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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