England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Horror tales, English
Even at this moment, I saw Lucy coming through the woodland path that led
to Bridget’s cottage; Mistress Clarke was with her: I felt at my heart
that it was she, by the balmy peace which the look of her sent over me,
as she slowly advanced, a glad surprise shining out of her soft quiet
eyes. That was as her gaze met mine. As her looks fell on the woman
lying stiff, convulsed on the earth, they became full of tender pity; and
she came forward to try and lift her up. Seating herself on the turf,
she took Bridget’s head into her lap; and, with gentle touches, she
arranged the dishevelled gray hair streaming thick and wild from beneath
her mutch.
“God help her!” murmured Lucy. “How she suffers!”
At her desire we sought for water; but when we returned, Bridget had
recovered her wandering senses, and was kneeling with clasped hands
before Lucy, gazing at that sweet sad face as though her troubled nature
drank in health and peace from every moment’s contemplation. A faint
tinge on Lucy’s pale cheeks showed me that she was aware of our return;
otherwise it appeared as if she was conscious of her influence for good
over the passionate and troubled woman kneeling before her, and would not
willingly avert her grave and loving eyes from that wrinkled and careworn
countenance.
Suddenly—in the twinkling of an eye—the creature appeared, there, behind
Lucy; fearfully the same as to outward semblance, but kneeling exactly as
Bridget knelt, and clasping her hands in jesting mimicry as Bridget
clasped hers in her ecstasy that was deepening into a prayer. Mistress
Clarke cried out—Bridget arose slowly, her gaze fixed on the creature
beyond: drawing her breath with a hissing sound, never moving her
terrible eyes, that were steady as stone, she made a dart at the phantom,
and caught, as I had done, a mere handful of empty air. We saw no more
of the creature—it vanished as suddenly as it came, but Bridget looked
slowly on, as if watching some receding form. Lucy sat still, white,
trembling, drooping—I think she would have swooned if I had not been
there to uphold her. While I was attending to her, Bridget passed us,
without a word to any one, and, entering her cottage, she barred herself
in, and left us without.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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