House. He said that when the lady had
descended from her pillion, the middle-aged
woman whom I have described as walking
while the others rode, stepped quickly forward,
and taking Madam Starkey (who was of a
slight and delicate figure) in her arms, she
lifted her over the threshold, and sat her down
in her husband's house, at the same time
uttering a passionate and outlandish blessing.
The Squire stood by, smiling gravely at first;
but when the words of blessing were
pronounced, he took off his fine feathered hat
and bent his head. The girl with the black
mantle stepped onward into the shadow of
the dark hall, and kissed the lady's hand;
and that was all the lad could tell to the
group that gathered round him on his return,
eager to hear all, and to know how much the
Squire had given him for his services.

From all I could gather, the Manor House
was in the most dilapidated state at the
time of the Squire's return. The stout grey
walls remained firm and entire; but the
inner chambers had been used for all kinds
of purposes. The great withdrawing-room
had been a barn; the state tapestry-chamber
had held wool, and so on. But, by-and-by,
they were cleared out; and if the Squire had
no money to spend on new furniture, 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 she did,
and imparted an air of elegant picturesqueness
to whatever she touched. Besides, they
had brought many rare things from the
Continent; perhaps I should rather say,
things that were rare in that part of England
—carvings, and crosses, and beautiful
pictures. And then, again, wood was plentiful
in the Trough of Bolland, and great
log-fires danced and glittered in all the dark
old rooms, and gave a look of home and
comfort to everything.

Why do I tell you all this? I have
little to do with the Squire and Madam
Starkey; and yet I dwell upon them,
as if I were unwilling to come to the
real people with whom my life was so
strangely mixed up. Madam had been nursed
in Ireland by the very woman who took her
up and welcomed her to her husband's home,
in Lancashire. Excepting for the short period
of her own married life, Bridget Fitzgerald
had never left her nursling. Her marriage,
—to one above her in rank had been
unhappy. Her husband had died and left her
in even greater poverty than that in which
she was when he had met with her at first.
She had one child, the beautiful daughter
who came riding on the waggon-load of
furniture that was brought to the Manor House.
Madam Starkey 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 her home in Lancashire. As soon
as Bridget had arrived there, the Squire
gave her a cottage of her own, and took more
pains in furnishing it for her, than he did in
anything else out of his own house. It was
only nominally her residence. She was
constantly up at the great house; indeed, it
was only a short cut across the woods from
her own home to the home of her nursling.
Her daughter Mary in like manner moved from
one house to another at her own will. Madam
loved both mother and child dearly. They
had great influence over her, and, through
her, over her husband. Whatever Bridget
or Mary willed, was sure to come to pass.
They were not disliked; for, though wild
and passionate, they were also generous by
nature. But the other servants were afraid
of them, as being in secret the ruling spirits
of the household. The Squire had lost his
interest in all secular things; Madam was
gentle, affectionate, and yielding. Both
husband and wife were tenderly attached to
each other and to their boy; but they grew
more and more to shun the trouble of
decision on any point; and hence it was that
Bridget could exert such despotic power.
But if every one else yielded to her " magic
of a superior mind," her daughter not
unfrequently rebelled. She and her mother
were too much alike to agree. There were
wild quarrels between them; and wilder
reconciliations. There were times when, in
the heat of passion, they could have stabbed
each other. At all other times they both—
Bridget especially—would have willingly
laid down their lives for one another.
Bridget's love for her child lay very deep—
deeper than that daughter ever knew; or I
should think she would never have wearied
of home as she did, and prayed her mistress
to obtain for her some situation as waiting-maid
—beyond the seas, in that more cheerful
continental life, among the scenes of which so
many of 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
a small portion of it to pass away from her
mother, whose only child she was. Bridget
thought differently, but was too proud
ever to show what she felt. If her child
wished to leave her, why—she should go.
But people said Bridget became ten years
older in the course of two months at 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 some change,
and would thankfully have taken her mother
with her. Indeed, when Madam Starkey
had gotten her a place with some grand
lady abroad, and the time drew near for her
to go, it was Mary who clung to her mother
with passionate embrace, and, with floods of
tears, declared that she would never leave
her; and it was Bridget, who at last
loosened her arms, and, grey and tearless
herself, bade her keep her word, and go
forth into the wide world. Sobbing aloud,