Curious, if True, Page 4

  Chapter 3

  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 proportionedto my love. I found out by instinct that Mrs. Clarke had occasionaltemptations to leave Lucy. The good lady's nerves were shaken, and,from what she said, I could almost have concluded that the object ofthe Double was to drive away from Lucy this last and almost earliestfriend. At times, I could scarcely bear to own it, but I myself feltinclined to turn recreant; and I would accuse Lucy of being toopatient--too resigned. One after another, she won the little childrenof Coldholme. (Mrs. Clarke and she had resolved to stay there, for wasit not as good a place as any other to such as they? and did not allour faint hopes rest on Bridget--never seen or heard of now, but stillwe trusted to come back, or give some token?) So, as I say, one afteranother, the little children came about my Lucy, won by her soft tones,and her gentle smiles, and kind actions. Alas! one after another theyfell away, and shrunk from her path with blanching terror; and we toosurely guessed the reason why. It was the last drop. I could bear it nolonger. I resolved no more to linger around the spot, but to go back tomy uncle, and among the learned divines of the city of London, seek forsome power whereby to annul the curse.

  My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite testimonialsrelating to Lucy's descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and fromMr. Gisborne. The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he wasagain serving in the Austrian army), a letter alternately passionatelyself-reproachful and stoically repellent. It was evident that when hethought of Mary--her short life--how he had wronged her, and of herviolent death, he could hardly find words severe enough for his ownconduct; and from this point of view, the curse that Bridget had laidupon him and his was regarded by him as a prophetic doom, to theutterance of which she was moved by a Higher Power, working for thefulfilment of a deeper vengeance than for the death of the poor dog.But then, again, when he came to speak of his daughter, the repugnancewhich the conduct of the demoniac creature had produced in his mind,was but ill disguised under a show of profound indifference as toLucy's fate. One almost felt as if he would have been as content to puther out of existence, as he would have been to destroy some disgustingreptile that had invaded his chamber or his couch.

  The great Fitzgerald property was Lucy's; and that was all--wasnothing.

  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 inan inextricable coil of misery. Lucy and I wrote to each other, butthat was little; and we dared not see each other for dread of thefearful Third, who had more than once taken her place at our meetings.My uncle had, on the day I speak of, bidden prayers to be put up, onthe ensuing Sabbath, in many a church and meeting-house in London, forone grievously tormented by an evil spirit. He had faith in prayers--Ihad none; I was fast losing faith in all things. So we sat--he tryingto interest me in the old talk of other days, I oppressed by onethought--when our old servant, Anthony, opened the door, and, withoutspeaking, showed in a very gentlemanly and prepossessing man, who hadsomething remarkable about his dress, betraying his profession to bethat of the Roman Catholic priesthood. He glanced at my uncle first,then at me. It was to me he bowed. 'I did not give my name,' said he,'because you would hardly have recognised it; unless, sir, when in thenorth, you heard of Father Bernard, 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 andpleasant acknowledgment which belongs to the man of the world. Then heturned to scan me with his keen glance. After some slight conversation,entered into on his part, I am certain, with an intention ofdiscovering on what terms of confidence I stood with my uncle, hepaused, and said gravely:

  'I am sent here with a message to you, sir, from a woman to whom youhave shown kindness, and who is one of my penitents, in Antwerp--oneBridget Fitzgerald.'

  '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 whichyou and I stand informed?'

  'All that I know, he knows,' said I, eagerly laying my hand on myuncle's arm, as he made a motion as if to quit the room.

  'Then I have to speak before two gentlemen who, however they may 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 intoovert action. Such is my theory of the nature of that sin, of which Idare not disbelieve--as some sceptics would have us do--the sin ofwitchcraft. Of this deadly sin, you and I are aware Bridget Fitzgeraldhas been guilty. Since you saw her last, many prayers have been offeredin our churches, many masses sung, many penances undergone, in orderthat, if God and the Holy Saints so willed it, her sin might be blottedout. But it has not been 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 Sherburnesat Stoney Hurst, our acquaintance was renewed; and thus I became theconfessor of the whole family, isolated as they were from the officesof the Church, Sherburne being their nearest neighbour who professedthe true faith. Of course, you are aware that facts revealed inconfession are sealed as in the grave; but I learnt enough of Bridget'scharacter to be convinced that I had to do with no common woman; onepowerful for good as for evil. I believe that I was able to give herspiritual assistance from time to time, and that she looked upon me asa servant of that Holy Church, which has such wonderful power of movingmen's hearts, and relieving them of the burden of their sins. I haveknown her cross the moors on the wildest nights of storm, to confessand be absolved; and then she would return, calmed and subdued, to herdaily work about her mistress, no one witting where she had been duringthe hours that most passed in sleep upon their beds. After herdaughter's departure--after Mary's mysterious disappearance--I had toimpose many a long penance, in order to wash away the sin of impatientrepining that was fast leading her into the deeper guilt of blasphemy.She set out on that long journey of which you have possibly heard--thatfruitless journey in search of Mary--and during her absence, mysuperiors ordered my return to my former duties at Antwerp, and formany 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, Isaw a 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 ofthe lower class of inhabitants. She shook her head, but did not lookup. Then I tried French, and she replied in that language, but speakingit so indifferently, that I was sure she was either English or Irish,and consequently spoke to her in my own native tongue. She recognis
edmy voice; and, starting up, caught at my robes, dragging me before theblessed shrine, and throwing herself down, and forcing me, as much byher evident desire as by her action, to kneel beside her, sheexclaimed:

  '"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: she andall the saints in Heaven cannot hear my prayers, for the Evil Onecarries them off, as he carried that first away. O, Father Bernard,pray for me!"

  'I prayed for one in sore distress, of what nature I could not say; butthe Holy Virgin would know. Bridget held me fast, gasping witheagerness at the sound of my words. When I had ended, I rose, and,making the sign of the Cross over her, I was going to bless her in thename of the Holy Church, when she shrank away like some terrifiedcreature, and said:

  '"I am guilty of deadly sin, and am not shriven."

  '"Arise, my daughter," said I, "and come with me." And I led the wayinto one of the confessionals of St. Jacques.

  'She knelt; I listened. No words came. The evil powers had stricken herdumb, as I heard afterwards they had many a time before, when sheapproached confession.

  'She was too poor to pay for the necessary forms of exorcism; andhitherto those priests to whom she had addressed herself were either soignorant of the meaning of her broken French, or her Irish-English, orelse esteemed her to be one crazed--as, indeed, her wild and excitedmanner might easily have led any one to think--that they had neglectedthe sole means of loosening her tongue, so that she might confess herdeadly sin, and after due penance, obtain absolution. But I knewBridget of old, and felt that she was a penitent sent to me. I wentthrough those holy offices appointed by our church for the relief ofsuch a case. I was the more bound to do this, as I found that she hadcome to Antwerp for the sole purpose of discovering me, and makingconfession to me. Of the nature of that fearful confession I amforbidden to speak. Much of it you know; possibly all.

  'It now remains for her to free herself from mortal guilt, and to setothers free from the consequences thereof. No prayer, no masses, willever do it, although they may strengthen her with that strength bywhich alone acts of deepest love and purest self-devotion may beperformed. Her words of passion, and cries for revenge--her unholyprayers could never reach the ears of the Holy Saints! Other powersintercepted them, and wrought so that the curses thrown up to Heavenhave fallen on her own flesh and blood; and so, through her verystrength of love, have bruised and crushed her heart. Henceforward herformer self must be buried,--yea, buried quick, if need be,--but nevermore to make sign, or utter cry on earth! She has become a Poor Clare,in order that, by perpetual penance and constant service of others, shemay at length so act as to obtain final absolution and rest for hersoul. Until then, the innocent must suffer. It is to plead for theinnocent that I come to you; not in the name of the witch, BridgetFitzgerald, but of the penitent and servant of all men, the Poor Clare,Sister Magdalen.'

  'Sir,' said I, 'I listen to your request with respect; only I may tellyou it is not needed to urge me to do all that I can on behalf of one,love for whom is part of my very life. If for a time I have absentedmyself from her, it is to think and work for her redemption. I, amember of the English Church--my uncle, a Puritan--pray morning andnight for her by name: the congregations of London, on the nextSabbath, will pray for one unknown, that she may be set free from thePowers of Darkness. Moreover, I must tell you, sir, that those evilones touch not the great calm of her soul. She lives her own pure andloving life, unharmed and untainted, though all men fall off from her.I would I could have her faith!'

  My uncle now spoke.

  'Nephew,' said he, 'it seems to me that this gentleman, althoughprofessing what I consider an erroneous creed, has touched upon theright point in exhorting Bridget to acts of love and mercy, whereby towipe out her sin of hate and vengeance. Let us strive after ourfashion, by almsgiving and visiting of the needy and fatherless, tomake our prayers acceptable. Meanwhile, I myself will go down into thenorth, and take charge of the maiden. I am too old to be daunted by manor demon. I will bring her to this house as to a home; and let theDouble come if it will! A company of godly divines shall give it themeeting, and we will try issue.'

  The kindly brave old man! But Father Bernard sat on musing.

  'All hate,' said he, 'cannot be quenched in her heart; all Christianforgiveness cannot have entered into her soul, or the demon would havelost its power. You said, I think, that her grandchild was stilltormented?'

  'Still tormented!' I replied, sadly, thinking of Mistress Clarke's lastletter.

  He rose to go. We afterwards heard that the occasion of his coming toLondon was a secret political mission on behalf of the Jacobites.Nevertheless, he was a good and a wise man.

  Months and months passed away without any change. Lucy entreated myuncle to leave her where she was,--dreading, as I learnt, lest if shecame, with her fearful companion, to dwell in the same house with me,that my love could not stand the repeated shocks to which I should bedoomed. And this she thought from no distrust of the strength of myaffection, but from a kind of pitying sympathy for the terror to thenerves which she observed that the demoniac visitation caused in all.

  I was restless and miserable. I devoted myself to good works; but Iperformed them from no spirit of love, but solely from the hope ofreward and payment, and so the reward was never granted. At length, Iasked my uncle's leave to travel; and I went forth, a wanderer, with nodistincter end than that of many another wanderer--to get away frommyself. A strange impulse led me to Antwerp, in spite of the wars andcommotions then raging in the Low Countries--or rather, perhaps, thevery craving to become interested in something external, led me intothe thick of the struggle then going on with the Austrians. The citiesof Flanders were all full at that time of civil disturbances andrebellions, only kept down by force, and the presence of an Austriangarrison in every place.

  I arrived in Antwerp, and made inquiry for Father Bernard. He was awayin the country for a day or two. Then I asked my way to the Convent ofPoor Clares; but, being healthy and prosperous, I could only see thedim, pent-up, grey walls, shut closely in by narrow streets, in thelowest part of the town. My landlord told me, that had I been strickenby some loathsome disease, or in desperate case of any kind, the PoorClares would have taken me, and tended me. He spoke of them as an orderof mercy of the strictest kind, dressing scantily in the coarsestmaterials, going barefoot, living on what the inhabitants of Antwerpchose to bestow, and sharing even those fragments and crumbs with thepoor and helpless that swarmed all around; receiving no letters orcommunication with the outer world; utterly dead to everything but thealleviation of suffering. He smiled at my inquiring whether I could getspeech of one of them; and told me that they were even forbidden tospeak for the purposes of begging their daily food; while yet theylived, and fed others upon what was given in charity.

  'But,' exclaimed I, 'supposing all men forgot them! Would they quietlylie down and die, without making sign of their extremity?'

  'If such were their rule, the Poor Clares would willingly do it; buttheir founder appointed a remedy for such extreme case as you suggest.They have a bell--'tis but a small one, as I have heard, and has yetnever been rung in the memory of man: when the Poor Clares have beenwithout food for twenty-four hours, they may ring this bell, and thentrust to our good people of Antwerp for rushing to the rescue of thePoor Clares, who have taken such blessed care of us in all ourstraits.'

  It seemed to me that such rescue would be late in the day; but I didnot say what I thought. I rather turned the conversation, by asking mylandlord if he knew, or had ever heard, anything of a certain SisterMagdalen.

  'Yes,' said he, rather under his breath; 'news will creep out, evenfrom a convent of Poor Clares. Sister Magdalen is either a great sinneror a great saint. She does more, as I have heard, than all the othernuns put together; yet, when last month
they would fain have made hermother-superior, she begged rather that they would place her below allthe rest, and make her the meanest servant of all.'

  'You never saw her?' asked I.

  'Never,' he replied.

  I was weary of waiting for Father Bernard, and yet I lingered inAntwerp. The political state of things became worse than ever,increased to its height by the scarcity of food consequent on manydeficient harvests. I saw groups of fierce, squalid men, at everycorner of the street, glaring out with wolfish eyes at my sleek skinand handsome clothes.

  At last Father Bernard returned. We had a long conversation, in whichhe told me that, curiously enough, Mr. Gisborne, Lucy's father, wasserving in one of the Austrian regiments, then in garrison at Antwerp.I asked Father Bernard if he would make us acquainted; which heconsented to do. But, a day or two afterwards, he told me that, onhearing my name, Mr. Gisborne had declined responding to any advanceson my part, saying he had abjured his country, and hated hiscountrymen.

  Probably he recollected my name in connection with that of his daughterLucy. Anyhow, it was clear enough that I had no chance of making hisacquaintance. Father Bernard confirmed me in my suspicions of thehidden fermentation, for some coming evil, working among the 'blouses'of Antwerp, and he would fain have had me depart from out the city; butI rather craved the excitement of danger, and stubbornly refused toleave.

  One day, when I was walking with him in the Place Verte, he bowed to anAustrian officer, who was crossing towards the cathedral.

  'That is Mr. Gisborne,' said he, as soon as the gentleman was past.

  I turned to look at the tall, slight figure of the officer. He carriedhimself in a stately manner, although he was past middle age, and fromhis years, might have had some excuse for a slight stoop. As I lookedat the man, he turned round, his eyes met mine, and I saw his face.Deeply lined, sallow, and scathed was that countenance; scarred bypassion as well as by the fortunes of war. 'Twas but a moment our eyesmet. We each turned round, and went on our separate way.

  But his whole appearance was not one to be easily forgotten; thethorough appointment of the dress, and evident thought bestowed on it,made but an incongruous whole with the dark, gloomy expression of hiscountenance. Because he was Lucy's father, I sought instinctively tomeet him everywhere. At last he must have become aware of mypertinacity, for he gave me a haughty scowl whenever I passed him. Inone of these encounters, however, I chanced to be of some service tohim. He was turning the corner of a street, and came suddenly on one ofthe groups of discontented Flemings of whom I have spoken. Some wordswere exchanged, when my gentleman out with his sword, and with a slightbut skilful cut drew blood from one of those who had insulted him, ashe fancied, though I was too far off to hear the words. They would allhave fallen upon him had I not rushed forwards and raised the cry, thenwell known in Antwerp, of rally, to the Austrian soldiers who wereperpetually patrolling the streets, and who came in numbers to therescue. I think that neither Mr. Gisborne nor the mutinous group ofplebeians owed me much gratitude for my interference. He had plantedhimself against a wall, in a skilful attitude of fence, ready with hisbright glancing rapier to do battle with all the heavy, fierce, unarmedmen, some six or seven in number. But when his own soldiers came up, hesheathed his sword; and, giving some careless word of command, sentthem away again, and continued his saunter all alone down the street,the workmen snarling in his rear, and more than half-inclined to fallon me for my cry for rescue. I cared not if they did, my life seemed sodreary a burden just then; and, perhaps, it was this daring loiteringamong them that prevented their attacking me. Instead, they suffered meto fall into conversation with them; and I heard some of theirgrievances. Sore and heavy to be borne were they, and no wonder thesufferers were savage and desperate.

  The man whom Gisborne had wounded across his face would fain have gotout of me the name of his aggressor, but I refused to tell it. Anotherof the group heard his inquiry, and made answer:

  'I know the man. He is one Gisborne, aide-de-camp to theGeneral-Commandant. I know him well.'

  He began to tell some story in connection with Gisborne in a low andmuttering voice; and while he was relating a tale, which I saw excitedtheir evil blood, and which they evidently wished me not to hear, Isauntered away and back to my lodgings.

  That night Antwerp was in open revolt. The inhabitants rose inrebellion against their Austrian masters. The Austrians, holding thegates of the city, remained at first pretty quiet in the citadel; only,from time to time, the boom of a great cannon swept sullenly over thetown. But, if they expected the disturbance to die away, and spenditself in a few hours' fury, they were mistaken. In a day or two, therioters held possession of the principal municipal buildings. Then theAustrians poured forth in bright flaming array, calm and smiling, asthey marched to the posts assigned, as if the fierce mob were no moreto them than the swarms of buzzing summer flies. Their practisedmanoeuvres, their well-aimed shot, told with terrible effect; but inthe place of one slain rioter, three sprang up of his blood to avengehis loss. But a deadly foe, a ghastly ally of the Austrians, was atwork. Food, scarce and dear for months, was now hardly to be obtainedat any price. Desperate efforts were being made to bring provisionsinto the city, for the rioters had friends without. Close to the cityport nearest to the Scheldt, a great struggle took place. I was there,helping the rioters, whose cause I had adopted. We had a savageencounter with the Austrians. Numbers fell on both sides; I saw themlie bleeding for a moment; then a volley of smoke obscured them; andwhen it cleared away, they were dead--trampled upon or smothered,pressed down and hidden by the freshly-wounded whom those last guns hadbrought low. And then a grey-robed and grey-veiled figure came rightacross the flashing guns, and stooped over some one, whose life-bloodwas ebbing away; sometimes it was to give him drink from cans whichthey carried slung at their sides, sometimes I saw the cross held abovea dying man, and rapid prayers were being uttered, unheard by men inthat hellish din and clangour, but listened to by One above. I saw allthis as in a dream: the reality of that stern time was battle andcarnage. But I knew that these grey figures, their bare feet all wetwith blood, and their faces hidden by their veils, were the PoorClares--sent forth now because dire agony was abroad and imminentdanger at hand. Therefore, they left their cloistered shelter, and cameinto that thick and evil melee.

  Close to me--driven past me by the struggle of many fighters--came theAntwerp burgess with the scarce-healed scar upon his face; and in aninstant more, he was thrown by the press upon the Austrian officerGisborne, and ere either had recovered the shock, the burgess hadrecognised his opponent.

  'Ha! the Englishman Gisborne!' he cried, and threw himself upon himwith redoubled fury. He had struck him hard--the Englishman was down;when out of the smoke came a dark-grey figure, and threw herself rightunder the uplifted flashing sword. The burgess's arm stood arrested.Neither Austrians nor Anversois willingly harmed the Poor Clares.

  'Leave him to me!' said a low stern voice. 'He is mine enemy--mine formany years.'

  Those words were the last I heard. I myself was struck down by abullet. I remember nothing more for days. When I came to myself, I wasat the extremity of weakness, and was craving for food to recruit mystrength. My landlord sat watching me. He, too, looked pinched andshrunken; he had heard of my wounded state, and sought me out. Yes! thestruggle still continued, but the famine was sore; and some, he hadheard, had died for lack of food. The tears stood in his eyes as hespoke. But soon he shook off his weakness, and his natural cheerfulnessreturned. Father Bernard had been to see me--no one else. (Who should,indeed?) Father Bernard would come back that afternoon--he hadpromised. But Father Bernard never came, although I was up and dressed,and looking eagerly for him.

  My landlord brought me a meal which he had cooked himself: of what itwas composed he would not say, but it was most excellent, and withevery mouthful I seemed to gain strength. The good man sat looking atmy evident enjoyment with a happy smile of sympathy; but, as myappetite became satisfied, I began to detec
t a certain wistfulness inhis eyes, as if craving for the food I had so nearly devoured--for,indeed, at that time I was hardly aware of the extent of the famine.Suddenly, there was a sound of many rushing feet past our window. Mylandlord opened one of the sides of it, the better to learn what wasgoing on. Then we heard a faint, cracked, tinkling bell, coming shrillupon clear and distinct from all other sounds. 'Holy Mother!' exclaimedmy landlord, 'the Poor Clares!'

  He snatched up the fragments of my meal, and crammed them into myhands, bidding me follow. Down-stairs he ran, clutching at more food,as the women of his house eagerly held it out to him; and in a momentwe were in the street, moving along with the great current, all tendingtowards the Convent of the Poor Clares. And still, as if piercing ourears with its inarticulate cry, came the shrill tinkle of the bell. Inthat strange crowd were old men trembling and sobbing, as they carriedtheir little pittance of food; women with the tears running down theircheeks, who had snatched up what provisions they had in the vessels inwhich they stood, so that the burden of these was in many cases muchgreater than that which they contained; children, with flushed faces,grasping tight the morsel of bitten cake or bread, in their eagernessto carry it safe to the help of the Poor Clares; strong men--yea, bothAnversois and Austrians--pressing onwards with set teeth, and no wordspoken; and over all, and through all, came that sharp tinkle--that cryfor help in extremity.

  We met the first torrent of people returning with blanched and piteousfaces: they were issuing out of the convent to make way for theofferings of others. 'Haste, haste!' said they.

  'A Poor Clare is dying! A Poor Clare is dead for hunger! God forgiveus, and our city!'

  We pressed on. The stream bore us along where it would. We were carriedthrough refectories, bare and crumbless; into cells over whose doorsthe conventual name of the occupant was written. Thus it was that I,with others, was forced into Sister Magdalen's cell. On her couch layGisborne, pale unto death, but not dead. By his side was a cup ofwater, and a small morsel of mouldy bread, which he had pushed out ofhis reach, and could not move to obtain. Over against his bed werethese words, copied in the English version: 'Therefore, if thine enemyhunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink.'

  Some of us gave him of our food, and left him eating greedily, likesome famished wild animal. For now it was no longer the sharp tinkle,but that one solemn toll, which in all Christian countries tells of thepassing of the spirit out of earthly life into eternity; and again amurmur gathered and grew, as of many people speaking with awed breath,'A Poor Clare is dying! a Poor Clare is dead!'

  Borne along once more by the motion of the crowd, we were carried intothe chapel belonging to the Poor Clares. On a bier before the highaltar, lay a woman--lay sister Magdalen--lay Bridget Fitzgerald. By herside stood Father Bernard, in his robes of office, and holding thecrucifix on high while he pronounced the solemn absolution of theChurch, as to one who had newly confessed herself of deadly sin. Ipushed on with passionate force, till I stood close to the dying woman,as she received extreme unction amid the breathless and awed hush ofthe multitude around. Her eyes were glazing, her limbs were stiffening;but when the rite was over and finished, she raised her gaunt figureslowly up, and her eyes brightened to a strange intensity of joy, as,with the gesture of her finger and the trance-like gleam of her eye,she seemed like one who watched the disappearance of some loathed andfearful creature.

  'She is freed from the curse!' said she, as she fell back dead.

  * * * * *

  Now, of all our party who had first listened to my Lady Ludlow, Mr.Preston was the only one who had not told us something, either ofinformation, tradition, history, or legend. We naturally turned to him;but we did not like asking him directly for his contribution, for hewas a grave, reserved, and silent man.

  He understood us, however, and, rousing himself as it were, he said:

  'I know you wish me to tell you, in my turn, of something which I havelearnt or heard during my life. I could tell you something of my ownlife, and of a life dearer still to my memory; but I have shrunk fromnarrating anything so purely personal. Yet, shrink as I will, no otherbut those sad recollections will present themselves to my mind. I callthem sad when I think of the end of it all. However I am not going tomoralize. If my dear brother's life and death does not speak foritself, no words of mine will teach you what may be learnt from it.'