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 entreat you, madam, all that you can
conjecture respecting this demoniac persecution 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 miserably exhausted 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 Liége, 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 intercourse with an English gentleman of good
standing, who was also in the foreign service. The countess augured evil
of his intentions; while Mary, proud and vehement, 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 conclusive, but which, taken together, furnish 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 recur 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 apparently close on the discovery which I had striven so many
months to attain. But success had lost its zest. 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 anticipation. “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 lured 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
remorse, but I used to think the remembrance of the mother’s cruel death
made him love the child yet dearer.”

I told her, as briefly 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 persecutes 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 defiled 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 bruited through the
household at Skipford.”

“Tell me,” I demanded. “They came from servants, who would fain account for every thing. 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
aloof 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.