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  THE POOR CLARE

  Chapter 1

  December 12th, 1747.--My life has been strangely bound up withextraordinary incidents, some of which occurred before I had anyconnection with the principal actors in them, or, indeed, before I evenknew of their existence. I suppose, most old men are, like me, moregiven to looking back upon their own career with a kind of fondinterest and affectionate remembrance, than to watching theevents--though these may have far more interest for themultitude--immediately passing before their eyes. If this should be thecase with the generality of old people, how much more so with me!... IfI am to enter upon that strange story connected with poor Lucy, I mustbegin a long way back. I myself only came to the knowledge of herfamily history after I knew her; but, to make the tale clear to any oneelse, I must arrange events in the order in which they occurred--notthat in which I became acquainted with them.

  There is a great old hall in the north-east of Lancashire, in a partthey call the Trough of Bolland, adjoining that other district namedCraven. Starkey Manor-House is rather like a number of rooms clusteredround a grey, massive, old keep than a regularly-built hall. Indeed, Isuppose that the house only consisted of the great tower in the centre,in the days when the Scots made their raids terrible as far south asthis; and that after the Stuarts came in, and there was a little moresecurity of property in those parts, the Starkeys of that time addedthe lower building, which runs, two stories high, all round the base ofthe keep. There has been a grand garden laid out in my days, on thesouthern slope near the house; but when I first knew the place, thekitchen-garden at the farm was the only piece of cultivated groundbelonging to it. The deer used to come within sight of the drawing-roomwindows, and might have browsed quite close up to the house if they hadnot been too wild and shy. Starkey Manor-House itself stood on aprojection or peninsula of high land, jutting out from the abrupt hillsthat form the sides of the Trough of Bolland. These hills were rockyand bleak enough towards their summit; lower down they were clothedwith tangled copsewood and green depths of fern, out of which a greygiant of an ancient forest-tree would tower here and there, throwing upits ghastly white branches, as if in imprecation, to the sky. Thesetrees, they told me, were the remnants of that forest which existed inthe days of the Heptarchy, and were even then noted as landmarks. Nowonder that their upper and more exposed branches were leafless, andthat the dead bark had peeled away, from sapless old age.

  Not far from the house there were a few cottages, apparently of thesame date as the keep, probably built for some retainers of the family,who sought shelter--they and their families and their small flocks andherds--at the hands of their feudal lord. Some of them had pretty muchfallen to decay. They were built in a strange fashion. Strong beams hadbeen sunk firm in the ground at the requisite distance, and their otherends had been fastened together, two and two, so as to form the shapeof one of those rounded waggon-headed gipsy-tents, only very muchlarger. The spaces between were filled with mud, stones, osiers,rubbish, mortar--anything to keep out the weather. The fires were madein the centre of these rude dwellings, a hole in the roof forming theonly chimney. No Highland hut or Irish cabin could be of rougherconstruction.

  The owner of this property, at the beginning of the present century,was a Mr. Patrick Byrne Starkey. His family had kept to the old faith,and were staunch Roman Catholics, esteeming it even a sin to marry anyone of Protestant descent, however willing he or she might have been toembrace the Romish religion. Mr. Patrick Starkey's father had been afollower of James the Second; and, during the disastrous Irish campaignof that monarch, he had fallen in love with an Irish beauty, a MissByrne, as zealous for her religion and for the Stuarts as himself. Hehad returned to Ireland after his escape to France, and married her,bearing her back to the court at St. Germains. But some licence on thepart of the disorderly gentlemen who surrounded King James in hisexile, had insulted his beautiful wife, and disgusted him; so heremoved from St. Germains to Antwerp, whence, in a few years' time, hequietly returned to Starkey Manor-House--some of his Lancashireneighbours having lent their good offices to reconcile him to thepowers that were. He was as firm a Roman Catholic as ever, and asstaunch an advocate for the Stuarts and the divine right of kings; buthis religion almost amounted to asceticism, and the conduct of thosewith whom he had been brought in such close contact at St. Germainswould little bear the inspection of a stern moralist. So he gave hisallegiance where he could not give his esteem, and learned to respectsincerely the upright and moral character of one whom he yet regardedas an usurper. King William's government had little need to fear such aone. So he returned, as I have said, with a sobered heart andimpoverished fortunes, to his ancestral house, which had fallen sadlyto ruin while the owner had been a courtier, a soldier, and an exile.The roads into the Trough of Bolland were little more than cart-ruts;indeed, the way up to the house lay along a ploughed field before youcame to the deer-park. Madam, as the country-folk used to call Mrs.Starkey, rode on a pillion behind her husband, holding on to him with alight hand by his leather riding-belt. Little master (he that wasafterwards Squire Patrick Byrne Starkey) was held on to his pony by aserving-man. A woman past middle age walked, with a firm and strongstep, by the cart that held much of the baggage; and, high up on themails and boxes, sat a girl of dazzling beauty, perched lightly on thetopmost trunk, and swaying herself fearlessly to and fro, as the cartrocked and shook in the heavy roads of late autumn. The girl wore theAntwerp faille, or black Spanish mantle over her head, and altogetherher appearance was such that the old cottager, who described theprocession to me many years after, said that all the country-folk tookher for a foreigner. Some dogs, and the boy who held them in charge,made up the company. They rode silently along, looking with grave,serious eyes at the people, who came out of the scattered cottages tobow or curtsy to the real Squire, 'come back at last,' and gazed afterthe little procession with gaping wonder, not deadened by the sound ofthe foreign language in which the few necessary words that passed amongthem were spoken. One lad, called from his staring by the Squire tocome and help about the cart, accompanied them to the Manor-House. Hesaid that when the lady had descended from her pillion, the middle-agedwoman whom I have described as walking while the others rode, steppedquickly forward, and taking Madam Starkey (who was of a slight anddelicate figure) in her arms, she lifted her over the threshold, andset her down in her husband's house, at the same time uttering apassionate and outlandish blessing. The Squire stood by, smilinggravely at first; but when the words of blessing were pronounced, hetook off his fine feathered hat, and bent his head. The girl with theblack mantle stepped onward into the shadow of the dark hall, andkissed the lady's hand; and that was all the lad could tell to thegroup that gathered round him on his return, eager to hear everything,and to know how much the Squire had given him for his services.

  From all I could gather, the Manor-House, at the time of the Squire'sreturn, was in the most dilapidated state. The stout grey wallsremained firm and entire; but the inner chambers had been used for allkinds of purposes. The great withdrawing-room had been a barn; thestate tapestry-chamber had held wool, and so on. But, by-and-by, theywere cleared out; and if the Squire had no money to spend on newfurniture, he and his wife had the knack of making the best of the old.He was no despicable joiner; she had a kind of grace in whatever shedid, and imparted an air of elegant picturesqueness to whatever shetouched. Besides, they had brought many rare things from the Continent;perhaps I should rather say, things that were rare in that part ofEngland--carvings, and crosses, and beautiful pictures. And then,again, wood was plentiful in the Trough of Bolland, and great log-firesdanced and glittered in all the dark, old rooms, and gave a look ofhome and comfort to everything.

  Why do I tell you all this? I have little to do with the Squire andMadam Starkey; and yet I dwell upon them, as if I were unwilling tocome to the real people with whom my life was so strangely mixed up.Madam had been nursed in Ireland by the very woman who lifted her inher arms, and welcomed her to her husband's home in Lanc
ashire.Excepting for the short period of her own married life, BridgetFitzgerald had never left her nursling. Her marriage--to one above herin rank--had been unhappy. Her husband had died, and left her in evengreater poverty than that in which she was when he had first met withher. She had one child, the beautiful daughter who came riding on thewaggon-load of furniture that was brought to the Manor-House. MadamStarkey had taken her again into her service when she became a widow.She and her daughter had followed 'the mistress' in all her fortunes;they had lived at St. Germains and at Antwerp, and were now come to herhome in Lancashire. As soon as Bridget had arrived there, the Squiregave her a cottage of her own, and took more pains in furnishing it forher than he did in anything else out of his own house. It was onlynominally her residence. She was constantly up at the great house;indeed, it was but a short cut across the woods from her own home tothe home of her nursling. Her daughter Mary, in like manner, moved fromone house to the other at her own will. Madam loved both mother andchild dearly. They had great influence over her, and, through her, overher husband. Whatever Bridget or Mary willed was sure to come to pass.They were not disliked; for, though wild and passionate, they were alsogenerous by nature. But the other servants were afraid of them, asbeing in secret the ruling spirits of the household. The Squire hadlost his interest in all secular things; Madam was gentle,affectionate, and yielding. Both husband and wife were tenderlyattached to each other and to their boy; but they grew more and more toshun the trouble of decision on any point; and hence it was thatBridget could exert such despotic power. But if every one else yieldedto her 'magic of a superior mind,' her daughter not unfrequentlyrebelled. She and her mother were too much alike to agree. There werewild quarrels between them, and wilder reconciliations. There weretimes when, in the heat of passion, they could have stabbed each other.At all other times they both--Bridget especially--would have willinglylaid down their lives for one another. Bridget's love for her child layvery deep--deeper than that daughter ever knew; or I should think shewould never have wearied of home as she did, and prayed her mistress toobtain for her some situation--as waiting-maid--beyond the seas, inthat more cheerful continental life, among the scenes of which so manyof her happiest years had been spent. She thought, as youth thinks,that life would last for ever, and that two or three years were but asmall portion of it to pass away from her mother, whose only child shewas. Bridget thought differently, but was too proud ever to show whatshe felt. If her child wished to leave her, why--she should go. Butpeople said Bridget became ten years older in the course of two monthsat this time. She took it that Mary wanted to leave her. The truth was,that Mary wanted for a time to leave the place, and to seek somechange, and would thankfully have taken her mother with her. Indeed,when Madam Starkey had gotten her a situation with some grand ladyabroad, and the time drew near for her to go, it was Mary who clung toher mother with passionate embrace, and, with floods of tears, declaredthat she would never leave her; and it was Bridget, who at lastloosened her arms, and, grave and tearless herself, bade her keep herword, and go forth into the wide world. Sobbing aloud, and looking backcontinually, Mary went away. Bridget was still as death, scarcelydrawing her breath, or closing her stony eyes; till at last she turnedback into her cottage, and heaved a ponderous old settle against thedoor. There she sat, motionless, over the grey ashes of herextinguished fire, deaf to Madam's sweet voice, as she begged leave toenter and comfort her nurse. Deaf, stony, and motionless, she sat formore than twenty hours; till, for the third time, Madam came across thesnowy path from the great house, carrying with her a young spaniel,which had been Mary's pet up at the hall, and which had not ceased allnight long to seek for its absent mistress, and to whine and moan afterher. With tears Madam told this story, through the closed door--tearsexcited by the terrible look of anguish, so steady, so immovable--sothe same to-day as it was yesterday--on her nurse's face. The littlecreature in her arms began to utter its piteous cry, as it shiveredwith the cold. Bridget stirred; she moved--she listened. Again thatlong whine; she thought it was for her daughter; and what she haddenied to her nursling and mistress she granted to the dumb creaturethat Mary had cherished. She opened the door, and took the dog fromMadam's arms. Then Madam came in, and kissed and comforted the oldwoman, who took but little notice of her or anything. And sending upMaster Patrick to the hall for fire and food, the sweet young ladynever left her nurse all that night. Next day, the Squire himself camedown, carrying a beautiful foreign picture: Our Lady of the Holy Heart,the Papists call it. It is a picture of the Virgin, her heart piercedwith arrows, each arrow representing one of her great woes. Thatpicture hung in Bridget's cottage when I first saw her; I have thatpicture now.

  Years went on. Mary was still abroad. Bridget was still and stern,instead of active and passionate. The little dog, Mignon, was indeedher darling. I have heard that she talked to it continually; although,to most people, she was so silent. The Squire and Madam treated herwith the greatest consideration, and well they might; for to them shewas as devoted and faithful as ever. Mary wrote pretty often, andseemed satisfied with her life. But at length the letters ceased--Ihardly know whether before or after a great and terrible sorrow cameupon the house of the Starkeys. The Squire sickened of a putrid fever;and Madam caught it in nursing him, and died. You may be sure, Bridgetlet no other woman tend her but herself; and in the very arms that hadreceived her at her birth, that sweet young woman laid her head down,and gave up her breath. The Squire recovered, in a fashion. He wasnever strong--he had never the heart to smile again. He fasted andprayed more than ever; and people did say that he tried to cut off theentail, and leave all the property away to found a monastery abroad, ofwhich he prayed that some day little Squire Patrick might be thereverend father. But he could not do this, for the strictness of theentail and the laws against the Papists. So he could only appointgentlemen of his own faith as guardians to his son, with many chargesabout the lad's soul, and a few about the land, and the way it was tobe held while he was a minor. Of course, Bridget was not forgotten. Hesent for her as he lay on his death-bed, and asked her if she wouldrather have a sum down, or have a small annuity settled upon her. Shesaid at once she would have a sum down; for she thought of herdaughter, and how she could bequeath the money to her, whereas anannuity would have died with her. So the Squire left her her cottagefor life, and a fair sum of money. And then he died, with as ready andwilling a heart as, I suppose, ever any gentleman took out of thisworld with him. The young Squire was carried off by his guardians, andBridget was left alone.

  I have said that she had not heard from Mary for some time. In her lastletter, she had told of travelling about with her mistress, who was theEnglish wife of some great foreign officer, and had spoken of herchances of making a good marriage, without naming the gentleman's name,keeping it rather back as a pleasant surprise to her mother; hisstation and fortune being, as I had afterwards reason to know, farsuperior to anything she had a right to expect. Then came a longsilence; and Madam was dead, and the Squire was dead; and Bridget'sheart was gnawed by anxiety, and she knew not whom to ask for news ofher child. She could not write, and the Squire had managed hercommunication with her daughter. She walked off to Hurst; and got agood priest there--one whom she had known at Antwerp--to write for her.But no answer came. It was like crying into the awful stillness ofnight.

  One day, Bridget was missed by those neighbours who had been accustomedto mark her goings-out and comings-in. She had never been sociable withany of them; but the sight of her had become a part of their dailylives, and slow wonder arose in their minds, as morning after morningcame, and her house-door remained closed, her window dead from anyglitter, or light of fire within. At length, some one tried the door;it was locked. Two or three laid their heads together, before daring tolook in through the blank, unshuttered window. But, at last, theysummoned up courage; and then saw that Bridget's absence from theirlittle world was not the result of accident or death, but ofpremeditation. Such small articles of furniture as could be securedfrom
the effects of time and damp by being packed up, were stowed awayin boxes. The picture of the Madonna was taken down, and gone. In aword, Bridget had stolen away from her home, and left no trace whithershe was departed. I knew afterwards, that she and her little dog hadwandered off on the long search for her lost daughter. She was tooilliterate to have faith in letters, even had she had the means ofwriting and sending many. But she had faith in her own strong love, andbelieved that her passionate instinct would guide her to her child.Besides, foreign travel was no new thing to her, and she could speakenough of French to explain the object of her journey, and had,moreover, the advantage of being, from her faith, a welcome object ofcharitable hospitality at many a distant convent. But the countrypeople round Starkey Manor-House knew nothing of all this. Theywondered what had become of her, in a torpid, lazy fashion, and thenleft off thinking of her altogether. Several years passed. BothManor-House and cottage were deserted. The young Squire lived far awayunder the direction of his guardians. There were inroads of wool andcorn into the sitting-rooms of the Hall; and there was some low talk,from time to time, among the hinds and country people, whether it wouldnot be as well to break into old Bridget's cottage, and save such ofher goods as were left from the moth and rust which must be making sadhavoc. But this idea was always quenched by the recollection of herstrong character and passionate anger; and tales of her masterfulspirit, and vehement force of will, were whispered about, till the verythought of offending her, by touching any article of hers, becameinvested with a kind of horror: it was 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 smoke,ascending from her chimney. Her door stood open to the noon-day 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-bymany saw her; and those who met her eye once cared not to be caughtlooking at her again. She had got into the habit of perpetually talkingto herself; nay, more, answering herself, and varying her tonesaccording to the side she took at the moment. It was no wonder thatthose who dared to listen outside her door at night, believed that sheheld converse with some spirit; in short, she was unconsciously earningfor herself the dreadful reputation of a witch.

  Her little dog, which had wandered half over the Continent with her,was her only companion; a dumb remembrancer of happier days. Once hewas ill; 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, intermingledwith blessings (that were rather promises of good fortune thanprayers), looked grave at his good luck when, next year, his ewestwinned, and his meadow-grass was heavy and thick.

  Now it so happened that, about the year seventeen hundred and eleven,one of the guardians of the young Squire, a certain Sir Philip Tempest,bethought him of the good shooting there must be on his ward'sproperty; and, in consequence, he brought down four or five gentlemen,of his friends, to stay for a week or two at the Hall. From allaccounts, they roystered and spent pretty freely. I never heard any oftheir names but one, and that was Squire Gisborne's. He was hardly amiddle-aged man then; he had been much abroad, and there, I believe, hehad known Sir Philip Tempest, and done him some service. He was adaring and dissolute fellow in those days: careless and fearless, andone who would rather be in a quarrel than out of it. He had his fits ofill-temper beside, when he would spare neither man nor beast.Otherwise, those who knew him well, used to say he had a good heart,when he was neither drunk, nor angry, nor in any way vexed. He hadaltered much when I came to know him.

  One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but littlesuccess, I believe; anyhow, Mr. Gisborne had had none, and was in ablack humour 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 poachingvarmint.'

  At this very moment, Mignon stretched out his legs, and stiffened inher arms--her lost Mary's dog, who had wandered and sorrowed with herfor years. 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 dumbbeast that I loved. Bring down heavy sorrow on his head for it, O yeSaints! He thought that I was helpless, because he saw me lonely andpoor; but are not the armies of Heaven for the like of me?'

  'Come, come,' said he, half-remorseful, but not one whit afraid.'Here's a crown to buy thee another dog. Take it, and leave offcursing! I care none for thy threats.'

  'Don't you?' said she, coming a step closer, and changing herimprecatory cry for a whisper which made the gamekeeper's lad,following Mr. Gisborne, creep all over. 'You shall live to see thecreature you love best, and who alone loves you--ay, a human creature,but as innocent and fond as my poor, dead darling--you shall see thiscreature, for whom death would be too happy, become a terror and aloathing to all, for this blood's sake. Hear me, O holy Saints, whonever fail them that have no other 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 sightto the 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 'afeard,' 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 HolyHeart, with dead Mignon lying between her and the Madonna. She waspraying wildly, as her outstretched arms betokened. The lad shrank awayin redoubled 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 lessenhis uncomfortable feelings by asking Sir Philip who Bridget was? Hecould only describe her--he did not know her name. Sir Philip wasequally at a loss. But an old servant of the Starkeys, who had resumedhis livery at the Hall on this occasion--a scoundrel whom Bridget hadsaved from dismissal more than once during her palmy days--said:--

  'It will be the old witch, that his worship means. She needs a ducking,if ever 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 lastshe was gone, no one knew where. I'll go and see her tomorrow. 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 alying knave as well as ever they followed a dog-fox; so take care howyou talk about ducking a faithful o
ld 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 heardon since; 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's impossible!'--andcalled for claret; and he and the other gentlemen set to to adrinking-bout.