The Poor Clare

havoc. But thisidea was always quenched by the recollection of her strong character andpassionate anger; and tales of her masterful spirit, and vehement forceof will, were whispered about, till the very thought of offending her, bytouching any article of hers, became invested with a kind of horror: itwas believed that, dead or alive, she would not fail to avenge it.

  Suddenly she came home; with as little noise or note of preparation asshe had departed. One day some one noticed a thin, blue curl of smokeascending from her chimney. Her door stood open to the noonday sun; and,ere many hours had elapsed, some one had seen an oldtravel-and-sorrow-stained woman dipping her pitcher in the well; andsaid, that the dark, solemn eyes that looked up at him were more likeBridget Fitzgerald’s than any one else’s in this world; and yet, if itwere she, she looked as if she had been scorched in the flames of hell,so brown, and scared, and fierce a creature did she seem. By-and-by manysaw her; and those who met her eye once cared not to be caught looking ather again. She had got into the habit of perpetually talking to herself;nay, more, answering herself, and varying her tones according to the sideshe took at the moment. It was no wonder that those who dared to listenoutside her door at night believed that she held converse with somespirit; in short, she was unconsciously earning for herself the dreadfulreputation of a witch.

  Her little dog, which had wandered half over the Continent with her, washer only companion; a dumb remembrancer of happier days. Once he wasill; and she carried him more than three miles, to ask about hismanagement from one who had been groom to the last Squire, and had thenbeen noted for his skill in all diseases of animals. Whatever this mandid, the dog recovered; and they who heard her thanks, intermingled withblessings (that were rather promises of good fortune than prayers),looked grave at his good luck when, next year, his ewes twinned, and hismeadow-grass was heavy and thick.

  Now it so happened that, about the year seventeen hundred and eleven, oneof the guardians of the young squire, a certain Sir Philip Tempest,bethought him of the good shooting there must be on his ward’s property;and in consequence he brought down four or five gentlemen, of hisfriends, to stay for a week or two at the Hall. From all accounts, theyroystered and spent pretty freely. I never heard any of their names butone, and that was Squire Gisborne’s. He was hardly a middle-aged manthen; he had been much abroad, and there, I believe, he had known SirPhilip Tempest, and done him some service. He was a daring and dissolutefellow in those days: careless and fearless, and one who would rather bein a quarrel than out of it. He had his fits of ill-temper besides, whenhe would spare neither man nor beast. Otherwise, those who knew himwell, used to say he had a good heart, when he was neither drunk, norangry, nor in any way vexed. He had altered much when I came to knowhim.

  One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but littlesuccess, I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had none, and was in a blackhumour accordingly. He was coming home, having his gun loaded,sportsman-like, when little Mignon crossed his path, just as he turnedout of the wood by Bridget’s cottage. Partly for wantonness, partly tovent his spleen upon some living creature. Mr. Gisborne took his gun,and fired—he had better have never fired gun again, than aimed thatunlucky shot, he hit Mignon, and at the creature’s sudden cry, Bridgetcame out, and saw at a glance what had been done. She took Mignon up inher arms, and looked hard at the wound; the poor dog looked at her withhis glazing eyes, and tried to wag his tail and lick her hand, allcovered with blood. Mr. Gisborne spoke in a kind of sullen penitence:

  “You should have kept the dog out of my way—a little poaching varmint.”

  At this very moment, Mignon stretched out his legs, and stiffened in herarms—her lost Mary’s dog, who had wandered and sorrowed with her foryears. She walked right into Mr. Gisborne’s path, and fixed hisunwilling, sullen look, with her dark and terrible eye.

  “Those never throve that did me harm,” said she. “I’m alone in theworld, and helpless; the more do the saints in heaven hear my prayers.Hear me, ye blessed ones! hear me while I ask for sorrow on this bad,cruel man. He has killed the only creature that loved me—the dumb beastthat I loved. Bring down heavy sorrow on his head for it, O ye saints!He thought that I was helpless, because he saw me lonely and poor; butare not the armies of heaven for the like of me?”

  “Come, come,” said he, half remorseful, but not one whit afraid. “Here’sa crown to buy thee another dog. Take it, and leave off cursing! I carenone for thy threats.”

  “Don’t you?” said she, coming a step closer, and changing her imprecatorycry for a whisper which made the gamekeeper’s lad, following Mr.Gisborne, creep all over. “You shall live to see the creature you lovebest, and who alone loves you—ay, a human creature, but as innocent andfond as my poor, dead darling—you shall see this creature, for whom deathwould be too happy, become a terror and a loathing to all, for thisblood’s sake. Hear me, O holy saints, who never fail them that have noother help!”

  She threw up her right hand, filled with poor Mignon’s life-drops; theyspirted, one or two of them, on his shooting-dress,—an ominous sight tothe follower. But the master only laughed a little, forced, scornfullaugh, and went on to the Hall. Before he got there, however, he tookout a gold piece, and bade the boy carry it to the old woman on hisreturn to the village. The lad was “afeared,” as he told me in afteryears; he came to the cottage, and hovered about, not daring to enter.He peeped through the window at last; and by the flickering wood-flame,he saw Bridget kneeling before the picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart,with dead Mignon lying between her and the Madonna. She was prayingwildly, as her outstretched arms betokened. The lad shrunk away inredoubled terror; and contented himself with slipping the gold pieceunder the ill-fitting door. The next day it was thrown out upon themidden; and there it lay, no one daring to touch it.

  Meanwhile Mr. Gisborne, half curious, half uneasy, thought to lessen hisuncomfortable feelings by asking Sir Philip who Bridget was? He couldonly describe her—he did not know her name. Sir Philip was equally at aloss. But an old servant of the Starkeys, who had resumed his livery atthe Hall on this occasion—a scoundrel whom Bridget had saved fromdismissal more than once during her palmy days—said:—

  “It will be the old witch, that his worship means. She needs a ducking,if ever a woman did, does that Bridget Fitzgerald.”

  “Fitzgerald!” said both the gentlemen at once. But Sir Philip was thefirst to continue:—

  “I must have no talk of ducking her, Dickon. Why, she must be the verywoman poor Starkey bade me have a care of; but when I came here last shewas gone, no one knew where. I’ll go and see her to-morrow. But mindyou, sirrah, if any harm comes to her, or any more talk of her being awitch—I’ve a pack of hounds at home, who can follow the scent of a lyingknave as well as ever they followed a dog-fox; so take care how you talkabout ducking a faithful old servant of your dead master’s.”

  “Had she ever a daughter?” asked Mr. Gisborne, after a while.

  “I don’t know—yes! I’ve a notion she had; a kind of waiting woman toMadam Starkey.”

  “Please your worship,” said humbled Dickon, “Mistress Bridget had adaughter—one Mistress Mary—who went abroad, and has never been heard onsince; and folk do say that has crazed her mother.”

  Mr. Gisborne shaded his eyes with his hand.

  “I could wish she had not cursed me,” he muttered. “She may havepower—no one else could.” After a while, he said aloud, no oneunderstanding rightly what he meant, “Tush! it is impossible!”—and calledfor claret; and he and the other gentlemen set-to to a drinking-bout.