“So they say,” he assented; “she and an Italian artificer who was in her service, and who, chiefly I imagine on account of his skill, shared with her the honor of reputed witchcraft.”

“She was the mother of Hugh Mervyn, the man who was murdered by his wife, was she not?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Alan, briefly.

“And had she not something to do with the curse?” I inquired after a short pause, and nervously I remembered my father’s experience on that subject, and I had never before dared to allude to it in the presence of any member of the family.  My nervousness was fully warranted.  The gloom on Alan’s brow deepened, and after a very short “They say so” he turned full upon me, and inquired with some asperity why on earth I had developed this sudden curiosity about his ancestress.

I hesitated a moment, for I was a little ashamed of my fancies; but the darkness gave me courage, and besides I was not afraid of telling Alan—­he would understand.  I told him of the strange sensations I had had while in the tower—­sensations which had struck me with all that force and clearness which we usually associate with a direct experience of fact.  “Of course it was a trick of imagination,” I commented; “but I could not get rid of the feeling that the person who had dwelt there last must have had terrible thoughts for the companions of her life.”

Alan listened in silence, and the silence continued for some time after I had ceased speaking.

“It is strange,” he said at last; “instincts which we do not understand form the motive-power of most of our life’s actions, and yet we refuse to admit them as evidence of any external truth.  I suppose it is because we must act somehow, rightly or wrongly; and there are a great many things which we need not believe unless we choose.  As for this old lady, she lived long—­long enough, like most of us, to do evil; unlike most of us, long enough to witness some of the results of that evil.  To say that, is to say that the last years of her life must have been weighted heavily enough with tragic thought.”

I gave a little shudder of repulsion.

“That is a depressing view of life, Alan,” I said.  “Does our peace of mind depend only upon death coming early enough to hide from us the truth?  And, after all, can it?  Our spirits do not die.  From another world they may witness the fruits of our lives in this one.”

“If they do,” he answered with sudden violence, “it is absurd to doubt the existence of a purgatory.  There must in such a case be a terrible one in store for the best among us.”

I was silent.  The shadow that lay on his soul did not penetrate to mine, but it hung round me nevertheless, a cloud which I felt powerless to disperse.

After a moment he went on,—­“Provided that they are distant enough, how little, after all, do we think of the results of our actions!  There are few men who would deliberately instill into a child a love of drink, or wilfully deprive him of his reason; and yet a man with drunkenness or madness in his blood thinks nothing of bringing children into the world tainted as deeply with the curse as if he had inoculated them with it directly.  There is no responsibility so completely ignored as this one of marriage and fatherhood, and yet how heavy it is and far-reaching.”