The Complete Short Stories of Elizabeth Gaskell. Elizabeth GaskellЧитать онлайн книгу.
preparation as she had departed. One day some one noticed a thin, blue curl of smoke ascending from her chimney. Her door stood open to the noonday sun; and, ere many hours had elapsed, some one had seen an old travel and sorrow stained woman dipping her pitcher in the well; and said, that the dark, solemn eyes that looked up at him were more like Bridget Fitzgerald’s than any one else’s in this world; and yet, if it were 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-by many saw her; and those who met her eye once cared not to be caught looking at her again. She had got into the habit of perpetually talking to herself; nay, more, answering herself, and varying her tones according to the side she took at the moment. It was no wonder that those who dared to listen outside her door at night believed that she held converse with some spirit; in short, she was unconsciously earning for 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 he was ill; and she carried him more than three miles, to ask about his management from one who had been groom to the last Squire, and had then been noted for his skill in all diseases of animals. Whatever this man did, the dog recovered; and they who heard her thanks, intermingled with blessings (that were rather promises of good fortune than prayers), looked grave at his good luck when, next year, his ewes twinned, 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’s property; and in consequence he brought down four or five gentlemen, of his friends, to stay for a week or two at the Hall. From all accounts, they roystered and spent pretty freely. I never heard any of their names but one, and that was Squire Gisborne’s. He was hardly a middle-aged man then; he had been much abroad, and there, I believe, he had known Sir Philip Tempest, and done him some service. He was a daring and dissolute fellow in those days: careless and fearless, and one who would rather be in a quarrel than out of it. He had his fits of ill temper besides, 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 had altered much when I came to know him.
One day, the gentlemen had all been out shooting, and with but little success, I believe; anyhow, Mr Gisborne had none, and was in a black humour accordingly. He was coming home, having his gun loaded, sportsmanlike, when little Mignon crossed his path, just as he turned out of the wood by Bridget’s cottage. Partly for wantonness, partly to vent his spleen upon some living creature. Mr Gisborne took his gun, and fired – he had better have never fired gun again, than aimed that unlucky shot, he hit Mignon, and at the creature’s sudden cry, Bridget came out, and saw at a glance what had been done. She took Mignon up in her arms, and looked hard at the wound; the poor dog looked at her with his glazing eyes, and tried to wag his tail and lick her hand, all covered with blood. Mr Gisborne spoke in a kind of sullen penitence:
“You should have kept the dog out of my way – a little poaching varmint.”
At this very moment, Mignon stretched out his legs, and stiffened in her arms – her lost Mary’s dog, who had wandered and sorrowed with her for years. She walked right into Mr Gisborne’s path, and fixed his unwilling, sullen look, with her dark and terrible eye.
“Those never throve that did me harm,” said she. “I’m alone in the world, 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 dumb beast that I loved. Bring down heavy sorrow on his head for it, O ye saints! He thought that I was helpless, because he saw me lonely and poor; 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 off cursing! I care none for thy threats.”
“Don’t you?” said she, coming a step closer, and changing her imprecatory cry for a whisper which made the gamekeeper’s lad, following Mr Gisborne, creep all over. “You shall live to see the creature 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 this creature, for whom death would be too happy, become a terror and a loathing to all, for this blood’s sake. Hear me, O holy saints, who never fail them that have no other help!”
She threw up her right hand, filled with poor Mignon’s life drops; they spirted, one or two of them, on his shooting dress, – an ominous sight to the follower. But the master only laughed a little, forced, scornful laugh, and went on to the Hall. Before he got there, however, he took out a gold piece, and bade the boy carry it to the old woman on his return to the village. The lad was “afeared,” as he told me in after years; 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 Holy Heart, with dead Mignon lying between her and the Madonna. She was praying wildly, as her outstretched arms betokened. The lad shrunk away in redoubled terror; and contented himself with slipping the gold piece under the ill-fitting door. The next day it was thrown out upon the midden; and there it lay, no one daring to touch it.
Meanwhile Mr Gisborne, half curious, half uneasy, thought to lessen his uncomfortable feelings by asking Sir Philip who Bridget was? He could only describe her – he did not know her name. Sir Philip was equally at a loss. But an old servant of the Starkeys, who had resumed his livery at the Hall on this occasion – a scoundrel whom Bridget had saved 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 a woman did, does that Bridget Fitzgerald.”
“Fitzgerald!” said both the gentlemen at once. But Sir Philip was the first to continue:
“I must have no talk of ducking her, Dickon. Why, she must be the very woman poor Starkey bade me have a care of; but when I came here last she was gone, no one knew where. I’ll go and see her tomorrow. But mind you, sirrah, if any harm comes to her, or any more talk of her being a witch – I’ve a pack of hounds at home, who can follow the scent of a lying knave as well as ever they followed a dog fox; so take care how you talk about ducking a faithful old 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 to Madam Starkey.”
“Please your worship,” said humbled Dickon, “Mistress Bridget had a daughter – one Mistress Mary – who went abroad, and has never been heard on 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 have power – no one else could.” After a while, he said aloud, no one understanding rightly what he meant, “Tush! it is impossible!” – and called for claret; and he and the other gentlemen set-to to a drinking bout.
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