"Will you take me home?" she said
meekly.

I took her by the hand, and led her
silently through the budding heather—we
dared not speak; for we could not tell but
that the dread creature was listening,
although unseen—but that IT might appear
and push us asunder. I never loved her
more fondly than now when—and that was
the unspeakable misery—the idea of her
was becoming so inextricably blended with
the shuddering thought of IT. She seemed
to understand what I must be feeling. She
let go my hand, which she had kept clasped
until then, when we reached the garden gate,
and went forwards to meet her anxious
friend, who was standing by the window
looking for her. I could not enter the
house: I needed silence, society, leisure,
change—I knew not what—to shake off the
sensation of that creature's presence. Yet I
lingered about the garden—I hardly know
why; I suppose partly because I feared to
encounter the resemblance again on the solitary
common, where it had vanished, and partly
from a feeling of inexpressible compassion
for Lucy. In a few minutes Mistress Clarke
came forth and joined me. We walked some
paces in silence.

"You know all now," said she, solemnly.

"I saw IT," said I below my breath.

"And you shrink from us now," she said,
with a hopelessness which stirred up all
that was brave or good in me.

"Not a whit," said I. "Human flesh
shrinks from an encounter with the powers
of darkness: and for some reason unknown
to me the pure and holy Lucy is their
victim."

"The sins of the fathers shall be visited
upon the children," she said.

"Who is her father ?" asked I. "Knowing
as much as I do, I may surely know more—
know all. Tell me, I entreat you, madam,
all that you can conjecture respecting this
demoniac persecution of one so good."

"I will; but not now. I must go to Lucy
now. Come this afternoon, I will see you
alone; and O, sir, I will trust that you may
yet find some way to help us in our sore
trouble."

I was miserably exhausted by the swooning
affright which had taken possession of me.
When I reached the inn, I staggered in like
one overcome by wine. I went to my own
private room. It was some time before I
saw that the weekly post had come in, and
brought me my letters. There was one from
my uncle, one from my home in Devonshire,
and one, re-directed over the first address,
sealed with a great coat of arms. It was
from Sir Philip Tempest: my letter of inquiry
respecting Mary Fitzgerald had reached
him at Liège, where it so happened that the
Count de la Tour d'Auvergne was quartered
at the very time. He remembered his wife's
beautiful attendant; she had had high words
with the deceased countess respecting her
intercourse with an English gentleman of good
standing, who was also in the foreign service.
The countess augured evil of his intentions;
while Mary, proud and vehement, asserted
that he would soon marry her, and resented
her mistress's warnings as an insult. The
consequence was, that she had left Madame
de la Tour d'Auvergne's service, and, as the
count believed, had gone to live with the
Englishman; whether he had married her,
or not, he could not say. "But," added Sir
Philip Tempest, "you may easily hear what
particulars you wish to know respecting
Mary Fitzgerald from the Englishman
himself, if, as I suspect, he is no other than my
neighbour and former acquaintance, Mr. Gisborne,
of Skipford Hall, in the West Riding.
I am led to the belief that he is no other by
several small particulars, none of which are
in themselves conclusive, but which, taken
together, make a mass of presumptive
evidence. As far as I could make out from the
count's foreign pronunciation, Gisborne was
the name of the Englishman; I know that
Gisborne of Skipford was abroad and in the
foreign service at that time—he was a likely
fellow enough for such an exploit; and,
above all, certain expressions recur to my
mind which he used in reference to old Bridget
Fitzgerald, of Coldholme, whom he once
encountered while staying with me at Starkey
Manor House. I remember that the meeting
seemed to have produced some extraordinary
effect upon his mind, as though he had
suddenly discovered some connection which she
might have had with his previous life. I beg
you to let me know if I can be of any further
service to you. Your uncle once rendered
me a good turn, and I will gladly repay it, so
far as in me lies, to his nephew."

I was now apparently close on the discovery
which I had striven so many months to
attain. But success had lost its zest. I put
my letters down, and seemed to forget them
all in thinking of the morning I had passed
that very day. Nothing was real but the
unreal presence, which had come like an evil
blast across my bodily eyes, and burnt itself
down upon my brain. Dinner came, and went
away untouched. Early in the afternoon I
walked to the farm-house. I found Mistress
Clarke alone, and I was glad and relieved.
She was evidently prepared to tell me all I
might wish to hear.

"You asked me for Mistress Lucy's true
name; it is Gisborne," she began.

"Not Gisborne of Skipford?" I exclaimed,
breathless with anticipation.

"The same," said she quietly, not regarding
my manner. "Her father is a man of note;
although, being a Roman Catholic, he cannot
take that rank in this country to which his
station entitles him. The consequence is that
he lives much abroad—has been a soldier, I
am told."

"And Lucy's mother?" I asked.