer. I resolved no more tolinger around the spot, but to go back to my uncle, and among the learneddivines of the city of London, seek for some power whereby to annul thecurse.
My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite testimonials relatingto Lucy’s descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and from Mr.Gisborne. The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he was againserving in the Austrian army), a letter alternately passionatelyself-reproachful and stoically repellant. It was evident that when hethought of Mary—her short life—how he had wronged her, and of her violentdeath, he could hardly find words severe enough for his own conduct; andfrom this point of view, the curse that Bridget had laid upon him andhis, was regarded by him as a prophetic doom, to the utterance of whichshe was moved by a Higher Power, working for the fulfilment of a deepervengeance than for the death of the poor dog. But then, again, when hecame to speak of his daughter, the repugnance which the conduct of thedemoniac creature had produced in his mind, was but ill-disguised under ashow of profound indifference as to Lucy’s fate. One almost felt as ifhe would have been as content to put her out of existence, as he wouldhave been to destroy some disgusting reptile that had invaded his chamberor his couch.
The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy’s; and that was all—was nothing.
My uncle and I sat in the gloom of a London November evening, in ourhouse in Ormond Street. I was out of health, and felt as if I were in aninextricable coil of misery. Lucy and I wrote to each other, but thatwas little; and we dared not see each other for dread of the fearfulThird, who had more than once taken her place at our meetings. My unclehad, on the day I speak of, bidden prayers to be put up on the ensuingSabbath in many a church and meeting-house in London, for one grievouslytormented by an evil spirit. He had faith in prayers—I had none; I wasfast losing faith in all things. So we sat, he trying to interest me inthe old talk of other days, I oppressed by one thought—when our oldservant, Anthony, opened the door, and, without speaking, showed in avery gentlemanly and prepossessing man, who had something remarkableabout his dress, betraying his profession to be that of the RomanCatholic priesthood. He glanced at my uncle first, then at me. It wasto me he bowed.
“I did not give my name,” said he, “because you would hardly haverecognised it; unless, sir, when, in the north, you heard of FatherBernard, the chaplain at Stoney Hurst?”
I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I hadutterly forgotten it; so I professed myself a complete stranger to him;while my ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as much as itwas in his nature to hate anything, placed a chair for the visitor, andbade Anthony bring glasses, and a fresh jug of claret.
Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful ease and pleasantacknowledgement which belongs to a man of the world. Then he turned toscan me with his keen glance. After some alight conversation, enteredinto on his part, I am certain, with an intention of discovering on whatterms of confidence I stood with my uncle, he paused, and said gravely—
“I am sent here with a message to you, sir, from a woman to whom you haveshown kindness, and who is one of my penitents, in Antwerp—one BridgetFitzgerald.”
“Bridget Fitzgerald!” exclaimed I. “In Antwerp? Tell me, sir, all thatyou can about her.”
“There is much to be said,” he replied. “But may I inquire if thisgentleman—if your uncle is acquainted with the particulars of which youand I stand informed?”
“All that I know, he knows,” said I, eagerly laying my hand on my uncle’sarm, as he made a motion as if to quit the room.
“Then I have to speak before two gentlemen who, however they may differfrom me in faith, are yet fully impressed with the fact that there areevil powers going about continually to take cognizance of our evilthoughts: and, if their Master gives them power, to bring them into overtaction. Such is my theory of the nature of that sin, which I dare notdisbelieve—as some sceptics would have us do—the sin of witchcraft. Ofthis deadly sin, you and I are aware, Bridget Fitzgerald has been guilty.Since you saw her last, many prayers have been offered in our churches,many masses sung, many penances undergone, in order that, if God and theholy saints so willed it, her sin might be blotted out. But it has notbeen so willed.”
“Explain to me,” said I, “who you are, and how you come connected withBridget. Why is she at Antwerp? I pray you, sir, tell me more. If I amimpatient, excuse me; I am ill and feverish, and in consequencebewildered.”
There was something to me inexpressibly soothing in the tone of voicewith which he began to narrate, as it were from the beginning, hisacquaintance with Bridget.
“I had known Mr. and Mrs. Starkey during their residence abroad, and soit fell out naturally that, when I came as chaplain to the Sherburnes atStoney Hurst, our acquaintance was renewed; and thus I became theconfessor of the whole family, isolated as they were from the offices ofthe Church, Sherburne being their nearest neighbour who professed thetrue faith. Of course, you are aware that facts revealed in confessionare sealed as in the grave; but I learnt enough of Bridget’s character tobe convinced that I had to do with no common woman; one powerful for goodas for evil. I believe that I was able to give her spiritual assistancefrom time to time, and that she looked upon me as a servant of that HolyChurch, which has such wonderful power of moving men’s hearts, andrelieving them of the burden of their sins. I have known her cross themoors on the wildest nights of storm, to confess and be absolved; andthen she would return, calmed and subdued, to her daily work about hermistress, no one witting where she had been during the hours that mostpassed in sleep upon their beds. After her daughter’s departure—afterMary’s mysterious disappearance—I had to impose many a long penance, inorder to wash away the sin of impatient repining that was fast leadingher into the deeper guilt of blasphemy. She set out on that long journeyof which you have possibly heard—that fruitless journey in search ofMary—and during her absence, my superiors ordered my return to my formerduties at Antwerp, and for many years I heard no more of Bridget.
“Not many months ago, as I was passing homewards in the evening, alongone of the streets near St. Jacques, leading into the Meer Straet, I sawa woman sitting crouched up under the shrine of the Holy Mother ofSorrows. Her hood was drawn over her head, so that the shadow caused bythe light of the lamp above fell deep over her face; her hands wereclasped round her knees. It was evident that she was some one inhopeless trouble, and as such it was my duty to stop and speak. Inaturally addressed her first in Flemish, believing her to be one of thelower class of inhabitants. She shook her head, but did not look up.Then I tried French, and she replied in that language,
but speaking it soindifferently, that I was sure she was either English or Irish, andconsequently spoke to her in my own native tongue. She recognized myvoice; and, starting up, caught at my robes, dragging me before theblessed shrine, and throwing herself down, and forcing me, as much by herevident desire as by her action, to kneel beside her, she exclaimed:
“‘O Holy Virgin! you will never hearken to me again, but hear him; foryou know him of old, that he does your bidding, and strives to healbroken hearts. Hear him!’
“She turned to me.
“‘She will hear you, if you will only pray. She never hears _me_: sheand all the saints in heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the Evil Onecarries them off, as he carried that first away. O, Father Bernard, prayfor me!’
“I prayed for one in sore distress, of what nature I could not say; butthe Holy Virgin would know. Bridget held me fast, gasping with eagernessat the sound of my words. When I had ended, I rose, and, making the signof the Cross over her, I was going to bless her in the name of