THEPURCELL PAPERS. BY THE LATEJOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU,AUTHOR OF ‘UNCLE SILAS.’ With a Memoir byALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES IN THREE VOLUMES.VOL. III. LONDON:RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen. 1880. Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data LeFanu, Joseph Sheridan, 1814-1873. The Purcell papers. Reprint of the 1880 ed. published by R. Bentley, London. I. Title.PZ3.L518Pu5 [PR4879.L7] 823′.8 71-148813 ISBN 0-404-08880-5 Reprinted from an original copy in the collection of the University of Chicago Library. From the edition of 1880, LondonFirst AMS edition published in 1975 Manufactured in the United States of America International Standard Book Number:Complete Set: 0-404-08880-5Volume III: 0-404-08883-X AMS PRESS INC.NEW YORK, N. Y. 10003 CONTENTS OF VOL. III.—- JIM SULIVAN’S ADVENTURES IN THE GREAT SNOW A CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY OF A TYRONE FAMILY AN ADVENTURE OF HARDRESS FITZGERALD, A ROYALIST CAPTAIN ‘THE QUARE GANDER’ BILLY MALOWNEY’S TASTE OF LOVE AND GLORY THE PURCELL PAPERS.—-JIM SULIVAN’S ADVENTURES IN THE GREAT SNOW. Being a Ninth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P.P. of Drumcoolagh. Jim Sulivan was a dacent,honest boy as you’d find in theseven parishes, an’ he was abeautiful singer, an’ an illegant dancer intirely, an’ a mighty plisant boy inhimself; but he had the divil’s bad luck, for he married for love, an ‘av coorse he niver had an asy minute afther. Nell Gorman was the girl he fancied, an’ a beautiful slip of a girl she was, jist twinty to the minute when he married her. Shewas as round an’ as complate in all her shapes as a firkin, you’d think, an’ her two cheeks was as fat an’ as red, it id open your heart to look at them. But beauty is not the thing all through, an’ as beautiful as she was she had thedivil’s tongue, an’ the divil’s timper, an’ the divil’s behaviour all out; an’ it was impossible for him to be in the house with her for while you’d count tin without havin’ an argymint, an’ as sure as she riz anargymint with him she’d hit him a wipe iv a skillet or whatever lay next to her hand. Well, this wasn’t at all plasin’ to Jim Sulivan you may be sure, an’ there wasscarce a week that his head wasn’tplasthered up, or his back bint double, or his nose swelled as big as a pittaty, with the vilence iv her timper, an’ his heart was scalded everlastin’ly with her tongue; so he had no pace or quietness in body or soul at all at all, with the way she was goin’ an. Well, your honour, one cowld snowin’evenin’ he kim in afther his day’s work regulatin’ the men in the farm, an’ he sat down very quite by the fire, for he hada scrimmidge with her in the mornin’, an’ all he wanted was an air iv the fire in pace; so divil a word he said but dhrew a stool an’ sat down close to the fire. Well, as soon as the woman saw him, ‘Move aff,’ says she, ‘an’ don’t beinthrudin’ an the fire,’ says she. Well, he kept never mindin’, an’ didn’t let an’ to hear a word she was sayin’, so she kim over an’ she had a spoon in herhand, an’ she took jist the smallest taste in life iv the boilin’ wather out iv the pot, an’ she dhropped it down an his shins, an’ with that he let a roar you’d think theroof id fly aff iv the house. ‘Hould your tongue, you barbarrian,’says she; ‘you’ll waken the child,’ says she. ‘An’ if I done right,’ says he, for the spoonful of boilin’ wather riz him entirely, ‘I’d take yourself,’ says he, ‘an’ I’d stuff you into the pot an the fire, an’ boil you.’ says he, ‘into castor oil,’ says he. ‘That’s purty behavour,’ says she; ‘it’s fine usage you’re givin’ me, isn’t it?’ says she, gettin’ wickeder every minute; ‘but before I’m boiled,’ says she, ‘thry how you like THAT,’ says she; an’, sure enough, before he had time to put up his guard, she hot him a rale terrible clink iv the iron spoon acrass the jaw. ‘Hould me, some iv ye, or I’ll murdher her,’ says he. ‘Will you?’ says she, an’ with that she hot him another tin times as good as the first. ‘By jabers,’ says he, slappin’ himself behind, ‘that’s the last salute you’ll ever give me,’ says he; ‘so take my last blessin’,’ says he, ‘you ungovernable baste!’ sayshe–an’ with that he pulled an his hat an’ walked out iv the door. Well, she never minded a word he said, for he used to say the same thing all as one every time she dhrew blood; an’ shehad no expectation at all but he’d come back by the time supper id be ready; but faix the story didn’t go quite so simple this time, for while he was walkin’, lonesome enough, down the borheen, with his heart almost broke with the pain, for his shins an’ his jaw was mighty troublesome, avcourse, with the thratement he got, who did he see but Mick Hanlon, his uncle’ssarvint by, ridin’ down, quite an asy, an the ould black horse, with a halter as long as himself. ‘Is that Mr. Soolivan?’ says the by.says he, as soon as he saw him a good bit aff. ‘To be sure it is, ye spalpeen, you,’ says Jim, roarin’ out; ‘what do you want widme this time a-day?’ says he. ‘Don’t you know me?’ says the gossoon, ‘it’s Mick Hanlon that’s in it,’ sayshe. ‘Oh, blur an agers, thin, it’s welcome you are, Micky asthore,’ says Jim; ‘howis all wid the man an’ the woman beyant?’ says he. ‘Oh!’ says Micky, ‘bad enough,’ sayshe; ‘the ould man’s jist aff, an’ if you don’t hurry like shot,’ says he, ‘he’ll be in glory before you get there,’ says he. ‘It’s jokin’ ye are,’ says Jim, sorrowful enough, for he was mighty partial to his uncle intirely. ‘Oh, not in the smallest taste,’ says Micky; ‘the breath was jist out iv him,’ says he, ‘when I left the farm. “An’,” says he, “take the ould black horse,” says he, “for he’s shure-footed for the road,” says he, “an’ bring, Jim Soolivan here,” says he, “for I think I’d die asy af I could see him onst,’ says he.’ ‘Well,’ says Jim, ‘will I have time,’ says he, ‘to go back to the house, for it would be a consolation,’ says he, ‘to tell the bad news to the woman?’ says he. ‘It’s too late you are already,’ says Micky, ‘so come up behind me, for God’ssake,’ says he, ‘an’ don’t waste time;’ an’ with that he brought the horse up beside the ditch, an’ Jim Soolivan mounted upbehind Micky, an’ they rode off; an’ tin good miles it was iv a road, an’ at the other side iv Keeper intirely; an’ it was snowin’ so fast that the ould baste could hardly go an at all at all, an’ the two bys an his back was jist like a snowball all as one, an’ almost fruz an’ smothered at the same time, your honour; an’ they wor both mightysorrowful intirely, an’ their toes almost dhroppin’ aff wid the could. And when Jim got to the farm his uncle was gettin’ an illegantly, an’ he was sittin’ up sthrong an’ warm in the bed, an’ im-provin’ every minute, an’ no signs av dyin’ an him at all at all; so he had all histhrouble for nothin’. But this wasn’t all, for the snow kem so thick that it was impassible to get along the roads at all at all; an’ faix, instead iv gettin’ betther, next mornin’ it was only tin times worse; so Jim had jist to take it asy, an’ stay wid his uncle antil such times as the snow id melt. Well, your honour, the evenin’ JimSoolivan wint away, whin the dark was closin’ in, Nell Gorman, his wife, beginned to get mighty anasy in herself whin she didn’t see him comin’ back at all; an’ she was gettin’ more an’ more frightful in herself every minute till the dark kem an, an’ divil a taste iv her husband was coming at all at all. ‘Oh!’ says she, ‘there’s no use in pur- tendin’, I know he’s kilt himself; he has committed infantycide an himself,’ says she, ‘like a dissipated bliggard as he always was,’ says she, ‘God rest his soul. Oh,thin, isn’t it me an’ not you, Jim Soolivan, that’s the unforthunate woman,’ says she, ‘for ain’t I cryin’ here, an’ isn’t he in heaven, the bliggard,’ says she. ‘Oh, voh, voh, it’s not at home comfortable with your wife an’ family that you are, Jim Soolivan,’ says she, ‘but in the other world, youaumathaun, in glory wid the saints I hope,’ says she. ‘It’s I that’s the unforthunate famale,’ says she, ‘an’ not yourself, Jim Soolivan,’ says she. An’ this way she kep’ an till mornin’, cryin’ and lamintin; an’ wid the first light she called up all the sarvint bys, an’ she tould them to go out an’ to sarch every inch iv ground to find the corpse, ‘for I’m sure,’ says she, ‘it’s not to go hide himself he would,’ says she. Well, they went as well as they could, rummagin’ through the snow, antil, at last, what should they come to, sure enough, but the corpse of a poor thravelling man, that fell over the quarry the night before by rason of the snow and some liquor he had, maybe; but, at any rate, he was as dead as a herrin’, an’ his face was knocked all to pieces jist like an over-boiled pitaty, glory be to God; an’ divil a taste iv a nose or a chin, or a hill or a hollow from one end av his face to the other but was all as flat as a pancake. An’ he was about Jim Soolivan’s size,an’ dhressed out exactly the same, wid a ridin’ coat an’ new corderhoys; so theycarried him home, an’ they were all as sure as daylight it was Jim Soolivan himself, an’ they were wondhering he’d do sich adirty turn as to go kill himself for spite. Well, your honour, they waked him aswell as they could, with what neighbours they could git togither, but by rason iv the snow, there wasn’t enough gothered to make much divarsion; however it was a plisint wake enough, an’ the churchyard an’ thepriest bein’ convanient, as soon as the youngsthers had their bit iv fun and divarsion out iv the corpse, they burried it without a great dale iv throuble; an’ about three days afther the berrin, ould Jim Mallowney, from th’other side iv the little hill, her own cousin by the mother’s side–he had a snug bit iv a farm an’ a house close by, by the same token–kem walkin’ in to see how she was in her health, an’ he dhrew a chair, an’ he sot down an’ beginned to convarse her about one thing an’ another, antil he got her quite an’ asy into middlin’ goodhumour, an’ as soon as he seen it was time: ‘I’m wondherin’, says he, ‘Nell Gorman, sich a handsome, likely girl, id be thinkin’ iv nothin’ but lamintin’ an’ the likes,’ says he, ‘an’ lingerin’ away her days without any consolation, or gettin’ a husband,’ says he. ‘Oh,’ says she, ‘isn’t it only three days since I burried the poor man,’ says she, ‘an’ isn’t it rather soon to be talkin iv marryin’ agin?’ ‘Divil a taste,’ says he, ‘three days is jist the time to a minute for cryin’ afther a husband, an’ there’s no occasion in life to bekeepin’ it up,’ says he; ‘an’ besides all that,’ says he, ‘Shrovetide is almost over, an’ if you don’t be sturrin’ yourself an’ lookin’ about you, you’ll be late,’ says he, ‘for this year at any rate, an’ that’s twelve months lost; an’ who’s to look afther the farm all that time,’ says he, ‘an’ to keep the men to their work?’ says he. ‘It’s thrue for you, Jim Mallowney,’ says she, ‘but I’m afeard the neighbours will be all talkin’ about it,’ says she. ‘Divil’s cure to the word,’ says he. ‘An’ who would you advise?’ says she. ‘Young Andy Curtis is the boy,’ sayshe. ‘He’s a likely boy in himself,’ says she. ‘An’ as handy a gossoon as is out,’says he. ‘Well, thin, Jim Mallowney,’ says she, ‘here’s my hand, an’ you may be talkin’to Andy Curtis, an’ if he’s willin’ I’m agreeble–is that enough?’ says she. So with that he made off with himself straight to Andy Curtis; an’ before three days more was past, the weddin’ kem an, an’Nell Gorman an’ Andy Curtis was married as complate as possible; an’ if the wake was plisint the weddin’ was tin times as agreeble, an’ all the neighbours that could make their way to it was there, an’ there was three fiddlers an’ lots iv pipers, an’ ould Connor Shamus[1] the piper himselfwas in it–by the same token it was the last weddin’ he ever played music at, for the next mornin’, whin he was goin’ home, bein’ mighty hearty an’ plisint in himself, he was smothered in the snow, undher the ould castle; an’ by my sowl he was a sore loss to the bys an’ girls twenty miles round, for he was the illigantest piper, barrin’ the liquor alone, that ever worked a bellas. [1] Literally, Cornelius James–the last name employed as a patronymic. Connor is commonly used. Corney, pronounced Kurny, is just as much used in the South, as the short name for Cornelius. Well, a week passed over smart enough, an’ Nell an’ her new husband was mightywell continted with one another, for it was too soon for her to begin to regulate him the way she used with poor Jim Soolivan, so they wor comfortable enough; but this was too good to last, for the thaw kem an, an’ you may be sure Jim Soolivan didn’tlose a minute’s time as soon as the heavy dhrift iv snow was melted enough between him and home to let him pass, for he didn’t hear a word iv news from home sinst helift it, by rason that no one, good nor bad, could thravel at all, with the way the snow was dhrifted. So one night, when Nell Gorman an’ her new husband, Andy Curtis, was snug an’warm in bed, an’ fast asleep, an’ everything quite, who should come to the door,sure enough, but Jim Soolivan himself, an’ he beginned flakin’ the door wid a big blackthorn stick he had, an’ roarin’ out like the divil to open the door, for he had a dhrop taken. ‘What the divil’s the matther?’ saysAndy Curtis, wakenin’ out iv his sleep. ‘Who’s batin’ the door?’ says Nell;‘what’s all the noise for?’ says she. ‘Who’s in it?’ says Andy. ‘It’s me,’ says Jim. ‘Who are you?’ says Andy; ‘what’syour name?’ ‘Jim Soolivan,’ says he. ‘By jabers, you lie,’ says Andy. ‘Wait till I get at you,’ says Jim, hittin’ the door a lick iv the wattle you’d hear half a mile off. ‘It’s him, sure enough,’ says Nell; ‘I know his speech; it’s his wandherin’ sowl that can’t get rest, the crass o’ Christ betune us an’ harm.’ ‘Let me in,’ says Jim, ‘or I’ll dhrive the door in a top iv yis.’ ‘Jim Soolivan–Jim Soolivan,’ says Nell, sittin’ up in the bed, an’ gropin’ for a quart bottle iv holy wather she used to hang by the back iv the bed, ‘don’t come in, darlin’ –there’s holy wather here,’ says she; ‘but tell me from where you are is thereanything that’s throublin’ your poor sinful sowl?’ says she. ‘An’ tell me how manymasses ‘ill make you asy, an’ by this crass, I’ll buy you as many as you want,’ says she. ‘I don’t know what the divil you mane,’ says Jim. ‘Go back,’ says she, ‘go back to glory, for God’s sake,’ says she. ‘Divil’s cure to the bit iv me ‘ill go back to glory, or anywhere else,’ says he, ‘this blessed night; so open the door at onst’ an’ let me in,’ says he. ‘The Lord forbid,’ says she. ‘By jabers, you’d betther,’ says he, ‘or it ‘ill be the worse for you,’ says he; an’ wid that he fell to wallopin’ the door till he was fairly tired, an’ Andy an’ his wife crassin’ themselves an’ sayin’ their prayers for the bare life all the time. ‘Jim Soolivan,’ says she, as soon as he was done, ‘go back, for God’s sake, an’don’t be freakenin’ me an’ your poor fatherless childhren,’ says she. ‘Why, you bosthoon, you,’ says Jim,‘won’t you let your husband in,’ says he, ‘to his own house?’ says he. ‘You WOR my husband, sure enough,’says she, ‘but it’s well you know, Jim Soolivan, you’re not my husband NOW,’ says she. ‘You’re as dhrunk as can be consaved, says Jim. ‘Go back, in God’s name, pacibly toyour grave,’ says Nell. ‘By my sowl, it’s to my grave you’llsind me, sure enough,’ says he, ‘you hard- hearted bain’, for I’m jist aff wid the cowld,’ says he. ‘Jim Sulivan,’ says she, ‘it’s in your dacent coffin you should be, you unforthunate sperit,’ says she; ‘what is it’sannoyin’ your sowl, in the wide world, at all?’ says she; ‘hadn’t you everythingcomplate?’ says she, ‘the oil, an’ the wake, an’ the berrin’?’ says she. ‘Och, by the hoky,’ says Jim, ‘it’s too long I’m makin’ a fool iv mysilf, gostherin’ wid you outside iv my own door,’ sayshe, ‘for it’s plain to be seen,’ says he, ‘you don’t know what your’re sayin’, an’ no one ELSE knows what you mane, youunforthunate fool,’ says he; ‘so, onst for all, open the door quietly,’ says he, ‘or, by my sowkins, I’ll not lave a splinther together,’ says he. Well, whin Nell an’ Andy seen he wasgetting vexed, they beginned to bawl out their prayers, with the fright, as if the life was lavin’ them; an’ the more he bate the door, the louder they prayed, until at last Jim was fairly tired out. ‘Bad luck to you,’ says he; ‘fora rale divil av a woman,’ says he. I ‘can’t get any advantage av you, anyway; but wait till I get hould iv you, that’s all,’ says he. An’ he turned aff from the door, an’ wint round to the cow-house, an’ settled himself as well as he could, in the sthraw; an’ he was tired enough widthe thravellin’ he had in the day-time, an’ a good dale bothered with what liquor he had taken; so he was purty sure of sleepin’ wherever he thrun himself. But, by my sowl, it wasn’t the same way with the man an’ the woman in the house– for divil a wink iv sleep, good or bad, could they get at all, wid the fright iv the sperit, as they supposed; an’ with the first light they sint a little gossoon, as fast as he could wag, straight off, like a shot, to the priest, an’ to desire him, for the love o’ God, to come to them an the minute, an’to bring, if it was plasin’ to his raverence, all the little things he had for sayin’ mass, an’ savin’ sowls, an’ banishin’ sperits, an’ freakenin’ the divil, an’ the likes iv that. An’ it wasn’t long till his raverence kem down, sure enough, on the ould grey mare, wid the little mass-boy behind him, an’ the prayer-books an’ Bibles, an’ all the other mystarious articles that was wantin’, along wid him; an’ as soon as he kem in, ‘Godsave all here,’ says he. ‘God save ye, kindly, your raverence,’ says they. ‘An’ what’s gone wrong wid ye?’ sayshe; ‘ye must be very bad,’ says he,’ entirely, to disturb my devotions,’ says he, ‘this way, jist at breakfast-time,’ says he. ‘By my sowkins,’ says Nell, ‘it’s bad enough we are, your raverence,’ says she, ‘for it’s poor Jim’s sperit,’ says she; ‘God rest his sowl, wherever it is,’ says she, ‘that was wandherin’ up an’ down, opossite the door all night,’ says she, ‘in the way it was no use at all, thryin’ to get a wink iv sleep,’ says she. ‘It’s to lay it, you want me, I suppose,’ says the priest. ‘If your raverence ‘id do that same, it ‘id be plasin’ to us,’ says Andy. ‘It’ll be rather expinsive,’ says the priest. ‘We’ll not differ about the price, your raverence,’ says Andy. ‘Did the sperit stop long?’ says thepriest. ‘Most part iv the night,’ says Nell,‘the Lord be merciful to us all!’ says she. ‘That’ll make it more costly than Ithought,’ says he. ‘An’ did it make much noise?’ says he. ‘By my sowl, it’s it that did,’ saysAndy; ‘leatherin’ the door wid sticks and stones,’ says he, ‘antil I fairly thought every minute,’ says he, ‘the ould boords id smash, an’ the sperit id be in an top iv us–God bless us,’ says he. ‘Phiew!’ says the priest; ‘it’ll cost a power iv money.’ ‘Well, your raverence,’ says Andy, ‘take whatever you like,’ says he; ‘only makesure it won’t annoy us any more,’ says he. ‘Oh! by my sowkins,’ says the priest, ‘it’ll be the quarest ghost in the siven parishes,’ says he, ‘if it has the courage to come back,’ says he, ‘afther what I’ll do this mornin’, plase God,’ says he; ‘so we’ll say twelve pounds; an’ God knows it’schape enough,’ says he, ‘considherin’ all the sarcumstances,’ says he. Well, there wasn’t a second word tothe bargain; so they paid him the money down, an’ he sot the table doun like analthar, before the door, an’ he settled it out vid all the things he had wid him; an’he lit a bit iv a holy candle, an’ he scathered his holy wather right an’ left; an’ he took up a big book, an’ he wint an readin’for half an hour, good; an’ whin he kem to the end, he tuck hould iv his little bell, and he beginned to ring it for the barelife; an’, by my sowl, he rung it so well, that he wakened Jim Sulivan in the cow-house, where he was sleepin’, an’ up he jumped, widout a minute’s delay, an’ med right for the house, where all the family, an’ the priest, an’ the little mass-boy was assimbled, layin’ the ghost; an’ as soon as his raverence seen him comin’ in at the door, wid the fair fright, he flung the bell at his head, an’ hot him sich a lick iv it in the forehead, that he sthretched him on the floor; but fain; he didn’t wait to ax any questions, but he cut round the table as if the divil was afther him, an’ out at the door, an’ didn’t stop even as much as to mount an his mare, but leathered awaydown the borheen as fast as his legs could carry him, though the mud was up to hisknees, savin’ your presence. Well, by the time Jim kem to himself, the family persaved the mistake, an’ Andy wint home, lavin’ Nell to make the explanation. An’ as soon as Jim heerd it all, hesaid he was quite contint to lave her to Andy, entirely; but the priest would not hear iv it; an’ he jist med him marry his wife over again, an’ a merry weddin’ itwas, an’ a fine collection for his raverence. An’ Andy was there along wid the rest,an’ the priest put a small pinnance upon him, for bein’ in too great a hurry to marry a widdy. An’ bad luck to the word he’d allowanyone to say an the business, ever after, at all, at all; so, av coorse, no one offinded his raverence, by spakin’ iv the twelvepounds he got for layin’ the sperit. An’ the neighbours wor all mightywell plased, to be sure, for gettin’ all the divarsion of a wake, an’ two weddin’s for nothin’ A CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY OF A TYRONE FAMILY Being a Tenth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P.P. of Drumcoolagh. INTRODUCTION. In the following narrative, I haveendeavoured to give as nearlyas possible the ipsissima verbaof the valued friend from whom I received it, conscious that any aberration from HER mode of telling the tale of her own life would at once impair its accuracy and its effect. Would that, with her words, I couldalso bring before you her animated gesture, her expressive countenance, the solemn and thrilling air and accent with which sherelated the dark passages in her strange story; and, above all, that I couldcommunicate the impressive consciousness that the narrator had seen with her own eyes, and personally acted in the scenes which she described; these accompaniments, taken with the additional circumstance that she who told the tale was one far too deeply and sadly impressed with religious principle to misrepresent or fabricate what sherepeated as fact, gave to the tale a depth of interest which the events recorded could hardly, themselves, have produced. I became acquainted with the lady from whose lips I heard this narrative nearly twenty years since, and the story struck my fancy so much that I committed it topaper while it was still fresh in my mind; and should its perusal afford you entertainment for a listless half hour, my labourshall not have been bestowed in vain. I find that I have taken the story down as she told it, in the first person, and perhaps this is as it should be. She began as follows: My maiden name was Richardson,[1] the designation of a family of some distinction in the county of Tyrone. I was theyounger of two daughters, and we were the only children. There was a difference in our ages of nearly six years, so that I did not, in my childhood, enjoy that close companionship which sisterhood, in other circumstances, necessarily involves; and while I was still a child, my sister was married. [1] I have carefully altered the names as they appear in the original MSS., for the reader will see that some of the circumstances recorded are not of a kind to reflect honour upon those involved in them; and as many are still living, in every way honoured and honourable, who stand in close relation to the principal actors in this drama, the reader will see the necessity of the course which we have adopted. The person upon whom she bestowedher hand was a Mr. Carew, a gentleman of property and consideration in the north of England. I remember well the eventful day of the wedding; the thronging carriages, the noisy menials, the loud laughter, the merry faces, and the gay dresses. Such sights werethen new to me, and harmonised ill with the sorrowful feelings with which Iregarded the event which was to separate me, as it turned out, for ever from a sister whose tenderness alone had hitherto more than supplied all that I wanted in mymother’s affection. The day soon arrived which was toremove the happy couple from Ashtown House. The carriage stood at the hall-door, and my poor sister kissed me again and again, telling me that I should seeher soon. The carriage drove away, and I gazedafter it until my eyes filled with tears, and, returning slowly to my chamber, I weptmore bitterly and, so to speak, more desolately, than ever I had done before. My father had never seemed to love or to take an interest in me. He had desired a son, and I think he never thoroughlyforgave me my unfortunate sex. My having come into the world at allas his child he regarded as a kind of fraudulent intrusion, and as his antipathy to me had its origin in an imperfectionof mine, too radical for removal, I never even hoped to stand high in his goodgraces. My mother was, I dare say, as fond of me as she was of anyone; but she was awoman of a masculine and a worldly cast of mind. She had no tenderness or sympathyfor the weaknesses, or even for the affections, of woman’s nature and her demeanourtowards me was peremptory, and often even harsh. It is not to be supposed, then, that I found in the society of my parents much to supply the loss of my sister. About a year after her marriage, we received letters from Mr. Carew, containing accounts of mysister’s health, which, though not actually alarming, were calculated to make us seriously uneasy. The symptoms most dweltupon were loss of appetite and cough. The letters concluded by intimating that he would avail himself of my father andmother’s repeated invitation to spend some time at Ashtown, particularly as the physician who had been consulted as to mysister’s health had strongly advised a removal to her native air. There were added repeated assurancesthat nothing serious was apprehended, as it was supposed that a deranged state of the liver was the only source of the symptoms which at first had seemed to intimateconsumption. In accordance with this announcement, my sister and Mr. Carew arrived in Dublin, where one of my father’s carriages awaited them, in readiness to start upon whatever day or hour they might choose for theirdeparture It was arranged that Mr. Carew was, as soon as the day upon which they were toleave Dublin was definitely fixed, to write to my father, who intended that the twolast stages should be performed by his own horses, upon whose speed and safety farmore reliance might be placed than upon those of the ordinary post-horses, which were at that time, almost without exception, of the very worst order. The journey, one of about ninety miles, was to be divided; the larger portion being reserved for the second day. On Sunday a letter reached us, stating that the party would leave Dublin onMonday, and, in due course, reach Ashtown upon Tuesday evening. Tuesday came the evening closed in, and yet no carriage; darkness came on, and still no sign of our expected visitors. Hour after hour passed away, and it was now past twelve; the night was remarkably calm, scarce a breath stirring, so that any sound, such as that produced by the rapid movement of a vehicle, would have beenaudible at a considerable distance. For some such sound I was feverishly listening. It was, however, my father’s rule to close the house at nightfall, and the window-shutters being fastened, I was unable to reconnoitre the avenue as I would havewished. It was nearly one o’clock, and we began almost to despair of seeing them upon that night, when I thought I distinguished the sound of wheels, but so remote and faint as to make me at first very uncertain. The noise approached; it became louder andclearer; it stopped for a moment. I now heard the shrill screaming of the rusty iron, as the avenue-gate revolved on its hinges; again came the sound of wheels in rapid motion. ‘It is they,’ said I, starting up; ‘the carriage is in the avenue.’ We all stood for a few moments breathlessly listening. On thundered the vehiclewith the speed of a whirlwind; crack went the whip, and clatter went the wheels, as it rattled over the uneven pavement of thecourt. A general and furious barking from all the dogs about the house, hailed its arrival. We hurried to the hall in time to hear the steps let down with the sharp clanging noise peculiar to the operation, and the hum of voices exerted in the bustle of arrival. The hall-door was now thrown open, andwe all stepped forth to greet our visitors. The court was perfectly empty; themoon was shining broadly and brightly upon all around; nothing was to be seenbut the tall trees with their long spectral shadows, now wet with the dews of midnight. We stood gazing from right to left, as if suddenly awakened from a dream; the dogs walked suspiciously, growling and snuffing about the court, and by totally andsuddenly ceasing their former loud barking, expressing the predominance of fear. We stared one upon another inperplexity and dismay, and I think I never beheld more pale faces assembled. By myfather’s direction, we looked about to find anything which might indicate or account for the noise which we had heard; but no such thing was to be seen–even the mire which lay upon the avenue was undisturbed. We returned to the house, more panic-struck than I can describe. On the next day, we learned by amessenger, who had ridden hard the greater part of the night, that my sister was dead. On Sunday evening, she had retired to bed rather unwell, and, on Monday, her indisposition declared itself unequivocally to bemalignant fever. She became hourly worse and, on Tuesday night, a little aftermidnight, she expired.[2] [2] The residuary legatee of the late Frances Purcell, who has the honour of selecting such of his lamented old friend’s manuscripts as may appear fit for publication, in order that the lore which they contain may reach the world before scepticism and utility have robbed our species of the precious gift of credulity, and scornfully kicked before them, or trampled into annihilation those harmless fragments of picturesque superstition which it is our object to preserve, has been subjected to the charge of dealing too largely in the marvellous; and it has been half insinuated that such is his love for diablerie, that he is content to wander a mile out of his way, in order to meet a fiend or a goblin, and thus to sacrifice all regard for truth and accuracy to the idle hope of affrighting the imagination, and thus pandering to the bad taste of his reader. He begs leave, then, to take this opportunity of asserting his perfect innocence of all the crimes laid to his charge, and to assure his reader that he never PANDERED TO HIS BAD TASTE, nor went one inch out of his way to introduce witch, fairy, devil, ghost, or any other of the grim fraternity of the redoubted Raw-head-and-bloody-bones. His province, touching these tales, has been attended with no difficulty and little responsibility; indeed, he is accountable for nothing more than an alteration in the names of persons mentioned therein, when such a step seemed necessary, and for an occasional note, whenever he conceived it possible, innocently, to edge in a word. These tales have been WRITTEN DOWN, as the heading of each announces, by the Rev. Francis Purcell, P.P., of Drumcoolagh; and in all the instances, which are many, in which the present writer has had an opportunity of comparing the manuscript of his departed friend with the actual traditions which are current amongst the families whose fortunes they pretend to illustrate, he has uniformly found that whatever of supernatural occurred in the story, so far from having been exaggerated by him, had been rather softened down, and, wherever it could be attempted, accounted for. I mention this circumstance, because it was one upon which a thousand wild andfantastical reports were founded, though one would have thought that the truthscarcely required to be improved upon; and again, because it produced a strongand lasting effect upon my spirits, and indeed, I am inclined to think, upon mycharacter. I was, for several years after thisoccurrence, long after the violence of my grief subsided, so wretchedly low-spirited and nervous, that I could scarcely be said to live; and during this time, habits ofindecision, arising out of a listless acquiescence in the will of others, a fear of encountering even the slightest opposition, and adisposition to shrink from what are commonly called amusements, grew upon me sostrongly, that I have scarcely even yet altogether overcome them. We saw nothing more of Mr. Carew.He returned to England as soon as the melancholy rites attendant upon the event which I have just mentioned were performed; and not being altogether inconsolable,he married again within two years;after which, owing to the remoteness of our relative situations, and other circumstances, we gradually lost sight of him. I was now an only child; and, as myelder sister had died without issue, it was evident that, in the ordinary course ofthings, my father’s property, which was altogether in his power, would go to me; and the consequence was, that before I was fourteen, Ashtown House was besieged bya host of suitors. However, whether it was that I was too young, or that none of the aspirants to my hand stood sufficiently high in rank or wealth, I was suffered by both parents to do exactly as I pleased; andwell was it for me, as I afterwards found, that fortune, or rather Providence, had so ordained it, that I had not suffered myaffections to become in any degree engaged, for my mother would never have sufferedany SILLY FANCY of mine, as she was in the habit of styling an attachment, to stand in the way of her ambitious views–views which she was determined to carry into effect, in defiance of every obstacle, and in order to accomplish which shewould not have hesitated to sacrifice anything so unreasonable and contemptible as a girlish passion. When I reached the age of sixteen, my mother’s plans began to develop them-selves; and, at her suggestion, we moved to Dublin to sojourn for the winter, inorder that no time might be lost in disposing of me to the best advantage. I had been too long accustomed toconsider myself as of no importance whatever, to believe for a moment that I was inreality the cause of all the bustle and preparation which surrounded me, andbeing thus relieved from the pain which a consciousness of my real situation would have inflicted, I journeyed towards thecapital with a feeling of total indifference. My father’s wealth and connection had established him in the best society, and, consequently, upon our arrival in themetropolis we commanded whatever enjoyment or advantages its gaieties afforded. The tumult and novelty of the scenesin which I was involved did not fail con- siderably to amuse me, and my mindgradually recovered its tone, which was naturally cheerful. It was almost immediately known andreported that I was an heiress, and of course my attractions were pretty generally acknowledged. Among the many gentlemen whom itwas my fortune to please, one, ere long, established himself in my mother’s goodgraces, to the exclusion of all less important aspirants. However, I had not understood or even remarked his attentions, norin the slightest degree suspected his or my mother’s plans respecting me, when Iwas made aware of them rather abruptly by my mother herself. We had attended a splendid ball, given by Lord M—-, at his residence in Stephen’s Green, and I was, with the assist-ance of my waiting-maid, employed in rapidly divesting myself of the richornaments which, in profuseness and value, could scarcely have found their equals in any private family in Ireland. I had thrown myself into a lounging-chair beside the fire, listless and exhausted, after the fatigues of the evening, when I was aroused from the reverie into which I had fallen by the sound of footstepsapproaching my chamber, and my mother entered. ‘Fanny, my dear,’ said she, in her softest tone, ‘I wish to say a word or two withyou before I go to rest. You are not fatigued, love, I hope?’ ‘No, no, madam, I thank you,’ said I, rising at the same time from my seat, with the formal respect so little practised now. ‘Sit down, my dear,’ said she, placing herself upon a chair beside me; ‘I mustchat with you for a quarter of an hour or so. Saunders’ (to the maid) ‘you may leavethe room; do not close the room-door, but shut that of the lobby.’ This precaution against curious earshaving been taken as directed, my mother proceeded. ‘You have observed, I should suppose, my dearest Fanny–indeed, you MUST haveobserved Lord Glenfallen’s marked attentions to you?’ ‘I assure you, madam—-‘ I began. ‘Well, well, that is all right,’ interrupted my mother; ‘of course you must bemodest upon the matter; but listen to me for a few moments, my love, and I willprove to your satisfaction that your modesty is quite unnecessary in this case. Youhave done better than we could have hoped, at least so very soon. Lord Glenfallen is in love with you. I give you joy of your conquest;’ and saying this, my motherkissed my forehead. ‘In love with me!’ I exclaimed, inunfeigned astonishment. ‘Yes, in love with you,’ repeated mymother; ‘devotedly, distractedly in love with you. Why, my dear, what is therewonderful in it? Look in the glass, and look at these,’ she continued, pointing with a smile to the jewels which I had justremoved from my person, and which now lay a glittering heap upon the table. ‘May there not,’ said I, hesitatingbetween confusion and real alarm–‘is it not possible that some mistake may be at the bottom of all this?’ ‘Mistake, dearest! none,’ said mymother. ‘None; none in the world. Judge for yourself; read this, my love.’ And she placed in my hand a letter, addressed to herself, the seal of which was broken. I read it through with no small surprise.After some very fine complimentary flourishes upon my beauty and perfections, asalso upon the antiquity and high reputation of our family, it went on to make aformal proposal of marriage, to becommunicated or not to me at present, as my mother should deem expedient; and theletter wound up by a request that the writer might be permitted, upon our return toAshtown House, which was soon to take place, as the spring was now tolerablyadvanced, to visit us for a few days, in case his suit was approved. ‘Well, well, my dear,’ said my mother, impatiently; ‘do you know who LordGlenfallen is?’ ‘I do, madam,’ said I rather timidly, for I dreaded an altercation with my mother. ‘Well, dear, and what frightens you?’ continued she. ‘Are you afraid of a title? What has he done to alarm you? he isneither old nor ugly.’ I was silent, though I might have said, ‘He is neither young nor handsome.’ ‘My dear Fanny,’ continued my mother, ‘in sober seriousness you have been most fortunate in engaging the affections of a nobleman such as Lord Glenfallen, youngand wealthy, with first-rate–yes, acknowledged FIRST-RATE abilities, and of a familywhose influence is not exceeded by that of any in Ireland. Of course you see the offer in the same light that I do–indeed I think you MUST.’ This was uttered in no very dubioustone. I was so much astonished by the suddenness of the whole communication that I literally did not know what to say. ‘You are not in love?’ said my mother, turning sharply, and fixing her dark eyes upon me with severe scrutiny. ‘No, madam,’ said I, promptly; horrified, as what young lady would not have been,at such a query. ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said my mother, drily. ‘Once, nearly twenty years ago, a friend of mine consulted me as to how he should deal with a daughter who had made what they call a love-match–beggared herself, and disgraced her family; and I said,without hesitation, take no care for her, but cast her off. Such punishment Iawarded for an offence committed against the reputation of a family not my own;and what I advised respecting the child of another, with full as small compunctionI would DO with mine. I cannot conceive anything more unreasonable or intolerable than that the fortune and the characterof a family should be marred by the idle caprices of a girl.’ She spoke this with great severity, and paused as if she expected some observation from me. I, however, said nothing. ‘But I need not explain to you, mydear Fanny,’ she continued, ‘my views upon this subject; you have alwaysknown them well, and I have never yet had reason to believe you likely, voluntarily, to offend me, or to abuse or neglectany of those advantages which reason and duty tell you should be improved. Comehither, my dear; kiss me, and do not look so frightened. Well, now, aboutthis letter, you need not answer it yet; of course you must be allowed time tomake up your mind. In the meantime I will write to his lordship to give him my permission to visit us at Ashtown. Good- night, my love.’ And thus ended one of the mostdisagreeable, not to say astounding, conversations I had ever had. It would not be easy to describe exactly what weremy feelings towards Lord Glenfallen;– whatever might have been my mother’ssuspicions, my heart was perfectlydisengaged–and hitherto, although I had not been made in the slightest degreeacquainted with his real views, I had liked him very much, as an agreeable, well-informed man, whom I was always glad to meet in society. He had served in the navy in early life, and the polish which his manners received in his after intercourse with courts and cities had not served to obliterate that frankness of manner which belongs proverbially to the sailor. Whether this apparent candour wentdeeper than the outward bearing, I was yet to learn. However, there was no doubt that, as far as I had seen of Lord Glenfallen, he was, though perhaps not so young asmight have been desired in a lover, a singularly pleasing man; and whateverfeeling unfavourable to him had found its way into my mind, arose altogether fromthe dread, not an unreasonable one, that constraint might be practised upon myinclinations. I reflected, however, that Lord Glenfallen was a wealthy man, andone highly thought of; and although I could never expect to love him in theromantic sense of the term, yet I had no doubt but that, all things considered, I might be more happy with him than Icould hope to be at home. When next I met him it was with nosmall embarrassment, his tact and good breeding, however, soon reassured me, and effectually prevented my awkwardness being remarked upon. And I had the satisfaction of leaving Dublin for the country with the full conviction that nobody, not even those most intimate with me, even suspected the fact of Lord Glenfallen’s having made me a formal proposal. This was to me a very serious subject of self-gratulation, for, besides my instinctive dread of becoming the topic of the speculations of gossip, I felt that if the situationwhich I occupied in relation to him were made publicly known, I should standcommitted in a manner which would scarcely leave me the power of retraction. The period at which Lord Glenfallenhad arranged to visit Ashtown House was now fast approaching, and it became mymother’s wish to form me thoroughly to her will, and to obtain my consent to the proposed marriage before his arrival, so that all things might proceed smoothly,without apparent opposition or objection upon my part. Whatever objections, therefore, I had entertained were to be subdued;whatever disposition to resistance I had exhibited or had been supposed tofeel, were to be completely eradicated before he made his appearance; and my motheraddressed herself to the task with a decision and energy against which even the barriers, which her imagination had created, could hardly have stood. If she had, however, expected anydetermined opposition from me, she was agree- ably disappointed. My heart was perfectly free, and all my feelings of liking andpreference were in favour of LordGlenfallen; and I well knew that in case I refused to dispose of myself as I wasdesired, my mother had alike the power and the will to render my existence asutterly miserable as even the most ill- assorted marriage could possibly have done. You will remember, my good friend, that I was very young and very completelyunder the control of my parents, both of whom, my mother particularly, wereunscrupulously determined in matters of this kind, and willing, when voluntaryobedience on the part of those within their power was withheld, to compel a forcedacquiescence by an unsparing use of all the engines of the most stern and rigorousdomestic discipline. All these combined, not unnaturally,induced me to resolve upon yielding at once, and without useless opposition, to whatappeared almost to be my fate. The appointed time was come, and mynow accepted suitor arrived; he was in high spirits, and, if possible, moreentertaining than ever. I was not, however, quite in the mood to enjoy his sprightliness; but whatever I wanted in gaiety was amply made up inthe triumphant and gracious good-humour of my mother, whose smiles of benevolence and exultation were showered around asbountifully as the summer sunshine. I will not weary you with unnecessary prolixity. Let it suffice to say, that I was married to Lord Glenfallen with all theattendant pomp and circumstance of wealth, rank, and grandeur. According to theusage of the times, now humanelyreformed, the ceremony was made, until long past midnight, the season of wild,uproarious, and promiscuous feasting and revelry. Of all this I have a painfully vividrecollection, and particularly of the little annoyances inflicted upon me by the dull and coarse jokes of the wits and wags who abound in all such places, and upon allsuch occasions. I was not sorry when, after a few days, Lord Glenfallen’s carriage appeared at the door to convey us both from Ashtown; for any change would have been a relief from the irksomeness of ceremonial and formality which the visits received in honour of my newly-acquired titles hourly entailed upon me. It was arranged that we were to proceed to Cahergillagh, one of the Glenfallenestates, lying, however, in a southern county, so that, owing to the difficulty of the roads at the time, a tedious journey of three days intervened. I set forth with my noble companion,followed by the regrets of some, and by the envy of many; though God knows Ilittle deserved the latter. The three days of travel were now almost spent, when,passing the brow of a wild heathy hill, the domain of Cahergillagh opened suddenly upon our view. It formed a striking and a beautiful scene. A lake of considerable extent stretching away towards the west, and reflecting from its broad, smooth waters, the rich glow of the setting sun, was overhung by steephills, covered by a rich mantle of velvet sward, broken here and there by the grey front of some old rock, and exhibiting on their shelving sides, their slopes andhollows, every variety of light and shade; a thick wood of dwarf oak, birch, and hazel skirted these hills, and clothed the shores of the lake, running out in rich luxuriance upon every promontory, and spreadingupward considerably upon the side of the hills. ‘There lies the enchanted castle,’ said Lord Glenfallen, pointing towards aconsiderable level space intervening between two of the picturesque hills, which rose dimly around the lake. This little plain was chiefly occupied by the same low, wild wood which covered the other parts of the domain; but towardsthe centre a mass of taller and statelier forest trees stood darkly grouped together, and among them stood an ancient squaretower, with many buildings of a humbler character, forming together the manor-house, or, as it was more usually called, the Court of Cahergillagh. As we approached the level upon which the mansion stood, the winding road gave us many glimpses of the time-worn castle and its surrounding buildings; and seenas it was through the long vistas of the fine old trees, and with the rich glow of evening upon it, I have seldom beheld an object more picturesquely striking. I was glad to perceive, too, that here and there the blue curling smoke ascended from stacks of chimneys now hidden bythe rich, dark ivy which, in a great measure, covered the building. Otherindications of comfort made themselves manifest as we approached; and indeed, though the place was evidently one of considerable antiquity, it had nothing whatever of the gloom of decay about it. ‘You must not, my love,’ said LordGlenfallen, ‘imagine this place worse than it is. I have no taste for antiquity–at least I should not choose a house to reside in because it is old. Indeed I do not recollect that I was even so romantic as to overcome my aversion to rats and rheumatism, those faithful attendants upon your noble relics of feudalism; and I much prefer a snug,modern, unmysterious bedroom, with well- aired sheets, to the waving tapestry,mildewed cushions, and all the other interesting appliances of romance. However, though I cannot promise you all the discomfortgenerally belonging to an old castle, you will find legends and ghostly lore enough toclaim your respect; and if old Martha be still to the fore, as I trust she is, you will soon have a supernatural and appropriate anecdote for every closet and corner of the mansion; but here we are–so, withoutmore ado, welcome to Cahergillagh!’ We now entered the hall of the castle, and while the domestics were employed in conveying our trunks and other luggage whichwe had brought with us for immediate use to the apartments which Lord Glenfallenhad selected for himself and me, I went with him into a spacious sitting-room, wainscoted with finely polished black oak, andhung round with the portraits of various worthies of the Glenfallen family. This room looked out upon an extensive level covered with the softest green sward, and irregularly bounded by the wild wood I have before mentioned, through the leafy arcade formed by whose boughs and trunks the level beams of the setting sun werepouring. In the distance a group of dairy- maids were plying their task, which they accompanied throughout with snatches ofIrish songs which, mellowed by the distance, floated not unpleasingly to the ear; and beside them sat or lay, with all the grave importance of conscious protection, six or seven large dogs of various kinds. Farther in the distance, and through the cloisters of the arching wood, two or three raggedurchins were employed in driving such stray kine as had wandered farther than the rest to join their fellows. As I looked upon this scene which I have described, a feeling of tranquillity and happiness came upon me, which I have never experienced in so strong a degree; and so strange to me was the sensation that myeyes filled with tears. Lord Glenfallen mistook the cause of my emotion, and taking me kindly and tenderly by the hand, he said: ‘Do not suppose, my love, that it is my intention to SETTLE here. Whenever you desire to leave this, you have only to let me know your wish, and it shall be complied with; so I must entreat of you not to suffer anycircumstances which I can control to give you one moment’s uneasiness. But here is old Martha; you must be introduced to her, one of the heirlooms of our family.’ A hale, good-humoured, erect old woman was Martha, and an agreeable contrast to the grim, decrepid hag which my fancy had conjured up, as the depository of all the horrible tales in which I doubted not this old place was most fruitful. She welcomed me and her master with a profusion of gratulations, alternately kissing our hands and apologising for the liberty, until at length Lord Glenfallen put an end to this somewhat fatiguing ceremonial by requesting her to conduct me to mychamber if it were prepared for my reception. I followed Martha up an old-fashioned oak staircase into a long, dim passage, at the end of which lay the door whichcommunicated with the apartments which had been selected for our use; here the oldwoman stopped, and respectfully requested me to proceed. I accordingly opened the door, and was about to enter, when something like a mass of black tapestry, as it appeared, disturbed by my sudden approach, fell from above the door, so as completely to screen theaperture; the startling unexpectedness of the occurrence, and the rustling noise which the drapery made in its descent, caused me involuntarily to step two or three paces backwards. I turned, smiling and half-ashamed, to the old servant, and said: ‘You see what a coward I am.’ The woman looked puzzled, and, without saying any more, I was about to draw aside the curtain and enter the room, when, upon turning to do so, I was surprised to find that nothing whatever interposed to obstruct the passage. I went into the room, followed by the servant-woman, and was amazed to find that it, like the one below, was wainscoted, and that nothing like drapery was to be found near the door. ‘Where is it?’ said I; ‘what has become of it?’ ‘What does your ladyship wish to know?’ said the old woman. ‘Where is the black curtain that fell across the door, when I attempted first to come to my chamber?’ answered I. ‘The cross of Christ about us!’ said the old woman, turning suddenly pale. ‘What is the matter, my good friend?’ said I; ‘you seem frightened.’ ‘Oh no, no, your ladyship,’ said the old woman, endeavouring to conceal her agitation; but in vain, for tottering towards achair, she sank into it, looking so deadly pale and horror-struck that I thought every moment she would faint. ‘Merciful God, keep us from harm anddanger!’ muttered she at length. ‘What can have terrified you so?’ said I, beginning to fear that she had seensomething more than had met my eye. ‘You appear ill, my poor woman!’ ‘Nothing, nothing, my lady,’ said she, rising. ‘I beg your ladyship’s pardon for making so bold. May the great God defend us from misfortune!’ ‘Martha,’ said I, ‘something HAS frightened you very much, and I insist on knowingwhat it is; your keeping me in the dark upon the subject will make me much moreuneasy than anything you could tell me. I desire you, therefore, to let me know what agitates you; I command you to tellme.’ ‘Your ladyship said you saw a blackcurtain falling across the door when you were coming into the room,’ said the old woman. ‘I did,’ said I; ‘but though the whole thing appears somewhat strange, I cannot see anything in the matter to agitate you so excessively.’ ‘It’s for no good you saw that, mylady,’ said the crone; ‘something terrible is coming. It’s a sign, my lady–a sign that never fails.’ ‘Explain, explain what you mean, mygood woman,’ said I, in spite of myself, catching more than I could account for, of her superstitious terror. ‘Whenever something–something BAD is going to happen to the Glenfallen family, some one that belongs to them sees a black handkerchief or curtain just waved or falling before their faces. I saw it myself,’continued she, lowering her voice, ‘when I was only a little girl, and I’ll never forget it. I often heard of it before, though I never saw it till then, nor since, praised be God. But I was going into Lady Jane’sroom to waken her in the morning; and sure enough when I got first to the bed and began to draw the curtain, something dark was waved across the division, but only for a moment; and when I saw rightly intothe bed, there was she lying cold and dead, God be merciful to me! So, my lady, there is small blame to me to be daunted whenany one of the family sees it; for it’s many’s the story I heard of it, though I saw it but once.’ I was not of a superstitious turn of mind, yet I could not resist a feeling of awe very nearly allied to the fear which mycompanion had so unreservedly expressed; and when you consider my situation, the loneliness, antiquity, and gloom of the place,you will allow that the weakness was not without excuse. In spite of old Martha’s boding predictions, however, time flowed on in an unruffledcourse. One little incident however, though trifling in itself, I must relate, as it serves to make what follows more intelligible. Upon the day after my arrival, LordGlenfallen of course desired to make me acquainted with the house and domain; and accordingly we set forth upon our ramble. When returning, he became for some timesilent and moody, a state so unusual with him as considerably to excite my surprise. I endeavoured by observations andquestions to arouse him–but in vain. At length, as we approached the house, hesaid, as if speaking to himself: ‘ ‘Twere madness–madness–madness,’repeating the words bitterly–‘sure and speedy ruin.’ There was here a long pause; and atlength, turning sharply towards me, in a tone very unlike that in which he hadhitherto addressed me, he said: ‘Do you think it possible that a woman can keep a secret?’ ‘I am sure,’ said I, ‘that women arevery much belied upon the score oftalkativeness, and that I may answer your question with the same directness withwhich you put it–I reply that I DO think a woman can keep a secret.’ ‘But I do not,’ said he, drily. We walked on in silence for a time. I was much astonished at his unwontedabruptness–I had almost said rudeness. After a considerable pause he seemedto recollect himself, and with an effort resuming his sprightly manner, he said: ‘Well, well, the next thing to keeping a secret well is, not to desire to possess one–talkativeness and curiosity generally go together. Now I shall make test of you, in the first place, respecting the latter of these qualities. I shall be your BLUEBEARD –tush, why do I trifle thus? Listen to me, my dear Fanny; I speak now in solemnearnest. What I desire is intimately, inseparably, connected with your happiness and honour as well as my own; andyour compliance with my request will not be difficult. It will impose upon you avery trifling restraint during your sojourn here, which certain events which haveoccurred since our arrival have determined me shall not be a long one. You mustpromise me, upon your sacred honour, that you will visit ONLY that part of the castle which can be reached from the front entrance, leaving the back entrance andthe part of the building commandedimmediately by it to the menials, as also the small garden whose high wall yousee yonder; and never at any timeseek to pry or peep into them, nor to open the door which communicates from thefront part of the house through the corridor with the back. I do not urgethis in jest or in caprice, but from a solemn conviction that danger and misery willbe the certain consequences of your not observing what I prescribe. I cannotexplain myself further at present. Promise me, then, these things, as you hope forpeace here, and for mercy hereafter.’ I did make the promise as desired, and he appeared relieved; his manner recovered all its gaiety and elasticity: but therecollection of the strange scene which I have just described dwelt painfully upon mymind. More than a month passed away without any occurrence worth recording; but Iwas not destined to leave Cahergillagh without further adventure. One day,intending to enjoy the pleasant sunshine in a ramble through the woods, I ran up to my room to procure my bonnet and shawl.Upon entering the chamber, I was surprised and somewhat startled to find it occupied. Beside the fireplace, and nearly opposite the door, seated in a large, old-fashioned elbow-chair, was placed the figure of alady. She appeared to be nearer fifty than forty, and was dressed suitably to her age, in a handsome suit of flowered silk; she had a profusion of trinkets and jewellery about her person, and many rings uponher fingers. But although very rich, her dress was not gaudy or in ill taste. But what was remarkable in the lady was, that although her features were handsome, and upon the whole pleasing, the pupil of each eye was dimmed with the whiteness ofcataract, and she was evidently stone-blind. I was for some seconds so surprised atthis unaccountable apparition, that I could not find words to address her. ‘Madam,’ said I, ‘there must be somemistake here–this is my bed-chamber.’ ‘Marry come up,’ said the lady, sharply; ‘YOUR chamber! Where is Lord Glenfallen?’ ‘He is below, madam,’ replied I; ‘and I am convinced he will be not a littlesurprised to find you here.’ ‘I do not think he will,’ said she; ‘with your good leave, talk of what you knowsomething about. Tell him I want him. Why does the minx dilly-dally so?’ In spite of the awe which this grim lady inspired, there was something in her air of confident superiority which, when Iconsidered our relative situations, was not a little irritating. ‘Do you know, madam, to whom youspeak?’ said I. ‘I neither know nor care,’ said she;‘but I presume that you are some one about the house, so again I desire you,if you wish to continue here, to bring your master hither forthwith.’ ‘I must tell you, madam,’ said I, ‘that I am Lady Glenfallen.’ ‘What’s that?’ said the stranger, rapidly. ‘I say, madam,’ I repeated, approaching her that I might be more distinctly heard, ‘that I am Lady Glenfallen.’ ‘It’s a lie, you trull!’ cried she, in an accent which made me start, and at thesame time, springing forward, she seized me in her grasp, and shook me violently, repeating, ‘It’s a lie–it’s a lie!’ with a rapidity and vehemence which swelledevery vein of her face. The violence of her action, and the fury which convulsed her face, effectually terrified me, and dis- engaging myself from her grasp, I screamed as loud as I could for help. The blindwoman continued to pour out a torrent of abuse upon me, foaming at the mouth with rage, and impotently shaking her clenched fists towards me. I heard Lord Glenfallen’s step upon the stairs, and I instantly ran out; as I passed him I perceived that he was deadly pale, and just caught the words: ‘I hope thatdemon has not hurt you?’ I made some answer, I forget what, and he entered the chamber, the door of which he locked upon the inside. What passedwithin I know not; but I heard the voices of the two speakers raised in loud andangry altercation. I thought I heard the shrill accents of the woman repeat the words, ‘Let her look to herself;’ but I could not be quite sure. This short sentence, however, was, to myalarmed imagination, pregnant with fearful meaning. The storm at length subsided, thoughnot until after a conference of more than two long hours. Lord Glenfallen thenreturned, pale and agitated. ‘That unfortunate woman,’ said he, ‘is out of her mind. I daresay she treated you to some of her ravings; but you need not dread any further interruption from her: I have brought her so far to reason. She did not hurt you, I trust.’ ‘No, no,’ said I; ‘but she terrified me beyond measure.’ ‘Well,’ said he, ‘she is likely to behave better for the future; and I dare swear that neither you nor she would desire, after what has passed, to meet again.’ This occurrence, so startling and un- pleasant, so involved in mystery, andgiving rise to so many painful surmises, afforded me no very agreeable food forrumination. All attempts on my part to arrive at the truth were baffled; Lord Glenfallen evaded all my inquiries, and at length peremptorily forbid any further allusion to the matter. I was thus obliged to rest satisfied with what I had actually seen, and to trust to time to resolve the perplexities in which the whole transaction had involved me. Lord Glenfallen’s temper and spiritsgradually underwent a complete and most painful change; he became silent andabstracted, his manner to me was abrupt and often harsh, some grievous anxietyseemed ever present to his mind; and under its influence his spirits sunk and his temper became soured. I soon perceived that his gaiety wasrather that which the stir and excitement of society produce, than the result of a healthy habit of mind; every dayconfirmed me in the opinion, that the considerate good-nature which I had so much admired in him was little more than a mere manner; and to my infinite grief andsurprise, the gay, kind, open-hearted nobleman who had for months followed and flattered me, was rapidly assuming the form of agloomy, morose, and singularly selfish man. This was a bitter discovery, and I strove to conceal it from myself as long as I could; but the truth was not to be denied, and I was forced to believe that Lord Glenfallen no longer loved me, and that he was atlittle pains to conceal the alteration in his sentiments. One morning after breakfast, Lord Glen- fallen had been for some time walkingsilently up and down the room, buried in his moody reflections, when pausingsuddenly, and turning towards me, he exclaimed: ‘I have it–I have it! We must go abroad, and stay there too; and if that does not answer, why–why, we must try some moreeffectual expedient. Lady Glenfallen, I have become involved in heavy embarrassments. A wife, you know, must share thefortunes of her husband, for better for worse; but I will waive my right if youprefer remaining here–here at Cahergillagh. For I would not have you seen elsewherewithout the state to which your rank entitles you; besides, it would break your poor mother’s heart,’ he added, with sneering gravity. ‘So make up your mind–Cahergillagh or France. I will start if possible in a week, so determine between this and then.’
