ngered--why, I can hardly tell--until once more she
bade me begone. As I went along the forest way, I looked back, and saw
her planting the cross in the empty threshold, where the door had been.

The next morning Lucy and I went to seek her, to bid her join her
prayers with ours. The cottage stood open and wide to our gaze. No
human being was there: the cross remained on the threshold, but Bridget
was gone.

Chapter 3

What was to be done next? was the question that I asked myself. As for
Lucy, she would fain have submitted to the doom that lay upon her. Her
gentleness and piety, under the pressure of so horrible a life, seemed
over-passive to me. She never complained. Mrs. Clarke complained more
than ever. As for me, I was more in love with the real Lucy than ever;
but I shrunk from the false similitude with an intensity proportioned
to my love. I found out by instinct that Mrs. Clarke had occasional
temptations to leave Lucy. The good lady's nerves were shaken, and,
from what she said, I could almost have concluded that the object of
the Double was to drive away from Lucy this last and almost earliest
friend. At times, I could scarcely bear to own it, but I myself felt
inclined to turn recreant; and I would accuse Lucy of being too
patient--too resigned. One after another, she won the little children
of Coldholme. (Mrs. Clarke and she had resolved to stay there, for was
it not as good a place as any other to such as they? and did not all
our faint hopes rest on Bridget--never seen or heard of now, but still
we trusted to come back, or give some token?) So, as I say, one after
another, the little children came about my Lucy, won by her soft tones,
and her gentle smiles, and kind actions. Alas! one after another they
fell away, and shrunk from her path with blanching terror; and we too
surely guessed the reason why. It was the last drop. I could bear it no
longer. I resolved no more to linger around the spot, but to go back to
my uncle, and among the learned divines of the city of London, seek for
some power whereby to annul the curse.

My uncle, meanwhile, had obtained all the requisite testimonials
relating to Lucy's descent and birth, from the Irish lawyers, and from
Mr. Gisborne. The latter gentleman had written from abroad (he was
again serving in the Austrian army), a letter alternately passionately
self-reproachful and stoically repellent. It was evident that when he
thought of Mary--her short life--h