"May I ask if you had any children by him?"The light in her eyes grew quick and red.She tried to speak, Icould see; but something rose in her throat, and choked her, and until she could speak calmly, she would fain not speak at all before a stranger.In a minute or so she said--"I had a daughter--one Mary Fitzgerald,"--then her strong nature mastered her strong will, and she cried out, with a trembling wailing cry: "Oh, man! what of her?--what of her?"
She rose from her seat, and came and clutched at my arm, and looked in my eyes.There she read, as I suppose, my utter ignorance of what had become of her child; for she went blindly back to her chair, and sat rocking herself and softly moaning, as if I were not there; I not daring to speak to the lone and awful woman.After a little pause, she knelt down before the picture of Our Lady of the Holy Heart, and spoke to her by all the fanciful and poetic names of the Litany.
"O Rose of Sharon! O Tower of David! O Star of the Sea! have ye no comfort for my sore heart? Am I for ever to hope? Grant me at least despair!"--and so on she went, heedless of my presence.Her prayers grew wilder and wilder, till they seemed to me to touch on the borders of madness and blasphemy.Almost involuntarily, I spoke as if to stop her.
"Have you any reason to think that your daughter is dead?
She rose from her knees, and came and stood before me.
"Mary Fitzgerald is dead," said she."I shall never see her again in the flesh.No tongue ever told me; but I know she is dead.I have yearned so to see her, and my heart's will is fearful and strong: it would have drawn her to me before now, if she had been a wanderer on the other side of the world.I wonder often it has not drawn her out of the grave to come and stand before me, and hear me tell her how Iloved her.For, sir, we parted unfriends."I knew nothing but the dry particulars needed for my lawyer's quest, but I could not help feeling for the desolate woman; and she must have read the unusual sympathy with her wistful eyes.
"Yes, sir, we did.She never knew how I loved her; and we parted unfriends; and I fear me that I wished her voyage might not turn out well, only meaning,--O, blessed Virgin! you know I only meant that she should come home to her mother's arms as to the happiest place on earth; but my wishes are terrible--their power goes beyond my thought--and there is no hope for me, if my words brought Mary harm.""But," I said, "you do not know that she is dead.Even now, you hoped she might be alive.Listen to me," and I told her the tale Ihave already told you, giving it all in the driest manner, for Iwanted to recall the clear sense that I felt almost sure she had possessed in her younger days, and by keeping up her attention to details, restrain the vague wildness of her grief.
She listened with deep attention, putting from time to time such questions as convinced me I had to do with no common intelligence, however dimmed and shorn by solitude and mysterious sorrow.Then she took up her tale; and in few brief words, told me of her wanderings abroad in vain search after her daughter; sometimes in the wake of armies, sometimes in camp, sometimes in city.The lady, whose waiting-woman Mary had gone to be, had died soon after the date of her last letter home; her husband, the foreign officer, had been serving in Hungary, whither Bridget had followed him, but too late to find him.Vague rumours reached her that Mary had made a great marriage: and this sting of doubt was added,--whether the mother might not be close to her child under her new name, and even hearing of her every day; and yet never recognizing the lost one under the appellation she then bore.At length the thought took possession of her, that it was possible that all this time Mary might be at home at Coldholme, in the Trough of Bolland, in Lancashire, in England; and home came Bridget, in that vain hope, to her desolate hearth, and empty cottage.Here she had thought it safest to remain; if Mary was in life, it was here she would seek for her mother.
I noted down one or two particulars out of Bridget's narrative that Ithought might be of use to me: for I was stimulated to further search in a strange and extraordinary manner.It seemed as if it were impressed upon me, that I must take up the quest where Bridget had laid it down; and this for no reason that had previously influenced me (such as my uncle's anxiety on the subject, my own reputation as a lawyer, and so on), but from some strange power which had taken possession of my will only that very morning, and which forced it in the direction it chose.
"I will go," said I."I will spare nothing in the search.Trust to me.I will learn all that can be learnt.You shall know all that money, or pains, or wit can discover.It is true she may be long dead: but she may have left a child.""A child!" she cried, as if for the first time this idea had struck her mind."Hear him, Blessed Virgin! he says she may have left a child.And you have never told me, though I have prayed so for a sign, waking or sleeping!""Nay," said I, "I know nothing but what you tell me.You say you heard of her marriage."But she caught nothing of what I said.She was praying to the Virgin in a kind of ecstasy, which seemed to render her unconscious of my very presence.
From Coldholme I went to Sir Philip Tempest's.The wife of the foreign officer had been a cousin of his father's, and from him Ithought I might gain some particulars as to the existence of the Count de la Tour d'Auvergne, and where I could find him; for I knew questions de vive voix aid the flagging recollection, and I was determined to lose no chance for want of trouble.But Sir Philip had gone abroad, and it would be some time before I could receive an answer.So I followed my uncle's advice, to whom I had mentioned how wearied I felt, both in body and mind, by my will-o'-the-wisp search.