Such was Aislie Gourlay, whom, in order to attain the absolute subjugation of Lucy Ashton’s mind, her mother thought it fitting to place near her person.  A woman of less consequence than Lady Ashton had not dared to take such a step; but her high rank and strength of character set her above the censure of the world, and she was allowed to have selected for her daughter’s attendant the best and most experienced sick-nurse and “mediciner” in the neighbourhood, where an inferior person would have fallen under the reproach of calling in the assistance of a partner and ally of the great Enemy of mankind.

The beldam caught her cue readily and by innuendo, without giving Lady Ashton the pain of distinct explanation.  She was in many respects qualified for the part she played, which indeed could not be efficiently assumed without some knowledge of the human heart and passions.  Dame Gourlay perceived that Lucy shuddered at her external appearance, which we have already described when we found her in the death-chamber of blind Alice; and while internally she hated the poor girl for the involuntary horror with which she saw she was regarded, she commenced her operations by endeavouring to efface or overcome those prejudices which, in her heart, she resented as mortal offences.  This was easily done, for the hag’s external ugliness was soon balanced by a show of kindness and interest, to which Lucy had of late been little accustomed; her attentive services and real skill gained her the ear, if not the confidence, of her patient; and under pretence of diverting the solitude of a sick-room, she soon led her attention captive by the legends in which she was well skilled, and to which Lucy’s habit of reading and reflection induced her to “lend an attentive ear.”  Dame Gourlay’s tales were at first of a mild and interesting character—­

     Of fays that nightly dance upon the wold,
     And lovers doom’d to wander and to weep,
     And castles high, where wicked wizards keep
     Their captive thralls.

Gradually, however, they assumed a darker and more mysterious character, and became such as, told by the midnight lamp, and enforced by the tremulous tone, the quivering and livid lip, the uplifted skinny forefinger, and the shaking head of the blue-eyed hag, might have appalled a less credulous imagination in an age more hard of belief.  The old Sycorax saw her advantage, and gradually narrowed her magic circle around the devoted victim on whose spirit she practised.  Her legends began to relate to the fortunes of the Ravenswood family, whose ancient grandeur and portentous authority credulity had graced with so many superstitious attributes.  The story of the fatal fountain was narrated at full length, and with formidable additions, by the ancient sibyl.  The prophecy, quoted by Caleb, concerning the dead bride who was to be won by the last of the Ravenswoods, had its own mysterious commentary; and the singular circumstance of the apparition seen by the Master of Ravenswood in the forest, having partly transpired through his hasty inquiries in the cottage of Old Alice, formed a theme for many exaggerations.