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 grey 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 everything. 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. Yet he was a brave man!’

‘Listen,’ said I, taking hold of her arm, the better to arrest her full attention; ‘if what I suspect holds true, that man stole Bridget’s only child – the very Mary Fitzgerald who was Lucy’s mother; if so, Bridget cursed him in ignorance of the deeper wrong he had done her. To this hour she yearns after her lost child, and questions the saints whether she be living or not. The roots of that curse lie deeper than she knows: she unwittingly banned him for a deeper guilt than that of killing a dumb beast. The sins of the fathers are indeed visited upon the children.’

‘But,’ said Mistress Clarke, eagerly, ‘she would never let evil rest on her own grandchild? Surely, sir, if what you say be true, there are hopes for Lucy. Let us go – go at once, and tell this fearful woman all that you suspect, and beseech her to take off the spell she has put upon her innocent grandchild.’

It seemed to me, indeed, that something like this was the best course we could pursue. But first it was necessary to ascertain more than what mere rumour or careless hearsay could tell. My thoughts turned to my uncle – he could advise me wisely – he ought to know all. I resolved to go to him without delay; but I did not choose to tell Mistress Clarke of all the visionary plans that flitted through my mind. I simply declared my intention of proceeding straight to London on Lucy’s affairs. I bade her believe that my interest on the young lady’s behalf was greater than ever, and that my whole time should be given up to her cause. I saw that Mistress Clarke distrusted me, because my mind was too full of thoughts for my words to flow freely. She sighed and shook her head, and said, ‘Well, it is all right!’ in such a tone that it was an implied reproach. But I was firm and constant in my heart, and I took confidence from that.

I rode to London. I rode long days drawn out into the lovely summer nights: I could not rest.