All through the sultry noon I wandered along the tangled brush-wood of the old neglected forest, thinking where to turn for remedy in a matter so complicated and mysterious.Meeting a countryman, I asked my way to the nearest clergyman, and went, hoping to obtain some counsel from him.But he proved to be a coarse and common-minded man, giving no time or attention to the intricacies of a case, but dashing out a strong opinion involving immediate action.For instance, as soon as I named Bridget Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:-"The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist! I'd have had her ducked long since but for that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest.He has had to threaten honest folk about here over and over again, or they'd have had her up before the justices for her black doings.And it's the law of the land that witches should be burnt! Ay, and of Scripture, too, sir! Yet you see a papist, if he's a rich squire, can overrule both law and Scripture.I'd carry a faggot myself to rid the country of her!"Such a one could give me no help.I rather drew back what I had already said; and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him to several pots of beer, in the village inn, to which we had adjourned for our conference at his suggestion.I left him as soon as I could, and returned to Coldholme, shaping my way past deserted Starkey Manor-house, and coming upon it by the back.At that side were the oblong remains of the old moat, the waters of which lay placid and motionless under the crimson rays of the setting sun; with the forest-trees lying straight along each side, and their deep-green foliage mirrored to blackness in the burnished surface of the moat below--and the broken sun-dial at the end nearest the hall--and the heron, standing on one leg at the water's edge, lazily looking down for fish--the lonely and desolate house scarce needed the broken windows, the weeds on the door-sill, the broken shutter softly flapping to and fro in the twilight breeze, to fill up the picture of desertion and decay.I lingered about the place until the growing darkness warned me on.And then I passed along the path, cut by the orders of the last lady of Starkey Manor-House, that led me to Bridget's cottage.I resolved at once to see her; and, in spite of closed doors--it might be of resolved will--she should see me.So Iknocked at her door, gently, loudly, fiercely.I shook it so vehemently that a length the old hinges gave way, and with a crash it fell inwards, leaving me suddenly face to face with Bridget--I, red, heated, agitated with my so long baffled efforts--she, stiff as any stone, standing right facing me, her eyes dilated with terror, her ashen lips trembling, but her body motionless.In her hands she held her crucifix, as if by that holy symbol she sought to oppose my entrance.At sight of me, her whole frame relaxed, and she sank back upon a chair.Some mighty tension had given way.Still her eyes looked fearfully into the gloom of the outer air, made more opaque by the glimmer of the lamp inside, which she had placed before the picture of the Virgin.
"Is she there?" asked Bridget, hoarsely.
"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.Iclosed 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 tremor 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.Bridget tightened her hold upon my arm.
"Not so," said she, in a low, hoarse 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 wrestle with it!"She stood up, as if in an ecstasy of inspiration, from which all fear was banished.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.
