Skip to main content

Full text of "The watcher and other weird stories"

See other formats 


iliilli 

^^  P  nil 

Ij  : 

mmi 
mm 

mm 

■I  : 


litf 

mi 

ii 


AS    IT    PASSED    HIM    HE   THOUGHT    HE    HEARD    IT    SAY    IN    A    P^URIOUS 
WHISPER,    "  STILL   ALIVE  !  " — Page  25. 

\^Frontispiece. 


j=a^ajajj»^J^s^i^j^;^i>!j^^^^'!.^yvW    ilip»7</V/< 


ilcl^il 


mm 


Wr,A;j,,-';T-,l 


V  .^'i  '  "i '^1  VMMfci?AtJ4iiiajiAiite 


EM 


7l(ifb     5\vci\^lv-oi\^c     Illustralioi^s 


LONDON 

DGWRGY  4-  GG. 

12,   yoi^I^  Street,    Go^ent   G^^<len 


LONDON: 

FEINTED'    BY    GILBERT    AND    RIVINGTON,    LD., 

f  Sf,  JOHU'S   HOUSE,    CLERKENWELL.-E.C. 


PREFACE, 

Most  of  the  tales  in  this  volume  were  written  prior 
to  the  publication  of  "  Uncle  Silas,"  which  is,  perhaps, 
the  novel  by  which  my  father  is  best  known.  All 
the  stories,  v.ith  the  exception  of  "  The  Watcher," 
were  included  in  "  The  Purcell  Papers,"  edited  by 
Mr.  Alfred  Perceval  Graves  after  my  father's  death, 
and  published  by  Messrs.  Bentley. 

It  may  be  of  interest  to  point  out  that  the  central 
idea  in  the  story  entitled  "  Passage  in  the  Secret 
History  of  an  Irish  Countess  "  is  embodied  in  "  Uncle 
Silas." 

When  "  The  Purcell  Papers "  were  appearing  in 
The  Dublin  University  Magazine  my  father  supplied 
the  following  note,  which  was  reproduced  by  Mr. 
Graves  in  his  edition  of  the  book  : — 

"  The  residuary  legatee  of  the  late  Francis  Purcell,  who  has 
the  honour  of  selecting  such  of  his  lamented  old  friend's  manu- 
scripts 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 


vi  Preface. 

dealing  too  largely  in  the  marvellous  ;  and  it  has  been  half  in- 
sinuated 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  men- 
tioned 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  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  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  being  exaggerated  by  him,  had  been  rather  softened 
down,  and,  wherever  it  could  be  attempted,  accounted  for.'' 

Brinsley  Le  Fanu. 
London, 

November,  1894. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Watcher i 

Passage  in  the  Secret  History  of  an  Irish  Coun- 
tess      65 

Strange    Event   in  the  Life    of   Schalken    the 

Painter 126 

The  Fortunes  of  Sir  Robert  Ardagh        .       .       .169 

The  Dream 183 

A  Chapter  in  the  History  of  a  Tyrone  Family      .    208 


It  is  now  more  than  fifty  years  since-tfee  eccUrrenCe's -^ 
which  I  am  about  to  relate  caused  a  strange  S'insa- 
tion  in  the  gay  society  of  Dubh'n.  The  fashionaTDle 
world,  however,  is  no  recorder  of  traditions  ;  the 
memory  of  selfishness  seldom  reaches  far  ;  and  the 
events  which  occasionally  disturb  the  polite  mono- 
tony of  its  pleasant  and  heartless  progress,  however 
stamped  with  the  characters  of  misery  and  horror, 
scarcely  outlive  the  gossip  of  a  season,  and  (except, 
perhaps,  in  the  remembrance  of  a  few  more  directly 
interested  in  the  consequences  of  tiie  catastrophe)  are 
in  a  little  time  lost  to  the  recollection  of  all.  The 
appetite  for  scandal,  or  for  horror,  has  been  sated  ; 
the  incident  can  yield  no  more  of  interest  or  novelty  ; 
curiosity,  frustrated  by  impenetrable  mystery,  gives 
over  the  pursuit  in  despair ;  the  tale  has  ceased 
to  be  new,  grows  stale  and  flat  ;  and  so,  in  a  few 
years,  inquiry  subsides  into  indifference. 


2  The  Watcher. 

Somewhere   about    the  year     1794,    the    younger 
brother  of  a  certain  baronet,  whom  I  shall  call   Sir 
James  Barton,  returned  to   Dublin.     He  had    served 
in    the  navy   with    some    distinction,    having    com- 
manded  one   of  his    Majesty's    frigates   during  the 
greater  part  of  the  American  war.     Captain   Barton 
was  now   apparently   some   two    or   three-and-forty 
years  of  age.     He  was  an  intelligent  and  agreeable 
companion,  when   he  chose  it,  though   generally  re- 
served, and  occasionally  even    moody.     In   society, 
however,  he  deported  himself  as  a  man  of  the  world 
arid  ?.  gentleman.     He  had  not  contracted  any  of  the 
noisy  brusqueness  sometimes  acquired  at  sea  ;  on  the 
contrary,  his  manners  were  remarkably  easy,  quiet, 
and  even    polished.     He    was  in    person    about  the 
middle   size,   and  somewhat    strongly   formed ;    his 
countenance  was  marked  with  the  lines  of  thought, 
and  on  the  whole  wore  an  expression  of  gravity  and 
even  of  melancholy.    Being,  however,  as  we  have  said, 
a  man  of  perfect  breeding,  as  well  as  of  affluent  cir- 
cumstances and  good  family,  he  had,  of  course,  ready 
access  to  the  best  society  of  the  metropolis,  without 
the  necessity  of  any  other  credentials.     In   his  per- 
sonal  habits  Captain    Barton  was  economical.     He 
occupied   lodgings    in   one    of  the   then  fashionable 
streets  in  the  south  side  of  the  town,  kept  but  one 
horse  and  one  servant,  and   though   a  reputed   free- 
thinker, he  lived  an  orderly  and  moral  life,  indulging 


The  Watcher.  3 

neither  in  gaming,  drinking,  nor  any  other  vicious 
pursuit,  Hving  very  much  to  himself,  without  forming 
any  intimacies,  or  choosing  any  companions,  and 
appearing  to  mix  in  gay  society  rather  for  the  sake 
of  its  bustle  and  distraction,  than  for  any  opportuni- 
ties which  it  offered  of  interchanging  either  thoughts 
or  feelings  with  its  votaries.  Barton  was  therefore 
pronounced  a  saving,  prudent,  unsocial  sort  of  a 
fellow,  who  bid  fair  to  maintain  his  celibacy  alike 
against  stratagem  and  assault,  and  was  likely  to  live 
to  a  good  old  age,  die  rich  and  leave  his  money  to  a 
hospital. 

It  was  soon  apparent,  however,  that  the  nature  of 
Captain  Barton's  plans  had  been  totally  misconceived. 
A  young  lady,  whom  we  shall  call  Miss  Montague, 
was  at  this  time  introduced  into  the  fashionable  world 
of  Dublin  by  her  aunt,  the  Dowager  Lady  Rochdale. 
Miss  Montague  was  decidedly  pretty  and  accom- 
plished, and  having  some  natural  cleverness,  and  a 
great  deal  of  gaiety,  became  for  a  while  the  reigning 
toast.  Her  popularity,  however,  gained  her,  for  a 
time,  nothing  more  than  that  unsubstantial  admira- 
tion which,  however  pleasant  as  an  incense  to  vanity, 
is  by  no  means  necessarily  antecedent  to  matrimony, 
for,  unhappily  for  the  young  lady  in  question,  it  was 
an  understood  thing,  that,  beyond  her  personal  attrac- 
tions, she  had  no  kind  of  earthly  provision.  Such 
being  the  state  of  affairs,  it  will  readily  be  believed 

B  2 


4  The  Watcher. 

that  no  little  surprise  was  consequent  upon  the 
appearance  of  Captain  Barton  as  the  avowed  lover  of 
the  penniless  Miss  Montague. 

His  suit  prospered,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
and  in  a  short  time  it  was  confidentially  communi- 
cated by  old  Lady  Rochdale  to  each  of  her  hundred 
and  fifty  particular  friends  in  succession,  that  Captain 
Barton  had  actually  tendered  proposals  of  marriage, 
with  her  approbation,  to  her  niece,  Miss  Montague, 
who  had,  moreover,  accepted  the  offer  of  his  hand, 
conditionally  upon  the  consent  of  her  father,  who  was 
then  upon  his  homeward  voyage  from  India,  and  ex- 
pected in  two  or  three  months  at  furthest.  About  his 
consent  there  could  be  no  doubt.  The  delay,  there- 
fore, was  one  merely  of  form  ;  they  were  looked  upon 
as  absolutely  engaged,  and  Lady  Rochdale,  with  a 
vigour  of  old-fashioned  decorum  with  which  her 
niece  would,  no  doubt,  gladly  have  dispensed,  with- 
drew her  thenceforward  from  all  further  participation 
in  the  gaieties  of  the  town.  Captain  Barton  was  a 
constant  visitor  as  well  as  a  frequent  guest  at  the 
house,  and  was  permitted  all  the  privileges  and  inti- 
macy which  a  betrothed  suitor  is  usually  accorded. 
Such  was  the  relation  of  parties,  when  the  mysterious 
circumstances  which  darken  this  narrative  with  in- 
explicable melancholy  first  began  to  unfold  them- 
selves. 

Lady  Rochdale  resided  in  a  handsome  mansion  at 


The  Watcher',  5 

the  north  side  of  Dubh'rij  and  Captain  Barton's 
lodgings,  as  we  have  already  said,  were  situated  at 
the  south.  The  distance  intervening  was  consider- 
able, and  it  was  Captain  Barton's  habit  generally  to 
walk  home  without  an  attendant,  as  often  as  he 
passed  the  evening  with  the  old  lady  and  her  fair 
charge.  His  shortest  way  in  such  nocturnal  walks 
lay,  for  a  considerable  space,  through  a  line  of  streets 
which  had  as  yet  been  merely  laid  out,  and  little  more 
than  the  foundations  of  the  houses  constructed.  One 
night,  shortly  after  his  engagement  with  Miss 
Montague  had  commenced,  he  happened  to  remain 
unusually  late,  in  company  only  with  her  and  Lady 
Rochdale,  The  conversation  had  turned  upon  the 
evidences  of  revelation,  which  he  had  disputed  with 
the  callous  scepticism  of  a  confirmed  infidel.  What 
were  called  "French  principles  "  had,  in  those  days, 
found  their  way  a  good  deal  into  fashionable  society, 
especially  that  portion  of  it  which  professed  allegiance 
to  Whiggism,  and  neither  the  old  lady  nor  her  charge 
was  so  perfectly  free  from  the  taint  as  to  look  upon 
Captain  Barton's  views  as  any  serious  objection  to 
the  proposed  union.  The  discussion  had  degenerated 
into  one  upon  the  supernatural  and  the  marvellous, 
in  which  he  had  pursued  precisely  the  same  line  of 
argument  and  ridicule.  In  all  this,  it  is  but  true  to 
state,  Captain  Barton  was  guilty  of  no  affectation  ; 
the  doctrines  upon  which  he  insisted  were,  in  reality, 


6  The  Watcher. 

but  too  truly  the  basis  of  his  own  fixed  belief,  if  so  it 
might  be  called;  and  perhaps  not  the  least  strange  of 
the  many  strange  circumstances  connected  with  this 
narrative,  was  the  fact  that  the  subject  of  the  fearful 
influences  we  are  about  to  describe  was  himself, 
from  the  deliberate  conviction  of  years,  an  utter 
disbeliever  in  what  are  usually  termed  preternatural 
agencies. 

It  was  considerably  past  midnight  when  Mr. 
Barton  took  his  leave,  and  set  out  upon  his  solitary 
walk  homeward.  He  rapidly  reached  the  lonely 
road,  with  its  unfinished  dwarf  walls  tracing  the 
foundations  of  the  projected  rows  of  houses  on  either 
side.  The  moon  was  shining  mistily,  and  its  imper- 
fect light  made  the  road  he  trod  but  additionally 
dreary  ;  that  utter  silence,  which  has  in  it  something 
indefinably  exciting,  reigned  there,  and  made  the 
sound  of  his  steps,  which  alone  broke  it,  unnaturally 
loud  and  distinct.  He  had  proceeded  thus  some 
way,  when  on  a  sudden  he  heard  other  footsteps, 
pattering  at  a  measured  pace,  and,  as  it  seemed, 
about  two  score  steps  behind  him.  The  suspicion  of 
being  dogged  is  at  all  times  unpleasant ;  it  is,  how- 
ever, especially  so  in  a  spot  so  desolate  and  lonely  : 
and  this  suspicion  became  so  strong  in  the  mind  of 
Captain  Barton,  that  he  abruptly  turned  about  to 
confront  his  pursuers,  but,  though  there  was  quite 
sufBcient  moonlight  to  disclose  any  object  upon  the 


The  Watcher.  7 

road  he  had  traversed,  no  form  of  any  kind  was 
visible. 

The  steps  he  had  heard  could  not  have  been  the 
reverberation  of  his  own,  for  he  stamped  his  foot  upon 
the  ground,  and  walked  briskly  up  and  down,  in  the 
vain  attempt  to  wake  an  echo.  Though  by  no 
means  a  fanciful  person,  he  was  at  last  compelled  to 
charge  the  sounds  upon  his  imagination,  and  treat 
them  as  an  illusion.  Thus  satisfying  himself,  he 
resumed  his  walk,  and  before  he  had  proceeded  a 
dozen  paces,  the  mysterious  footfalls  were  again 
audible  from  behind,  and  this  time,  as  if  with  the 
special  design  of  showing  that  the  sounds  were  not 
the  responses  of  an  echo,  the  steps  sometimes 
slackened  nearly  to  a  halt,  and  sometimes  hui'ried 
for  six  or  eight  strides  to  a  run,  and  again  abated  to 
a  walk. 

Captain  Barton,  as  before,  turned  suddenly  round, 
and  with  the  same  result  ;  no  object  was  visible 
above  the  deserted  level  of  the  road.  He  walked 
back  over  the  same  ground,  determined  that,  -what- 
ever might  have  been  the  cause  of  the  sounds  which 
had  so  disconcerted  him,  it  should  not  escape  his 
search ;  the  endeavour,  however,  was  unrewarded. 
In  spite  of  all  his  scepticism,  he  felt  something  like  a 
superstitious  fear  stealing  fast  upon  him,  and,  with 
these  unwonted  and  uncomfortable  sensations,  he 
once  more  turned  and  pursued  his  way.     There  was 


8  The  Watcher. 

no  repetition  of  these  haunting  sounds,  until  he  had 
reached  the  point  where  he  had  last  stopped  to 
retrace  his  steps.  Here  they  were  resumed,  and  with 
sudden  starts  of  running,  which  threatened  to  bring 
the  unseen  pursuer  close  up  to  the  alarmed  pedestrian. 
Captain  Barton  arrested  his  course  as  formerly ;  the 
unaccountable  nature  of  the  occurrence  filled  him 
with  vague  and  almost  horrible  sensations,  and,  yield- 
ing to  the  excitement  he  felt  gaining  upon  him,  he 
shouted,  sternly,  "Who  goes  there?" 

The  sound  of  one's  own  voice,  thus  exerted,  in 
utter  solitude,  and  followed  by  total  silence,  has  in  it 
something  unpleasantly  exciting,  and  he  felt  a  degree 
of  nervousness  which,  perhaps,  from  no  cause  had  he 
ever  known  before.  To  the  very  end  of  this  solitary 
street  the  steps  pursued  him,  and  it  required  a  strong 
effort  of  stubborn  pride  on  his  part  to  resist  the 
impulse  that  prompted  him  every  moment  to  run  for 
safety  at  the  top  of  his  speed.  It  was  not  until  he 
had  reached  his  lodging,  and  sat  by  his  own  fireside, 
that  he  felt  sufficiently  reassured  to  arrange  and 
reconsider  in  his  own  mind  the  occurrences  which 
had  so  discomposed  him  :  so  little  a  matter,  after 
all,  is  sufficient  to  upset  the  pride  of  scepticism, 
and  vindicate  the  old  simple  laws  of  nature  within 
us. 

Mr.  Barton  was  next  morning  sitting  at  a  late 
breakfast,    reflecting    upon     the     incidents    of    the 


The  Watcher.  9 

previous  night,  with  more  of  inquisitiveness  than 
awe — so  speedily  do  gloomy  impressions  upon  the 
fancy  disappear  under  the  cheerful  influences  of  day 
— when  a  letter  just  delivered  by  the  postman  was 
placed  upon  the  table  before  him.  There  was 
nothing  remarkable  in  the  address  of  this  missive, 
except  that  it  was  written  in  a  hand  which  he  did 
not  know — perhaps  it  was  disguised — for  the  tall 
narrow  characters  were  sloped  backward  ;  and  with 
the  self-inflicted  suspense  which  we  so  often  see 
practised  in  such  cases,  he  puzzled  over  the  inscrip- 
tion for  a  full  minute  before  he  broke  the  seal. 
When  he  did  so,  he  read  the  following  words,  written 
in  the  same  hand  : — 

"  Mr.  Barton,  late  Captain  of  the  Dolphin,  is  warned 

of  danger.     He  will  do  wisely  to  avoid  Street — 

(here  the  locality  of  his  last  night's  adventure  was 
named) — if  he  walks  there  as  usual,  he  will  meet 
with  something  bad.  Let  him  take  warning,  once 
for  all,  for  he  has  good  reason  to  dread 

"  The  Watcher." 

Captain  Barton  read  and  re-read  this  strange 
effusion  ;  in  every  light  and  in  every  direction  he 
turned  it  over  and  over.  He  examined  the  paper  on 
which  it  was  written,  and  closely  scrutinized  the 
handwriting.  Defeated  here,  he  turned  to  the  seal ; 
it  was  nothing  but  a  patch  of  wax,  upon   which   the 


lo  The  Watcher, 

accidental  impression  of  a  coarse  thumb  was  imper- 
fectly visible.  There  was  not  the  slightest  mark,  no 
clue  or  indication  of  any  kind,  to  lead  him  to  even 
a  guess  as  to  its  possible  origin.  The  writer's  object 
seemed  a  friendly  one,  and  yet  he  subscribed  himself 
as  one  whom  he  had  "  good  reason  to  dread."  Alto- 
gether, the  letter,  its  author,  and  its  real  purpose, 
were  to  him  an  inexplicable  puzzle,  and  one,  more- 
over, unpleasantly  suggestive,  in  his  mind,  of  asso- 
ciations connected  with  the  last  night's  adventure. 

In  obedience  to  some  feeling — perhaps  of  pride — 
Mr.  Barton  did  not  communicate,  ev^en  to  his  intended 
bride,  the  occurrences  which  we  have  just  detailed. 
Trifling  as  they  miight  appear,  they  had  in  reality 
most  disagreeably  affected  his  imagination,  and  he 
cared  not  to  disclose,  even  to  the  young  lady  in 
question,  what  she  might  possibly  look  upon  as 
evidences  of  weakness.  The  letter  might  very  well 
be  but  a  hoax,  and  the  mysterious  footfall  but  a 
delusion  of  his  fancy.  But  although  he  affected  to 
treat  the  whole  affair  as  unworthy  of  a  thought,  it 
yet  haunted  him  pertinaciously,  tormenting  him  with 
perplexing  doubts,  and  depressing  him  with  undefined 
apprehensions.  Certain  it  is,  that  for  a  considerable 
time  afterwards  he  carefully  avoided  the  street 
indicated  in  the  letter  as  the  scene  of  danger. 

It  was  not  until  about  a  week  after  the  receipt  of 
the   letter  which  I  have    transcribed,  that  anything 


The  Watcher.  ii 

further  occurred  to  remind  Captain  Barton  of  its 
contents,  or  to  counteract  the  gradual  disappearance 
from  his  mind  of  the  disagreeable  impressions  which 
he  had  then  received.  He  was  returning  one  night, 
after  the  interval  I  have  stated,  from  the  theatre, 
which  was  then  situated  in  Crow  Street,  and  having 
there  handed  Miss  Montague  and  Lady  Rochdale 
into  their  carriage,  he  loitered  for  some  time  with  two 
or  three  acquaintances.  With  these,  however,  he 
parted  close  to  the  College,  and  pursued  his  way 
alone.  It  was  now  about  one  o'clock,  and  the  streets 
were  quite  deserted.  During  the  whole  of  his  walk 
with  the  companions  from  whom  he  had  just  parted, 
he  had  been  at  times  painfully  aware  of  the  sound  of 
steps,  as  it  seemed,  dogging  them  on  their  way. 
Once  or  twice  he  had  looked  back,  in  the  uneasy 
anticipation  that  he  was  again  about  to  experience 
the  same  mysterious  annoyances  which  had  so  much 
disconcerted  him  a  week  before,  and  earnestly  hoping 
that  he  might  see  some  form  from  whom  the  sounds 
might  naturally  proceed.  But  the  street  was  deserted  ; 
no  form  was  visible.  Proceeding  now  quite  alone 
upon  his  homeward  way,  he  grew  really  nervous  and 
uncomfortable,  as  he  became  sensible,  with  increased 
distinctness,  of  the  well-known  and  now  absolutely 
dreaded  sounds. 

By  the  side   of  the  dead  wall  which  bounded  the 
College    Park,  the    sounds    followed,    recommencing 


12  The  Watcher. 

almost  simultaneously  with  his  own  steps.  The  same 
unequal  pace,  sometimes  slow,  sometime,-,  for  a  score 
yards  or  so,  quickened  to  a  run^  was  audible  from 
behind  him.  Again  and  again  he  turned,  quickly 
and  stealthily  he  glanced  over  his  shoulder  almost 
at  every  half-dozen  steps;  but  no  one  was  visible. 
The  horrors  of  this  intangible  and  unseen  persecution 
became  gradually  all  but  intolerable  ;  and  when  at 
last  he  reached  his  home  his  nerves  were  strung  to 
such  a  pitch  of  excitement  that  he  could  not  rest, 
and  did  not  attempt  even  to  lie  down  until  after  the 
daylight  had  broken. 

He  was  awakened  by  a  knock  at  his  chamber- 
door,  and  his  servant  entering,  handed  him  several 
letters  which  had  just  been  received  by  the  early 
post.  One  among  them  instantly  arrested  his  atten- 
tion ;  a  single  glance  at  the  direction  aroused  him 
thoroughly.  He  at  once  recognized  its  character, 
and  read  as  follows  : — 

"  You  may  as  well  think^  Captain  Barton,  to  escape 
from  your  own  shadow  as  from  me ;  do  what  you 
may,  I  will  see  you  as  often  as  I  please,  and  you 
shall  see  me,  for  I  do  not  want  to  hide  myself,  as  you 
fancy.  Do  not  let  it  trouble  your  rest,  Captain 
Barton  ;  for,  with  a  good  conscience,  what  need  you 
fear  from  the  eye  of 

"The  Watcher.?" 


The  Watcher.  13 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  dwell  upon  the  feelinfrs 
elicited  by  a  perusal  of  this  strange  communication. 
Captain  Barton  was  observed  to  be  unusually  absent 
and  out  of  spirits  for  several  days  afterwards  ;  but  no 
one  divined  the  cause.  Whatever  he  might  think 
as  to  the  phantom  steps  which  follov;ed  him,  there 
could  be  no  possible  illusion  about  the  letters  he 
had  received  ;  and,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  their  im- 
mediate sequence  upon  the  mysterious  sounds  which 
had  haunted  him  was  an  odd  coincidence.  The 
whole  circumstance,  in  his  own  mind,  was  vaguely 
and  instinctively  connected  with  certain  passages 
in  his  past  life,  which,  of  all  others,  he  hated  to 
remember. 

It  so  happened  that  just  about  this  time,  in  addi- 
tion to  his  approaching  nuptials,  Captain  Barton  had 
fortunately,  perhaps,  for  himself,  some  business  of  an 
engrossing  kind  connected  with  the  adjustment  of  a 
large  and  long-litigated  claim  upon  certain  properties. 
The  hurry  and  excitement  of  business  had  its  natural 
effect  in  gradually  dispelling  the  marked  gloom 
which  had  for  a  time  occasionally  oppressed  him, 
and  in  a  little  while  his  spirits  had  entirely  resumed 
their  accustomed  tone. 

During  all  this  period,  however,  he  was  occasionally 
dismayed  by  indistinct  and  half-heard  repetitions  of 
the  same  annoyance,  and  that  in  lonely  places,  in  the 
day  time  as  well  as  after  nightfall.     These  renewals 


14  The  Watcher. 

of  the  strange  impressions  from  which  he  had  suffered 
so  much  were,  however,  desultory  and  faint,  insomuch 
that  often  he  really  could  not,  to  his  own  satisfaction, 
distinguish  between  them  and  the  mere  suggestions  of 
an  excited  imagination.  One  evening  he  walked  down 
to  the  House  of  Commons  with  a  Mr.  Norcott,  a 
Member.  As  they  walked  down  together  he  was 
observed  to  become  absent  and  silent,  and  to  a  degree 
so  marked  as  scarcely  to  consist  with  good  breeding  ; 
and  this,  in  one  who  was  obviously  in  all  his  habits 
so  perfectly  a  gentleman,  seemed  to  argue  the 
pressure  of  some  urgent  and  absorbing  anxiety.  It 
was  afterwards  known  that,  during  the  whole  of  that 
walk,  he  had  heard  the  well-known  footsteps  dogging 
him  as  he  proceeded.  This,  however,  was  the  last 
time  he  suffered  from  this  phase  of  the  persecution 
of  which  he  was  already  the  anxious  victim.  A 
new  and  a  very  different  one  was  about  to  be 
presented. 

Of  the  new  series  of  impressions  which  were  after- 
wards gradually  to  work  out  his  destiny,  that  evening 
disclosed  the  first;  and  but  for  its  relation  to  the 
train  of  events  which  followed,  the  incident  would 
scarcely  have  been  remembered  by  any  one.  As 
they  were  walking  in  at  the  passage,  a  man  (of 
whom  his  friend  could  afterwards  remember  only 
that  he  was  short  in  stature,  looked  like  a  foreigner, 
and   wore   a   kind   of   travelling-cap)    walked    very 


The  Watcher.  15 

rapidly,  and,  as  if  under  some  fierce  excitement, 
directly  towards  them,  muttering  to  himself  fast  and 
vehemently  the  while.  This  odd-looking  person 
proceeded  straight  toward  Barton,  who  was  foremost, 
and  halted,  regarding  him  for  a  moment  or  two  with 
a  look  of  menace  and  fury  almost  maniacal  ;  and 
then  turning  about  as  abruptly,  he  walked  before 
them  at  the  same  agitated  pace,  and  disappeared  by 
a  side  passage.  Norcott  distinctly  remembered  being 
a  good  deal  shocked  at  the  countenance  and  bearing 
of  this  man,  which  indeed  irresistibly  impressed  him 
with  an  undefined  sense  of  danger,  such  as  he  never 
felt  before  o  r  since  from  the  presence  of  anything 
human  ;  but  these  sensations  were  far  from  amounting 
to  anything  so  disconcerting  as  to  flurry  or  excite 
him — he  had  seen  only  a  singularly  evil  countenance, 
agitated,  as  it  seemed,  with  the  excitement  of  mad- 
ness. He  was  absolutely  astonished,  however,  at  the 
effect  of  this  apparition  upon  Captain  Barton,  .  He 
knew  him  to  be  a  man  of  proved  courage  and  coolness 
in  real  danger,  a  circumstance  which  made  his  con- 
duct upon  this  occasion  the  more  conspicuously  odd. 
He  recoiled  a  step  or  two  as  the  stranger  advanced, 
and  clutched  his  companion's  arm  in  silence,  with 
a  spasm  of  agony  or  terror  ;  and  then,  as  the 
figure  disappeared,  shoving  him  roughly  back,  he 
followed  it  for  a  few  paces,  stopped  in  great 
disorder,  and   sat   down   upon  a  form.     A  counte- 


i6  TJie  Watcher. 

nance  more  ghastly  and  haggard  it  was  impossible  to 
fancy. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Barton,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 
said  Norcott,  really  alarmed  at  his  friend's  appear- 
ance. '*  You're  not  hurt,  are  you  ?  nor  unwell  ? 
What  is  it  ? '' 

"What  did  he  say?  I  did  not  hear  it.  What 
was  it  ?  ^^  asked  Barton,  wholly  disregarding  the 
question. 

"Tut,  tut,  nonsense  !  "  said  Norcott,  greatly  sur- 
prised ;  ''  who  cares  what  the  fellow  said  ?     You  are 

unwell,  Barton,  decidedly  unwell  ;  let  me  call  a 
coach." 

"  Unwell  !  Yes,  no,  not  exactly  unwell,"  he  said, 
evidently  making  an  effort  to  recover  his  self-posses- 
sion ;  "  but,  to  say  the  truth,  I  am  fatigued,  a  little 
overworked,  and  perhaps  over  anxious.  You  know 
I  have  been  in  Chancery,  and  the  winding  up  of  a 
suit  is  always  a  nervous  affair.  I  have  felt  uncom- 
fortable all  this  evening  ;  but  I  am  better  now.  Come, 
come,  shall  we  go  on  .''  " 

^'  No,  no.  Take  my  advice.  Barton,  and  go  home  ; 
you  really  do  need  rest ;  you  are  looking  absolutely 
ill.  I  really  do  insist  on  your  allowing  me  to  see 
you  home,"  replied  his  companion. 

It  was  obvious  that  Barton  was  not  himself  disin- 
clined to  be  persuaded.  He  accordingly  took  his 
leave,  politely  declining  his  friend's  offered  escort. 


The  Watcher.  17 

Notwithstanding  the  few  commonplace  regrets  which 
Norcott  had  expressed,  it  was  plain  that  he  was  just 
as  little  deceived  as  Barton  himself  by  the  extempore 
plea  of  illness  with  which  he  had  accounted  for  the 
strange  exhibition;  and  that  he  even  then  suspected 
some  lurking  mystery  in  the  matter. 

Norcott  called  next  day  at  Barton's  lodgings,  to 
inquire  for  him,  and  learned  from  the  servant  that  he 
had  not  left  his  room  since  his  return  the  night  be- 
fore ;  but  that  he  was  not  seriously  indisposed,  and 
hoped  to  be  out  again  in  a  few  days.  That  evening 
he  sent  for  Doctor  Richards,  then  in  large  and 
fashionable  practice  in  Dublin,  and  their  interview 
was,  it  is  said,  an  odd  one. 

He  entered  into  a  detail  of  his  own  symptom.s  in 
an  abstracted  and  desultory  kind  of  way,  which 
seemed  to  argue  a  strange  want  of  interest  in  his  own 
cure,  and,  at  all  events,  made  it  manifest  that  there 
was  some  topic  engaging  his  mind  of  more  engrossing 
importance  than  his  present  ailment.  He  complained 
of  occasional  palpitations,  and  headache.  Doctor 
Richards  asked  him,  among  other  questions,  whether 
there  was  any  irritating  circumstance  or  anxiety  to 
account  for  it.  This  he  denied  quickly  and  peevishly  ; 
and  the  physician  thereupon  declared  his  opinion, 
that  there  was  nothing  amiss  except  some  slight 
derangement  of  the  digestion,  for  which  he  accord- 
ingly wrote  a    prescription,  and  was  about  to  with- 

c 


1 8  The  Watcher. 

draw,  when  Mr.  Barton,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
suddenly  recollects  a  topic  which  had  nearly  escaped 
him,  recalled  him. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  doctor,  but  I  had  really  almost 
forgot  ;  will  you  permit  me  to  ask  you  two  or  three 
medical  questions  ?— rather  odd  ones,  perhaps,  but  as 
a  wager  depends  upon  their  solution,  you  will,  I 
hope,  excuse  my  unreasonableness." 

The  physician  readily  undertook  to  satisfy  the 
inquirer. 

Barton  seemed  to  have  some  difficulty  about  open- 
ing the  proposed  interrogatories,  for  he  was  silent 
for  a  minute,  then  walked  to  his  book-case  and 
returned  as  he  had  gone  ;  at  last  he  sat  down,  and 
said, — 

"  You'll  think  them  very  childish  questions,  but  I 
can't  recover  my  wager  without  a  decision;  so  I 
must  put  them.  I  want  to  know  first  about  lock-jaw. 
If  a  man  actually  has  had  that  complaint,  and  appears 
to  have  died  of  it — so  that  in  fact  a  physician  of 
average  skill  pronounces  him  actually  dead — may  he, 
after  all,  recover  1 " 

Doctor  Richards  smiled,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  But — but  a  blunder  may  be  made,"  resumed 
Barton.  "  Suppose  an  ignorant  pretender  to  medical 
skill ;  may  Jie  be  so  deceived  by  any  stage  of  the 
complaint,  as  to  mistake  what  is  only  a  part  of  the 
orogress  of  the  disease,  for  death  itself?  " 


The  Watcher.  19 

"  No  one  who  had  ever  seen  death,"  answered  he, 
"  could  mistake  it  in  the  case  of  lock-jaw.'^ 

Barton  mused  for  a  few  minutes.  "  I  am  going-  to 
ask  you  a  question,  perhaps  still  more  childish  ;  but 
first  tell  me,  are  not  the  regulations  of  foreign  hos- 
pitals, such  as  those  of,  let  us  say,  Lisbon,  very  lax 
and  bungling  ?  May  not  all  kinds  of  blunders  and 
slips  occur  in  their  entries  of  names,  and  so  forth  ?" 

Doctor  Richards  professed  his  inability  to  answer 
that  query. 

"  Well,  then,  doctor,  here  is  the  last  of  my  questions. 
You  will  probably  laugh  at  it ;  but  it  must  out  never- 
theless. Is  there  any  disease,  in  all  the  range  of 
human  maladies,  which  would  have  the  effect  of 
perceptibly  contracting  the  stature,  and  the  whole 
frame — causing  the  man  to  shrink  in  all  his  propor- 
tions, and  yet  to  preserve  his  exact  resemblance  to 
himself  in  every  particular — with  the  one  exception, 
his  height  and  bulk  ;  any  disease,  mark,  no  matter 
how  rare,  how  little  believed  in,  generally,  which 
could  possibly  result  in  producing  such  an  effect  ?" 

The  physician  replied  with  a  smile,  and  a  very 
decided  negative. 

'^  Tell  me,  then,"  said  Barton^  abruptl}',  "  if  a  man 
be  in  reasonable  fear  of  assault  from  a  lunatic  who  is 
at  large,  can  he  not  procure  a  warrant  for  his  arrest 
and  detention  ?  " 

"  Really,  that  is  more  a  lawyer's  question  than  one 
C  2 


20  The  Watcher, 

in  my  way,"  replied  Doctor  Richards  ;  "  but  I  believe, 
on  applying  to  a  magistrate,  such  a  course  would  be 
directed/' 

The  physician  then  took  his  leave  ;  but,  just  as  he 
reached  the  hall-door,  remembered  that  he  had  left 
his  cane  upstairs,  and  returned.  His  reappearance 
was  awkward,  for  a  piece  of  paper,  which  he  recog- 
nized as  his  own  prescription,  was  slowly  burning 
upon  the  fire,  and  Barton  sitting  close  by  with  an 
expression  of  settled  gloom  and  dismay.  Doctor 
Richards  had  too  much  tact  to  appear  to  observe 
what  presented  itself;  but  he  had  seen  quite  enough 
to  assure  him  that  the  mind,  and  not  the  body,  of 
Captain  Barton  was  in  reality  the  seat  of  his  sufferings 

A  few  days  afterwards,  the  following  advertisement 
appeared  in  the  Dublin  newspapers  : — 

"  If  Sylvester  Yelland,  formerly  a  foremast  man  on 
board  his  Majesty's  frigate  DolpJiin,  or  his  nearest  of 
kin,  will  apply  to  Mr.  Robery  Smith,  solicitor,  at  his 
office,  Dame  Street,  he  or  they  may  hear  of  some- 
thing greatly  to  his  or  their  advantage.  Admission 
may  be  had  at  any  hour  up  to  twelve  o'clock  at  night 
for  the  next  fortnight,  should  parties  desire  to  avoid 
observation  ;  and  the  strictest  secrecy,  as  to  all  com- 
munications intended  to  be  confidential,,  shall  be 
honourably  observed." 

The  Dolphin^  as  we  have  mentioned,  was  the  vessel 
which  Captain   Barton    had    commanded ;    and    this 


The  Watcher.  21 

circumstance,  connected  with  the  extraordinary 
exertions  made  by  the  circulation  of  hand-bills,  etc., 
as  well  as  by  repeated  advertisements,  to  secure  for 
this  strancje  notice  the  utmost  possible  publicity, 
suggested  to  Doctor  Richards  the  idea  that  Captain 
Barton's  extreme  uneasiness  was  somehow  connected 
with  the  individual  to  whom  the  advertisement  was 
addressed,  and  he  himself  the  author  of  it.  This, 
however,  it  is  needless  to  add,  was  no  more  than  a 
conjecture.  No  information  whatsoever,  as  to  the 
real  purpose  of  the  advertisement  itself,  was  divulged 
by  the  agent,  nor  yet  any  hint  as  to  who  his  employer 
might  be. 

Mr.  Barton,  although  he  had  latterly  begun  to  earn 
for  himself  the  character  of  a  hypochondriac,  was  yet 
very  far  from  deserving  it.  Though  by  no  means 
lively,  he  had  yet,  naturally,  what  are  termed  "  even 
spirits,^'  and  was  not  subject  to  continual  depressions. 
He  soon,  therefore,  began  to  return  to  his  former 
habits  ;  and  one  of  the  earliest  symptoms  of  this 
healthier  tone  of  spirits  was  his  appearing  at  a  grand 
dinner  of  the  Freemasons,  of  which  worthy  fraternity 
he  was  himself  a  brother.  Barton,  who  had  been  at 
first  gloomy  and  abstracted,  drank  much  more  freely 
than  was  his  wont — possibly  with  the  purpose  of  dis- 
pelling his  own  secret  anxieties — and  under  the 
influence  of  good  wine,  and  pleasant  company,  became 
gradually  (unlike  his  usual  self)   talkative,  and  even 


2  2  The  Watcher. 

noisy.  It  was  under  this  unwonted  excitement  that 
he  left  his  company  at  about  half-past  ten  o'clock  ; 
and  as  conviviality  is  a  strong  incentive  to  gal- 
lantr)-,  it  occurred  to  him  to  proceed  forthwith  to 
Lady  Rochdale's,  and  pass  the  remainder  of  the 
evening  with  her  and  his  destined  bride. 

Accordingly,  he  was  soon  at Street,  and  chat- 
ting gaily  with  the  ladies.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  Captain  Barton  had  exceeded  the  limits  which 
propriety  prescribes  to  good  fellowship  ;  he  had 
merely  taken  enough  of  wine  to  raise  his  spirits, 
without,  however,  in  the  least  degree  unsteadying  his 
mind,  or  affecting  his  manners.  With  this  undue 
elevation  of  spirits  had  supervened  an  entire  oblivion 
or  contempt  of  those  undefined  apprehensions  which 
had  for  so  long  weighed  upon  his  mind,  and  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  estranged  him  from  society;  but  as  the 
night  wore  away,  and  his  artificial  gaiety  began  to 
flag,  these  painful  feelings  gradually  intruded  them- 
selves again,  and  he  grew  abstracted  and  anxious  as 
heretofore.  He  took  his  leave  at  length,  with  an  un- 
pleasant foreboding  of  some  coming  mischief,  and 
with  a  mind  haunted  with  a  thousand  mysterious 
apprehensions,  such  as,  even  while  he  acutely  felt 
their  pressure,  he,  nevertheless,  inwardly  strove,  or 
affected  to  contemn. 

It  was  his  proud  defiance  of  what  he  considered  to 
be  his  own  weakness  which  prompted  him  up  on  this 


The  Watcher.  23 

occasion  to  the  course  which   brought   about  the  ad- 
venture which  we  are  now  about  to  relate.    Mr.  Barton 
might  have  easily  called  a  coach,  but  he  was  conscious 
that  his  strong  inclination   to  do  so  proceeded  from 
no  cause  other  than  what  he  desperately  persisted   in 
representing  to  himself  to  be  his  own  superstitious 
tremors.     He  might  also  have  returned  home  by  a 
route  different  from  that  against  which  he  had  been 
warned  by  his  mysterious  correspondent ;  but  for  the 
same  reason  he  dismissed  this  idea  also^  and  with  a 
dogged  and  half  desperate  resolution  to  force  matters 
to  a  crisis  of  some  kind,  to  see  if  there  were  any  reality 
in  the  causes  of  his  former  suffering,  and  if  not,  satis- 
factorily to  bring  their  delusiveness  to  the  proof,  he 
determined  to  follow  precisely  the  course  which  he 
had   trodden  upon   the  night  so  painfully  memorable 
in  his  own  mind  as  that  on  which  his  strange  perse- 
cution had  commenced.     Though,  sooth  to  say,  the 
pilot  who  for  the  first  time  steers  his  vessel  under  the 
muzzles  of  a  hostile  battery  never  felt  his  resolution 
more  severely  tasked  than  did  Captain  Barton,  as  he 
breathlessly  pursued  this  solitary  path  ;  a  path  which, 
spite  of  every  effort  of  scepticism  and  reason,  he  felt 
to  be,  as  respected  Jiim,  infested   by  a  malignant  in- 
fluence. 

He  pursued  his  way  steadily  and  rapidly,  scarcely 
breathing  from  intensity  of  suspense  ;  he,  however, 
was  troubled  by  no  renewal  of  the  dreaded  footsteps , 


24  The  Watcher. 

and  was  beginning  to  feel  a  return  of  confidence,  as, 
more  than  three-fourths  of  the  way  being  accom- 
plished with  impunity,  he  approached  the  long  line 
of  twinkling  oil  lamps  which  indicated  the  frequented 
streets.  This  feeling  of  self-congratulation  was,  how- 
ever, but  momentary.  The  report  of  a  musket  at 
some  two  hundred  yards  behind  him,  and  the  whistle 
of  a  bullet  close  to  his  head,  disagreeably  and  start- 
lingly  dispelled  it.  His  first  impulse  was  to  retrace 
his  steps  in  pursuit  of  the  assassin  ;  but  the  road  on 
either  side  was,  as  we  have  said,  embarrassed  by  the 
foundations  of  a  street,  beyond  which  extended  waste 
fields,  full  of  rubbish  and  neglected  lime  and  brick 
kilns,  and  all  now  as  utterly  silent  as  though  no  sound 
had  ever  disturbed  their  dark  and  unsightly  solitude. 
The  futility  of  attempting,  single-handed,  under  such 
circumstances,  a  search  for  the  murderer,  was  ap- 
parent, especially  as  no  further  sound  whatever  was 
audible  to  direct  his  pursuit. 

With  the  tumultuous  sensations  of  one  whose  life 
had  just  been  exposed  to  a  murderous  attempt,  and 
whose  escape  has  been  the  narrowest  possible,  Cap- 
tain Barton  turned,  and  without,  however,  quickening 
his  pace  actually  to  a  run,  hurriedly  pursued  his  way. 
He  had  turned,  as  we  have  said,  after  a  pause  of  a  few 
seconds,  and  had  just  commenced  his  rapid  retreat, 
when  on  a  sudden  he  met  the  well-remembered  little 
man  in  the  fur  cap.     The  encounter  was  but  mom  en- 


The  Watcher.  25 

tarv.  The  fi^^ure  was  walking  at  the  same  exaggerated 
pace,  and  with  the  same  strange  air  of  menace  as 
before  ;  and  as  it  passed  him,  he  thought  he  heard 
it  say,  in  a  furious  whisper,  "  Still  alive,  still  alive  ! " 

The  state  of  Mr.  Barton's  spirits  began  now  to  work 
a  corresponding  alteration  in  his  health  and  looks, 
and  to  such  a  degree  that  it  was  impossible  that  the 
change  should  escape  general  remark.  For  some 
reasons,  known  but  to  himself,  he  took  no  step  what- 
soever to  bring  the  attempt  upon  his  life,  which  he 
had  so  narrowly  escaped,  under  the  notice  of  the 
authorities  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  kept  it  jealously  to 
himself ;  and  it  was  not  for  many  weeks  after  the 
occurrence  that  he  mentioned  it,  and  then  in  strict 
confidence  to  a  gentleman,  the  torments  of  his  mind 
at  last  compelled  him  to  consult  a  friend. 

Spite  of  his  blue  devils,  however^  poor  Barton, 
having  no  satisfactory  reason  to  render  to  the  public 
for  any  undue  remissness  in  the  attentions  which  his 
relation  to  ^liss  Montague  required,  was  obliged  to 
exert  himself,  and  present  to  the  world  a  confident 
and  cheerful  bearing.  The  true  source  of  his  suffer- 
ings, and  every  circumstance  connected  with  them, 
he  guarded  with  a  reserve  so  jealous,  that  it  seemed 
dictated  by  at  least  a  suspicion  that  the  origin  of  his 
strange  persecution  was  known  to  himself,  and  that 
it  was  of  a  nature  which,  upon  his  own  account,  he 
could  not  or  dare  not  disclose. 


26  The  Watcher. 

The  mind  thus  turned  in  upon  itself,  and  con- 
stantly occupied  with  a  haunting  anxiety  which  it 
dared  not  reveal,  or  confide  to  any  human  breast, 
became  daily  more  excited ;  and,  of  course,  more 
vividly  impressible,  by  a  system  of  attack  which 
operated  through  the  nervous  system  ;  and  in  this 
state  he  was  destined  to  sustain,  with  increasing 
frequency,  the  stealthy  visitations  of  that  apparition, 
which  from  the  first  had  seemed  to  possess  so  un- 
earthly and  terrible  a  hold  upon  his  imagination. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Captain  Barton  called 
upon  the  then  celebrated  preacher,  Doctor  Macklin, 
with  whom  he  had  a  slight  acquaintance  ;  and  an 
extraordinary  conversation  ensued.  The  divine  was 
seated  in  his  chambers  in  college,  surrounded  with 
works  upon  his  favourite  pursuit  and  deep  in  theology, 
when  Barton  was  announced.  There  was  something 
at  once  embarrassed  and  excited  in  his  manner, 
which,  along  with  his  wan  and  haggard  countenance, 
impressed  the  student  with  the  unpleasant  conscious- 
ness that  his  visitor  must  have  recently  suffered 
terribly  indeed  to  account  for  an  alteration  so  strik- 
ing, so  shocking. 

After  the  usual  interchange  of  polite  greeting,  and 
a  few  commonplace  remarks,  Captain  Barton,  who 
obviously  perceived  the  surprise  which  his  visit  had 
excited,  and  which  Doctor  Macklin  was  unable  wholly 


The  Watcher,  27 

to    conceal^    interrupted    a    brief  pause    by    remark- 
in  o-  — 

"This  is  a  strange  call,  Doctor  jNIacklin^  perhaps 
scarcely  warranted  by  an  acquaintance  so  slight  as 
mine  with  you.  I  should  not;  under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances, have  ventured  to  disturb  you,  but  my 
visit  is  neither  an  idle  nor  impertinent  intrusion.  I 
am  sure  you  will  not  so  account  it,  when — " 

Doctor  Macklin  interrupted  him  with  assurances, 
such  as  good  breeding  suggested,  and  Barton  re- 
sumed,— 

"  I  am  come  to  task  your  patience  by  asking  your 
advice.  When  I  say  your  patience,  I  might,  indeed, 
say  more  ;  I  might  have  said  your  humanity,  your 
compassion  ;  for  I  have  been,  and  am  a  great 
sufferer." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  replied  the  churchman,  "  it  will, 
indeed,  afford  me  infinite  gratification  if  I  can 
give  you  comfort  in  any  distress  of  mind,  but — 
but—" 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say,"  resumed  Barton, 
quickly.  "  I  am  an  unbeliever,  and,  therefore,  in- 
capable of  deriving  help  from  religion,  but  don't  take 
that  for  granted.  At  least  you  must  not  assume 
that,  however  unsettled  my  convictions  m^y  be,  I  do 
not  feel  a  deep,  a  very  deep,  interest  in  the  subject. 
Circumstances  have  lately  forced  it  upon  my  atten- 
tion in  such  a  way  as  to  compel  me  to  review  the 


28  The  Watcher. 

whole  question  in  a  more  candid  and  teachable  spirit, 
I  believe,  than  I  ever  studied  it  in  before." 

"  Your  difficulties,  I  take  it  for  granted,  refer  to 
the  evidences  of  revelation,"  suggested  the  clergy- 
man. 

''  Why — no — yes ;  in  fact  I  am  ashamed  to 
say  I  have  not  considered  even  my  objections 
sufficiently  to  state  them  connectedly  ;  but — but 
there  is  one  subject  on  which  I  feel  a  peculiar 
interest." 

He  paused  again,  and  Doctor  Macklin  pressed  him 
to  proceed. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Barton,  "  whatever  may  be  my 
uncertainty  as  to  the  authenticity  of  what  we  are 
taught  to  call  revelation,  of  one  fact  I  am  deeply 
and  horribly  convinced  :  that  there  does  exist  beyond 
this  a  spiritual  world — a  system  whose  workings  are 
generally  in  mercy  hidden  from  us — a  system  which 
may  be,  and  which  is  sometimes,  partially  and 
terribly  revealed.  I  am  sure,  I  know,"  continued 
Barton,  with  increasing  excitement,  "'there  is  a  God 
— a  dreadful  God — and  that  retribution  follows  guilt. 
In  ways,  the  most  mysterious  and  stupendous;  by 
agencies,  the  most  inexplicable  and  terrific  ;  there  is 
a  spiritual  system— great  Heavens^  how  frightfully  I 
have  been  convinced! — a  system  malignant,  and  in- 
exorable, and  omnipotent,  under  whose  persecutions 
I  am,   and  have  been,  suffering  the  torments  of  the 


The  Watcher.  ic) 

damned  ! — yes,    sir — yes — the    fires    and    frenzy    of 
hell  !  " 

As  Barton  continued,  his  agitation  became  so 
vehement  that  the  divine  was  shocked  and  even 
alarmed.  The  wild  and  excited  rapidity  with  v/hich 
he  spoke,  and,  above  all,  the  indefinable  horror 
which  stamped  his  features,  afforded  a  contrast  to  his 
ordinary  cool  and  unimpassioned  self-possession, 
striking  and  painful  in  the  last  degree. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Doctor  Mack] in,  after  a  brief 
pause,  "  I  fear  you  have  been  suffering  much,  indeed; 
but  I  venture  to  predict  that  the  depression  under 
which  you  labour  will  be  found  to  originate  in  purely 
physical  causes,  and  that  with  a  change  of  air  and 
the  aid  of  a  few  tonics,  your  spirits  will  return,  and 
the  tone  of  your  mind  be  once  more  cheerful  and 
tranquil  as  heretofore.  There  was,  after  all,  more 
truth  than  we  are  quite  willing  to  admit  in  the  classic 
theories  which  assigned  the  undue  predominance  of 
any  one  affection  of  the  mind  to  the  undue  action  or 
torpidity  of  one  or  other  of  our  bodily  organs. 
Believe  me,  that  a  little  attention  to  diet,  exercise, 
and  the  other  essentials  of  health,  under  competent 
direction,  will  make  you  as  much  yourself  as  you 
can  wish." 

"  Doctor  Macklin,"  said  Barton,  with  something 
like  a  shudder,  "  I  cannot  delude  myself  with  such  a 
hope.     I  have  no  hope  to  cling  to  but  one,  and  that 


30  The  Watcher. 

is,  that  by  some  other  spiritual  agency  more  potent 
than  that  which  tortures  me,  it  may  be  combated, 
and  I  delivered.  If  this  may  not  be,  I  am  lost — now 
and  for  ever  lost/' 

"  But,  Mr.  Barton,  you  must  remember,"  urged  his 
companion,  "  that  others  have  suffered  as  you  have 
done,  and — " 

"No,  no,  no,''  interrupted  he  with  irritability ; 
"  no,  sir,  I  am  not  a  credulous — far  from  a  super- 
stitious man.  I  have  been,  perhaps,  too  much  the 
reverse— too  sceptical,  too  slow  of  belief;  but  unless 
1  were  one  whom  no  amount  of  evidence  could 
convince,  unless  I  were  to  contemn  the  repeated,  the 
perpetual  evidence  of  my  own  senses,  I  am  now — 
now  at  last  constrained  to  believe  I  have  no  escape 
from  the  conviction,  the  overwhelming  certainty, 
that  I  am  haunted  and  dogged,  go  where  I  may,  by 
— by  a  Demon." 

There  was  an  almost  preternatural  energy  of 
horror  in  Barton's  face,  as,  with  its  damp  and  death- 
like lineaments  turned  towards  his  companion,  he 
thus  delivered  himself. 

"God  help  you,  my  poor  friend!"  said  Doctor 
Macklin,  much  shocked.  "  God  help  you  ;  for,  in- 
deed, you  are  a  sufferer,  however  your  sufferings  may 
have  been  caused." 

"  Ay,  ay,  God  help  me,"  echoed  Barton  sternly; 
"  but  will  He  help  me  ?  will  He  help  me  ?  " 


The  Watcher.  31 

"  Pray  to  Him  ;  pray  in  an  humble  and  trusting 
spirit,"  said  he. 

"  Pray,  pray,"  echoed  he  again  ;  "  I  can't  pray  ;  I 
could  as  easily  move  a  mountain  by  an  effort  of  my 
will.  I  have  not  belief  enough  to  pray  ;  there  is 
something  within  me  that  will  not  pray.  You  pre- 
scribe impossibilities — literal  impossibilities." 

''  You  will  not  find  it  so,  if  you  will  but  try,"  said 
Doctor  Macklin. 

"  Try  !  I  have  tried,  and  the  attempt  only  fills 
me  with  confusion  and  terror.  I  have  tried  in  vain, 
and  more  than  in  vain.  The  awful,  unutterable  idea 
of  eternity  and  infinity  oppresses  and  maddens  my 
brain,  whenever  my  mind  approaches  the  contem- 
plation of  the  Creator  ;  I  recoil  from  the  effort,  scared, 
confounded,  terrified.  I  tell  you,  Doctor  Macklin, 
if  I  am  to  be  saved,  it  must  be  by  other  means.  The 
idea  of  the  Creator  is  to  me  intolerable  ;  my  mind 
cannot  support  it." 

"  Say,  then,  my  dear  sir,"  urged  he,  '^  say  how 
you  would  have  me  serve  you.  What  you  would 
learn  of  me.  What  can  I  do  or  say  to  relieve 
you  ?  " 

"  Listen  to  me  first,"  replied  Captain  Barton,  with 
a  subdued  air,  and  an  evident  effort  to  suppress  his 
excitement  ;  "  listen  to  me  while  I  detail  the  circum- 
stances of  the  terrible  persecution  under  which  my 
life  has  become  all    but  intolerable — a    persecution 


32  The  Watcher. 

which  has  made  me  fear  death  and  the  world  beyond 
the  grave  as  much  as  I  have  grown  to  hate  exist- 
ence.'* 

Barton  then  proceeded  to  relate  the  circumstances 
which  we  have  already  detailed,  and  then  continued, — 
"This  has  now  become  habitual — an  accustomed 
thing.     I   do   not   mean  the  actual  seeing  him  in  the 
flesh  ;  thank  God,  that  at  least  is  not  permitted  daily. 
Thank    God,  from    the    unutterable  horrors  of  that 
visitation  I  have  been  mercifully  allowed  intervals  of 
repose,  though   none  of  security ;  but  from  the  con- 
sciousness  that  a  malignant  spirit  is  following  and 
watching  me  wherever  I  go,  I  have  never,  for  a  single 
instant,    a    temporary   respite  :    I    am    pursued  with 
blasphemies,  cries  of  despair,  and  appalling  hatred  ;  I 
hear  those  dreadful  sounds  called  after  me  as  I  turn 
the  corners  of  streets  ;  they  come  in  the  night-time 
while    I    sit  in  my  chamber  alone  ;    they  haunt  me 
everywhere,   charging  me  with  hideous  crimes,  and 
1  — great  God  ! — threatening  me  with  coming  vengeance 
I  and  eternal  misery!     Hush  !  do  you  hear  that?"  he 
I  cried,  with  a  horrible  smile  of  triumph.     "  There — 
V  there,  will  that  convince  you  ?  " 

The  clergyman  felt  the  chillness  of  horror  irresis- 
tibly steal  over  him,  while,  during  the  wail  of  a  sudden 
gust  of  wind,  he  heard,  or  fancied  he  heard,  the 
half  articulate  sounds  of  rage  and  derision  mingling 
in  their  sough. 


The  Watcher. 


33 


"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  "  at  length 
Barton  cried,  drawing  a  long  breath  through  his  teeth- 

"  I  heard  the  wind,"  said  Doctor  Macklin  ;  "  what 
should  I  think  of  it  ?  What  is  there  remarkable 
about  it  ?  " 


"THE  PRINCE  OF   THE    POWERS    OF    THE  AIR  !  "  MUTTERED  BARTON. 


"  The  prince  of  the  powers  of  the  air,"  muttered 
Barton,  with  a  shudder. 

"  Tut,  tut  !  my  dear  sir  ! "  said  the  student,  with  an 
effort  to  reassure  himself;  for  though  it  was  broad 
daylight,  there  was  nevertheless  something  disagree- 
ably  contagious   in   the    nervous   excitement    under 


34  The  Watcher. 

which  his  visitor  so  obviously  suffered.  "  You  must 
not  give  way  to  those  wild  fancies  :  you  must  resist 
those  impulses  of  the  imagination." 

"Ay,  ay;  'resist  the  devil,  and  he  will  flee  from 
thee/  "  said  Barton,  in  the  same  tone ;  "  but  hoiv 
resist  him  ?  Ay,  there  it  is  :  there  is  the  rub.  What 
— wJiat  am  I  to  do  ?     What  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  My  dear  sir,  this  is  fanc)',"  said  the  man  of  folios  ; 
"you  are  your  own  tormentor.'" 

"  No,  no,  sir  ;  fancy  has  no  part  in  it,"  answered 
Barton,  somewhat  sternly.  "  Fancy,  forsooth  !  Was 
it  that  made  yon,  as  well  as  miC,  hear,  but  this 
moment,  those  appalling  accents  of  hell  ?  Fancy, 
indeed  !     No,  no." 

"  But  you  have  seen  this  person  frequently,"  said 
the  ecclesiastic  ;  '^  why  have  you  not  accosted  or  se- 
cured him  }  Is  it  not  somewhat  precipitate,  to  say 
no  more,  to  assume,  as  you  have  done,  the  existence 
of  preternatural  agency,  when^  after  all,  everything 
may  be  easily  accountable,  if  only  proper  means  were 
taken  to  sift  the  matter." 

"  There  are  circumstances  connected  with  this — this 
appea7-ance,^^  said  Barton,  "  which  it  were  needless  to 
disclose,  but  which  to  me  are  proofs  of  its  horrible 
and  unearthly  nature.  I  know  that  the  being  who 
haunts  me  is  not  man.  I  say  I  know  this ;  I  could 
prove  it  to  your  own  conviction."  He  paused  for  a 
minute,  and  then  added,  "  And  as  to  accosting  it,  I 


The  Watcher. 


35 


dare  not — I  could  not  !  When  I  see  it  I  am  power- 
less ;  I  stand  in  the  gaze  of  djath,  in  the  triumphant 
presence  of  preter-human  power  and  malignity  ;  my 
strength,  and  faculties,  and  memory  all  forsake  me. 
Oh,  God  !  I  fear,  sir,  you  know  not  what  you  sp^ak 
of     Mercy,  mercy  !  heaven  have  pity  on  me  !  " 

He  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  table,  and  passed  his 
hand  across  his  eyes,  as  if  to  exclude  some  image  of 
horror,  muttering  the  last  words  of  the  sentence  he 
had  just  concluded,  again  and  again. 

"  Dr.  Macklin,"  he  said,  abruptly  raising  himself, 
and  looking  full  upon  the  clergyman  with  an  im- 
ploring eye,  "  I  know  you  will  do  for  me  whatever 
maybe  done.  You  know  now  fully  the  circumstances 
and  the  nature  of  the  mysterious  agency  of  which  I 
am  the  victim.  I  tell  you  I  cannot  help  myself;  I 
cannot  hope  to  escape  ;  I  am  utterly  passive.  I 
conjure  you,  then,  to  weigh  my  case  well,  and  if 
anything  may  be  done  for  me  by  vicarious  suppli- 
cation, by  the  intercession  of  the  good,  or  by  any  aid 
or  influence  whatsoever,  I  implore  of  you,  I  adjure 
you  in  the  name  of  the  Most  High,  give  me  the 
benefit  of  that  influence,  deliver  me  from  the  body  of 
this  death  !  Strive  for  me  ;  pity  me  !  I  know  you 
will ;  you  cannot  refuse  this  ;  it  is  the  purpose  and 
object  of  my  visit.  Send  me  away  with  some  hope, 
however  little — some  faint  hope  of  ultimate  deliver- 
ance, and  I  will  nerve  myself  to  endure,  from  houj- 

D  2 


36  The  Watcher. 

to  hour,  tba  hideous  dream  into  which  my  existence 
is  transformed/^ 

Doctor  Macklin  assured  him  that  all  he  could  do 
was  to  pray  earnestly  for  him,  and  that  so  much  he 
would  not  fail  to  do.  They  parted  with  a  hurried  and 
melancholy  valediction.  Barton  hastened  to  the  car- 
riage which  awaited  him  at  the  door,  drew  the  blinds, 
and  drove  away,  while  Dr.  Macklin  returned  to  his 
chamber,  to  ruminate  at  leisure  upon  the  strange 
interview  which  had  just  interrupted  his  studies. 

It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  Captain  Barton's 
changed  and  eccentric  habits  should  long  escape 
remark  and  discussion.  Various  were  the  theories 
suggested  to  account  for  it.  Some  attributed  the 
alteration  to  the  pressure  of  secret  pecuniary  embar- 
rassments ;  others  to  a  repugnance  to  fulfil  an  en- 
gagement into  which  he  was  presumed  to  have  too 
precipitately  entered  ;  and  others,  again,  to  the  sup- 
posed incipiency  of  mental  disease,  which  latter, 
indeed,  was  the  most  plausible,  as  well  as  the  most 
generally  received,  of  the  hypotheses  circulated  in 
the  gossip  of  the  day. 

From  the  very  commencement  of  this  change,  at 
first  so  gradual  in  its  advances.  Miss  Montague  had, 
of  course,  been  aware  of  it.  The  intimacy  involved 
in  their  peculiar  relation,  as  well  as  the  near  interest 
which  it  inspired,  afforded,  in  her  case,  alike  oppor- 
tunitv  and  motive  for  the  successful  exercise  of  that 


The  Watcher.  37 

keen  and  penetrating  observation  peculiar  to  the  sex. 
His  visits  became,  at  length,  so  interrupted,  and  his 
manner,  while  they  lasted,  so  abstracted,  strange, 
and  agitated,  that  Lady  Rochdale,  after  hinting  her 
anxiety  and  her  suspicions  more  than  once,  at 
length  distinctly  stated  her  anxiety,  and  pressed 
for  an  explanation.  The  explanation  was  given, 
and  although  its  nature  at  first  relieved  the  worst 
solicitudes  of  the  old  lady  and  her  niece,  yet  the 
circumstances  which  attended  it,  and  the  really  dread- 
ful consequences  which  it  obviously  threatened  as 
regarded  the  spirits,  and,  indeed,  the  reason,  of  the 
now  wretched  man  who  made  the  strange  declaration, 
were  enough,  upon  a  little  reflection,  to  fill  their 
minds  with  perturbation  and  alarm. 

General  Montague,  the  young  lady's  father,  at 
length  arrived.  He  had  himself  slightly  known 
Barton,  some  ten  or  twelve  years  previously,  and 
being  aware  of  his  fortune  and  connections,  was  dis- 
posed to  regard  him  as  an  unexceptionable  and  indeed 
a  most  desirable  match  for  his  daughter.  He  laughed 
at  the  story  of  Barton's  supernatural  visitations,  and 
lost  not  a  moment  in  calling  upon  his  intended  son- 
in-law. 

"  My  dear  Barton,"  he  continued  gaily,  after  a 
little  conversation,  "  my  sister  tells  me  that  you  are  a 
victim  to  blue  devils  in  quite  a  new  and  original 
shape." 


38  The  Watcher. 

Barton  changed  countenance,  and  sighed  pro- 
foundly. 

"  Come,  come  ;  I  protest  this  will  never  do,"  con- 
tinued the  General;  "you  are  more  like  a  man  on 
his  way  to  the  gallows  than  to  the  altar.  These 
devils  have  made  quite  a  saint  of  you." 

Barton  made  an  effort  to  change  the  conversation. 

"No,  no,  it  won't  do,"  said  his  visitor,  laughing; 
"  I  am  resolved  to  say  out  what  I  have  to  say  about 
this  magnificent  mock  mystery  of  yours.  Come, 
you  must  not  be  angry;  but,  really,  it  is  too  bad  to 
see  you,  at  your  time  of  life,  absolutely  frightened 
into  good  behavour,  like  a  naughty  child,  by  a  buga- 
boo, and,  as  far  as  I  can  learn,  a  very  particularly 
contemptible  one.  Seriously,  though,  my  dear 
Barton,  1  have  been  a  good  deal  annoyed  at  what 
they  tell  me ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  thoroughly  con- 
vinced that  there  is  nothing  in  the  matter  that  may 
not  be  cleared  up,  with  just  a  little  attention  and 
management,  within  a  week  at  furthest." 

"  Ah,  General,  you  do  not  know — "  he  began. 

"  Yes,  but  I  do  know  quite  enough  to  warrant  my 
confidence,"  interrupted  the  soldier.  "  I  know  that 
all  your  annoyance  proceeds  from  the  occasional 
appearance  of  a  certain  little  man  in  a  cap  and  great- 
coat, with  a  red  vest  and  bad  countenance,  who 
follows  you  about,  and  pops  upon  you  at  the  corners 
of  lanes,  and   throws  you   into  ague  fits.     Now,  my 


The  Watcher.  39 

dear  fellow,  I'll  make  it  my  business  to  catch  this 
mischievous  little  mountebank,  and  either  beat  him 
into  a  jelly  with  my  own  hands,  or  have  him  whipped 
through  the  town  at  the  cart's  tail." 

"  If  you  knew  what  I  know,"  said  Barton,  with 
gloomy  agitation,  "  you  would  speak  very  differently. 
Don't  imagine  that  I  am  so  weak  and  foolish  as  to 
assume,  without  proof  the  most  overwhelming,  the 
conclusion  to  which  I  have  been  forced.  The  proofs 
are  here,  locked  up  here."  As  he  spoke,  he  tapped 
upon  his  breast,  and  with  an  anxious  sigh  continued 
to  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  Well,  well,  Barton,"  said  his  visitor,  "  I'll  wager  a 
rump  and  a  dozen  I  collar  the  ghost,  and  convince 
yourself  before  many  days  are  over." 

He  was  running  on  in  the  same  strain  when  he  was 
suddenly  arrested,  and  not  a  little  shocked,  by  ob- 
serving Barton,  who  had  approached  the  window, 
stagger  slowly  back,  like  one  who  had  received  a 
stunning  blow — -his  arm  feebly  extended  towards  the 
street,  his  face  and  his  very  lips  white  as  ashes — while 
he  uttered,  "  There — there  -  there  !  " 

General  Montague  started  mechanically  to  his 
feet,  and,  from  tl^.e  window  of  the  drawing-room, 
saw  a  figure  corresponding,  as  well  as  his  hurry 
would  permit  him  to  discern^  with  the  description 
of  the  person  whose  appearance  so  constantly  and 
dreadfully    disturbed     the     repose     of    his    friend. 


40  ,  The  Watcher. 

The  figure  was  just  turning  from  the  rails  of  the 
area  upon  which  it  had  been  leaning,  and  without 
waiting  to  see  more,  the  old  gentleman  snatched 
his  cane  and  hat,  and  rushed  down  the  stairs 
and  into  the  street,  in  the  furious  hope  of 
securing  the  person,  and  punishing  the  audacity  of 
the  mysterious  stranger.  He  looked  around  him, but 
in  vain,  for  any  trace  of  the  form  he  had  himself  dis- 
tinctly beheld.  He  ran  breathlessly  to  the  nearest 
corner,  expecting  to  see  from  thence  the  retreating 
figure,  but  no  such  form  was  visible.  Back  and  for- 
ward, from  crossing  to  crossing,  he  ran  at  fault,  and 
it  was  not  until  the  curious  gaze  and  laughing  coun- 
tenances of  the  passers-by  reminded  him  of  the 
absurdity  of  his  pursuit,  that  he  checked  his  hurried 
pace,  lowered  his  walking-cane  from  the  menacing 
altitude  which  he  had  mechanically  given  it,  adjusted 
his  hat,  and  walked  composedly  back  again,  inwardly 
vexed  and  flurried.  He  found  Barton  pale  and 
trembling  in  every  joint ;  they  both  remained  silent, 
though  under  emotions  very  different.  At  last 
Barton  whispered,  "  You  saw  it  ?  " 

"  It ! — him — someone — you  mean — to  be  sure  I 
did,"  replied  Montague,  testily.  "  But  where  is  the 
good  or  the  harm  of  seeing  him  ?  The  fellow  runs 
like  a  lamplighter.  I  wanted  to  catch  him,  but  he 
had  stolen  away  before  I  could  reach  the  hall  door. 
However,  it  is  no  great  matter  ;    next  time,    I   dare 


The  Watcher.  41 

» 

say,  ril  do  better  ;  and,  egad,  if  I  once  come  within 
reach  of  him,  I'll  introduce  his  shoulders  to  the 
weight  of  my  cane,  in  a  way  to  make  him  cry 
peccavi!' 

Notwithstanding  General  Montague's  undertakings 
and  exhortations,  however,  Barton  continued  to 
suffer  from  the  self-same  unexplained  cause.  Go 
how,  when,  or  where  he  would,  he  was  still  constantly 
dogged  or  confronted  by  the  hateful  being  who  had 
established  over  him  so  dreadful  and  mysterious  an 
influence  ;  nowhere,  and  at  no  time,  was  he  secure 
against  the  odious  appearance  which  haunted  him 
with  such  diabolical  perseverance.  His  depression, 
misery,  and  excitement  became  more  settled  and 
alarming  every  day,  and  the  mental  agonies  that 
ceaselessly  preyed  upon  him  began  at  last  so  sensibly 
to  affect  his  general  health,  that  Lady  Rochdale  and 
General  Montague  succeeded  (without,  indeed,  much 
difficulty)  in  persuading  him  to  try  a  short  tour  on 
the  Continent,  in  the  hope  that  an  entire  change  of 
scene  would,  at  all  events,  have  the  effect  of  breaking 
through  the  influences  of  local  association,  which  the 
more  sceptical  of  his  friends  assumed  to  be  by  no 
means  inoperative  in  suggesting  and  perpetuating 
what  they  conceived  to  be  a  mere  form  of  nervous 
illusion.  General  Montague,  moreover,  was  persuaded 
that  the  figure  which  haunted  his  intended  son-in- 
law  was  by  no  means  the  creation  of  hisown  imagina- 


42  The  Watcher. 

tion,  but,  on  the  contrary,  a  substantial  form  of  flesh 
and  blood,  animated  by  a  spiteful  and  obstinate  re- 
solution, perhaps  with  some  murderous  object  in  per- 
spective, to  watch  and  follow  the  unfortunate  gentle- 
man. Even  this  hypothesis  was  not  a  very  pleasant 
one  ;  yet  it  was  plain  that  if  Barton  could  once  be 
convinced  that  there  was  nothing  preternatural  in 
the  phenomenon,  which  he  had  hitherto  regarded  in 
that  light,  the  affair  would  lose  all  its  terrors  in  his 
eyes,  and  wholly  cease  to  exercise  upon  his  health 
and  spirits  the  baneful  influence  which  it  had  hitherto 
done.  He  therefore  reasoned,  that  if  the  annoyance 
were  actually  escaped  from  by  mere  change  of  scene, 
it  obviously  could  not  have  originated  in  any  super- 
natural agency. 

Yielding  to  their  persuasions,  Barton  left  Dublin 
for  England,  accompanied  by  General  Montague, 
They  posted  rapidly  to  London,  and  thence  to  Dover, 
whence  they  took  the  packet  with  a  fair  wind  for 
Calais.  The  General's  confidence  in  the  result  of  the 
expedition  on  Barton's  spirits  had  risen  day  by  day 
since  their  departure  from  the  shores  of  Ireland  ;  for, 
to  the  inexpressible  relief  and  delight  of  the  latter,  he 
had  not,  since  then,  so  much  as  even  once  fancied  a 
repetition  of  those  impressions  which  had,  when  at 
home,  drawn  him  gradually  down  to  the  very  abyss 
of  horror  and  despair.  This  exemption  from  what 
he  had  begun  to  regard  as  the  inevitable  condition  of 


The  Watcher,  43 

his  existence,  and  the  sense  of  security  which  began  to 
pervade  his  mind,  were  inexpressibly  delightful  ;  and 
in  the  exultation  of  what  he  considered  his  deliver- 
ance, he  indulged  in  a  thousand  happy  anticipations 
for  a  future  into  which  so  lately  he  had  hardly 
dared  to  look.  In  short,  both  he  and  his  com- 
panion secretly  congratulated  themselves  upon  the 
termination  of  that  persecution  which  had  been  to 
its  immediate  victim  a  source  of  such  unspeakable 
agony. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  and  a  crowd  of  idlers  stood 
upon  the  jetty  to  receive  the  packet,  and  enjoy  the 
bustle  of  the  new  arrivals.  Montague  walked  a  few 
paces  in  advance  of  his  friend,  and  as  he  made  his 
way  through  the  crowd,  a  little  man  touched  his  arm, 
and  said  to  him,  in  a  broad  provincial /rt/t'Z.f, — 

"  Monsieur  is  walking  too  fast ;  he  will  lose  his 
sick  comrade  in  the  throng,  for,  by  my  faith,  the  poor 
gentleman  seems  to  be  fainting." 

Montague  turned  quickly,  and  observed  that  Barton 
did  indeed  look  deadly  pale.  He  hastened  to  his 
side. 

"  My  poor  fellow,  arc  you  ill  ?  "  he  asked  anxiously. 

The  question  was  unheeded,  and  twice  repeated, 
ere  Barton  stammered, — 

"  I  saw  him — by  ,  I  saw  him  !  " 

"//////  / — who  1 — where .? — when  did  you  see  him  ? — 
where  is  he  V  cried  Montague,  looking  around  him. 


44  The  Watcher. 

"  I  saw  him — but  he  is  gone/'  repeated  Barton^ 
faintly. 

"  But  where — where  ?  For  God's  sake^  speak," 
urged  Montague,  vehemently. 

"  It  is  but  this  moment — Jierc^'  said  he. 

"  But  what  did  he  look  like  ? — what  had  he  on  ? — 
what  did  he  wear .'' — quick,  quick/'  urged  his  excited 
companion,  ready  to  dart  among  the  crowd,  and  collar 
the  delinquent  on  the  spot, 

'^  He  touched  your  arm — he  spoke  to  you — he 
pointed  to  me.  God  be  merciful  to  me,  there  is  no 
escape !  "  said  Barton,  in  the  low,  subdued  tones  of 
intense  despair. 

Montague  had  already  bustled  away  in  all  the 
flurry  of  mingled  hope  and  indignation  ;  but  though 
the  singular  persoiincl  of  the  stranger  who  had 
accosted  him  was  vividly  and  perfectly  impressed 
upon  his  recollection,  he  failed  to  discover  among  the 
crowd  even  the  slightest  resemblance  to  him.  After 
a  fruitless  search,  in  which  he  enlisted  the  services  of 
several  of  the  bystanders,  who  aided  all  the  more 
zealously  as  they  believed  he  had  been  robbed,  he 
at  length,  out  of  breath  and  baffled,  gave  over  the 
attempt. 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  it  won't  do/'  said  Barton,  with 
the  faint  voice  and  bewildered,  ghastly  look  of  one 
who  has  been  stunned  by  some  mortal  shock  ;  "there 
is  no  use  in  contending  with  it  ;  whatever  it  is,  the 


The  Watcher.  45 

dreadful  association  between  me  and  it  is  now  esta- 
blished ;   I  shall  never  escape — never,  never!" 

"  Nonsense,  nonsense,  my  dear  fellow  ;  don't  talk 
so,"  said  Montague,  with  something  at  once  of  irrita- 
tion and  dismay;  "you  must  not;  never  mind,  I 
say — never  mind,  we'll  jockey  the  scoundrel  yet." 

It  was,  however,  but  lost  labour  to  endeavour 
henceforward  to  inspire  Barton  with  one  ray  of  hope  ; 
he  became  utterly  desponding.  This  intangible  and, 
as  it  seemed,  utterly  inadequate  influence  was  fast 
destroying  his  energies  of  intellect,  character,  and 
health.  His  first  object  was  now  to  return  to  Ireland, 
there,  as  he  believed,  and  now  almost  hoped,  speedily 
to  die. 

To  Ireland,  accordingly,  he  came,  and  one  of  the 
first  faces  he  saw  upon  the  shore  was  again  that  of 
his  implacable  and  dreaded  persecutor.  Barton 
seemed  at  last  to  have  lost  not  only  all  enjoyment 
and  every  hope  in  existence,  but  all  independence  of 
will  besides.  He  now  submitted  himself  passively 
to  the  management  of  the  friends  most  nearly  in- 
terested in  his  welfare.  With  the  apathy  of  entire 
despair,  he  implicitly  assented  to  whatever  measures 
they  suggested  and  advised  ;  and,  as  a  last  resource, 
it  was  determined  to  remove  him  to  a  house  of 
Lady  Rochdale's  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Clontarf, 
where,  with  the  advice  of  his  medical  attendant  (who 
persisted  in  his  opinion  that  the  whole  train  of  im- 


46  The  Watcher. 

pressions  resulted  merely  from  some  nervous  derange- 
ment) it  was  resolved  that  he  was  to  confine  himself 
strictly  to  the  house,  and  to  make  use  only  of  those 
apartments  which  commanded  a  view  of  an  enclosed 
yard,  the  gates  of  which  were  to  be  kept  jealously 
locked.  These  precautions  would  at  least  secure  him 
against  the  casual  appearance  of  any  living  form 
which  his  excited  imagination  might  possibly  con- 
found with  the  spectre  which,  as  it  was  contended, 
his  fancy  recognized  in  every  figure  that  bore  even 
a  distant  or  general  resemblance  to  the  traits  with 
which  he  had  at  first  invested  it.  A  month  or  six 
weeks'  absolute  seclusion  under  these  conditions,  it 
was  hoped,  might,  by  interrupting  the  series  of  these 
terrible  impressions,  gradually  dispel  the  predisposing 
apprehension,  and  eiTectually  break  up  the  associa- 
tions which  had  confirmed  the  supposed  disease,  and 
rendered  recovery  hopeless.  Cheerful  society  and 
that  of  his  friends  was  to  be  constantly  supplied,  and 
on  the  whole,  very  sanguine  expectations  were  in- 
dulged in,  that  under  this  treatment  the  obstinate 
hypochondria  of  the  patient  might  at  length  give  way. 
Accompanied,  therefore,  by  Lady  Rochdale,  Gene- 
ral Montague,  and  his  daughter — his  own  affianced 
bride — poor  Barton,  himself  never  daring  to  cherish 
a  hope  of  his  ultimate  emancipation  from  the  strange 
horrors  under  which  his  life  was  literally  wasting 
away,  took  possession  of  the  apartments  whose  situa- 


The  Watcher.  47 

tion  protected  hitn  against  the  dreadful  intrusions 
from  which  he  shrank  with  such  unutterable 
terror. 

After  a  little  time,  a  steady  persistence  in  this 
system  began  to  manifest  its  results  in  a  very  marked 
though  gradual  improvement  alike  in  the  health  and 
spirits  of  the  invalid.  Not,  indeeJ,  tliat  anything  at 
all  approaching  to  complete  recovery  was  yet  dis- 
cernible. On  the  contrary,  to  those  who  had  not 
seen  him  since  the  commencement  of  his  strange 
sufferings,  such  an  alteration  would  have  been  appa- 
rent as  might  well  have  shocked  them.  The  im- 
provement, however,  such  as  it  was,  was  welcomed 
with  gratitude  and  delight,  especially  by  the  poor 
young  lady,  whom  her  attachment  to  him,  as  well  as 
her  now  singularly  painful  position,  consequent  on 
his  mysterious  and  protracted  illness,  rendered  an 
object  of  pity  scarcely  one  degree  less  to  be  com- 
miserated than  himself 

A  week  passed — a  fortnight— a  month — and  yet 
no  recurrence  of  the  hated  visitation  had  agitated 
and  terrified  him  as  before.  The  treatment  had,  so 
far,  been  followed  by  complete  success.  The  chain 
of  association  had  been  broken.  The  constant 
pressure  upon  the  overtasked  spirits  had  been  re- 
moved, and,  under  these  comparatively  favourable 
circumstances,  the  sense  of  social  community  with 
the   world   about   him,    and    something    of    human 


48  The  Watcher. 

interest,  if  not  of  enjoyment,  began  to  reanimate  hij 
mind. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Lady  Rochdale,  who, 
like  most  old  ladies  of  the  day,  was  deep  in  family 
receipts,  and  a  great  pretender  to  medical  science, 
being  engaged  in  the  concoction  of  certain  unpala- 
table mixtures  of  marvellous  virtue,  despatched  her 
own  maid  to  the  kitchen  garden  with  a  list  of  herbs 
which  were  there  to  be  carefully  culled  and  brought 
back  to  her  for  the  purpose  stated.  The  hand- 
maiden, however,  returned  with  her  task  scarce  half- 
completed,  and  a  good  deal  flurried  and  alarmed. 
Her  mode  of  accounting  for  her  precipitate  retreat 
and  evident  agitation  was  odd,  and  to  the  old  lady 
unpleasantly  startling. 

It  appeared  that  she  had  repaired  to  the  kitchen 
garden,  pursuant  to  her  mistress's  directions,  and  had 
there  begun  to  make  the  specified  selection  among 
the  rank  and  neglected  herbs  which  crowded  one 
corner  of  the  enclosure,  and  while  engaged  in  this 
pleasant  labour  she  carelessly  sang  a  fragment  of  an 
old  song,  as  she  said,  "  to  keep  herself  company." 
She  was,  however,  interrupted  by  a  sort  of  mocking 
echo  of  the  air  she  was  singing  ;  and  looking  up,  she 
saw  through  the  old  thorn  hedge,  which  surrounded 
the  garden,  a  singularly  ill-looking,  little  man,  whose 
countenance  wore  the  stamp  of  menace  and  malignity, 
standing  close  to  her  at  the  other  side  of  the  haw- 


The  Watcher.  49 

thorn  screen.  She  described  herself  as  utterly  unable 
to  move  or  speak,  while  he  charged  her  with  a  message 
for  Captain  Barton,  the  substance  of  which  she  dis- 
tinctly remembered  to  have  been  to  the  effect  that 
he,  Captain  Barton,  must  come  abroad  as  usual",  and 
show  himself  to  his  friends  out  of  doors,  or  else  pre- 
pare for  a  visit  in  his  own  chamber.  On  concluding 
this  brief  message,  the  stranger  had,  with  a  threaten- 
ing air,  got  down  into  the  outer  ditch,  and  seizing 
the  hawthorn  stems  in  his  hands,  seemed  on  the  point 
of  climbing  through  the  fence,  a  feat  which  might 
have  been  accomplished  without  much  difficulty. 
Without,  of  course,  awaiting  this  result,  the  girl, 
throwing  down  her  treasures  of  thyme  and  rosemary, 
had  turned  and  run,  with  the  swiftness  of  terror,  to 
the  house.  Lady  Rochdale  commanded  her,  on  pain 
of  instant  dismissal,  to  observe  an  absolute  silence  re- 
specting all  that  portion  of  the  incident  which  related 
to  Captain  Barton  ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  directed 
instant  search  to  be  made  by  her  men  in  the  garden 
and  fields  adjacent.  This  measure,  however,  was 
attended  with  the  usual  unsuccess,  and  filled  with 
fearful  and  indefinable  misgivings,  Lady  Rochdale 
communicated  the  incident  to  her  brother.  The  story, 
however,  until  long  afterwards,  went  no  further,  and 
of  course  it  was  jealously  guarded  from  Barton, 
who  continued  to  mend,  though  slowly  and  imper- 
fectly. 

E 


50  The  Watcher. 

Barton  now  began  to  walk  occasionally  in  the  court- 
yard which  we  have  mentioned,  and  which,  being 
surrounded  by  a  high  wall,  commanded  no  view 
beyond  its  own  extent.  Here  he,  therefore,  con- 
sidered himself  perfectly  secure  ;  and,  but  for  a 
careless  violation  of  orders  by  one  of  the  grooms,  he 
might  have  enjoyed,  at  least  for  some  time  longer, 
his  much-prized  immunity.  Opening  upon  the  public 
road,  this  yard  was  entered  by  a  wooden  gate,  with  a 
wicket  in  it,  which  was  further  defended  by  an  iron 
gate  upon  the  outside.  Strict  orders  had  been  given 
to  keep  them  carefully  locked  ;  but,  in  spite  of  these, 
it  had  happened  that  one  day,  as  Barton  was  slowly 
pacing  this  narrow  enclosure,  in  his  accustomed  walk, 
and  reaching  the  further  extremity,  was  turning  to 
retrace  his  steps,  he  saw  the  boarded  wicket  ajar,  and 
the  face  of  his  tormentor  immovably  looking  at  him 
through  the  iron  bars.  For  a  few  seconds  he  stood 
riveted  to  the  earth,  breathless  and  bloodless,  in  the 
fascination  of  that  dreaded  gaze,  and  then  fell  help- 
lessly upon  the  pavement. 

There  was  he  found  a  few  minutes  afterwards,  and 
conveyed  to  his  room,  the  apartment  which  he  was  never 
afterwards  to  leave  alive.  Henceforward,  a  marked 
and  unaccountable  change  was  observable  in  the  tone 
of  his  mind.  Captain  Barton  was  now  no  longer  the 
excited  and  despairing  man  he  had  been  before  ;  a 
strange  alteration  had  passed  upon  him,  an  unearthly 


The  Watcher.  51 

tranquillity  reigned  in  his  mind  ;  it  was  the  anticipated 
stillness  of  the  grave. 

"  Montague^  my  friend,  this  struggle  is  nearly  ended 
now,"  he  said,  tranquilly,  but  with  a  look  of  fixed  and 
fearful  awe.  "  I  have,  at  last,  some  comfort  from  that 
world  of  spirits,  from  which  my  punishment  has  come. 
I  know  now  that  my  sufferings  will  be  soon  over." 

Montague  pressed  him  to  speak  on. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  in  a  softened  voice,  "  my  punish- 
ment is  nearly  ended.  From  sorrow  perhaps  I 
shall  never,  in  time  or  eternity,  escape  ;  but  my  agony 
is  almost  over.  Comfort  has  been  revealed  to  me, 
and  what  remains  of  my  allotted  struggle  I  will  bear 
with  submission,  even  with  hope." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  speak  so  tranquilly,  my 
dear  fellow,"  said  Montague  ;  "  peace  and  cheerful- 
ness of  mind  are  all  you  need  to  make  you  what  you 
were." 

"  No,  no,  I  never  can  be  that,"  said  he,  mournfully. 
"  I  am  no  longer  fit  for  life.  I  am  soon  to  die  :  I  do 
not  shrink  from  death  as  I  did.  I  am  to  see  him  but 
once  again,  and  then  all  is  ended." 

"He  said  so,  then  ?  "  suggested  Montague. 

''He?  No,  no  ;  good  tidings  could  scarcely  come 
through  him  ;  and  these  were  good  and  welcome  ; 
and  they  came  so  solemnly  and  sweetly,  with  unutter- 
able love  and  melancholy,  such  as  I  could  not,  with- 
out saying  more  than   is   needful  or  fitting,  of  other 

E   2 


52  The  Watcher. 

long-past  scenes  and  persons,  fully  explain  to  you." 
As  Barton  said  this  he  shed  tears. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Montague,  mistaking  the 
source  of  his  emotions,  "  you  must  not  give  way. 
What  is  it,  after  all,  but  a  pack  of  dreams  and  non- 
sense ;  or,  at  worst,  the  practices  of  a  scheming  rascal 
that  enjoys  his  power  of  playing  upon  your  nerves, 
and  loves  to  exert  it  ;  a  sneaking  vagabond  that  owes 
you  a  grudge,  and  pays  it  off  this  way,  not  daring  to 
try  a  more  manly  one." 

"  A  grudge,  indeed,  he  owes  me  ;  you  say  rightly," 
said  Barton,  with  a  sullen  shudder  ;  "  a  grudge  as  you 
call  it.  Oh,  God  !  when  the  justice  of  heaven  permits 
the  Evil  One  to  carry  out  a  scheme  of  vengeance,  when 
its  execution  is  committed  to  the  lost  and  frightful 
victim  of  sin,  who  owes  his  own  ruin  to  the  man,  the 
very  man,  whom  he  is  commissioned  to  pursue  ;  then, 
indeed,  the  torments  and  terrors  of  hell  are  anticipated 
on  earth.  But  heaven  has  dealt  mercifully  with  me  : 
hope  has  opened  to  me  at  last ;  and  if  death  could  come 
without  the  dreadful  sight  I  am  doomed  to  see,  I  would 
gladly  close  my  eyes  this  moment  upon  the  world.  But 
though  death  is  welcome,  I  shrink  with  an  agony  you 
cannot  understand  ;  a  maddening  agony,  an  actual 
frenzy  of  terror,  from  the  last  encounter  with  that — 
that  DEMON,  who  has  drawn  me  thus  to  the 
verge  of  the  chasm,  and  who  is  himself  to  plunge 
me  down.     I  am  to  see  him  again,  once  more,  but 


The  Watcher.  53 

under  circumstances   unutterably  more  terrific  than 
ever." 

As  Barton  thus  spoke, he  trembled  so  violently  that 
Montague  was  really  alarmed  at  the  extremity  of  his 
sudden  agitation,  and  hastened  to  lead  him  back  to 
the  topic  which  had  before  seemed  to  exert  so  tran- 
quillizing an  effect  upon  his  mind. 

"  It  was  not  a  dream,"  he  said,  after  a  time  ;  '^  I 
was  in  a  different  state,  I  felt  differently  and 
strangely  ;  and  yet  it  was  all  as  real,  as  clear  and  vivid, 
as  what  I  now  see  and  hear  ;  it  was  a  reality." 

"And  what  did  you  see  and  hear?"  urged  his 
companion. 

"  When  I  awakened  from  the  swoon  I  fell  into  on 
seeing  himl'  said  Barton,  continuing,  as  if  he  had  not 
heard  the  question,  "  it  was  slowly,  very  slowly ;  I 
was  reclining  by  the  margin  of  a  broad  lake,  sur- 
rounded by  misty  hills,  and  a  soft,  melancholy,  rose- 
coloured  light  illuminated  it  all.  It  was  indescribably 
sad  and  lonely,  and  yet  more  beautiful  than  any 
earthly  scene.  My  head  was  leaning  on  the  lap  of  a 
girl,  and  she  was  singing  a  strange  and  wondrous 
song,  that  told,  I  know  not  how,  whether  by  words 
or  harmony,  of  all  my  life,  all  that  is  past,  and  all 
that  is  still  to  come.  And  with  the  song  the  old  feel- 
ings that  I  thought  had  perished  within  me  came 
back,  and  tears  flowed  from  my  eyes,  partly  for  the 
song  and  its  mysterious  beauty,  and  partly  for  the 


54  The  Watcher. 

unearthly  sweetness  of  her  voice  ;  j'et  I  know  the 
voice,  oh !  how  well ;  and  I  was  spell-bound  as  I 
listened  and  looked  at  the  strange  and  solitary 
scene,  without  stirring,  almost  without  breathing, 
and,  alas  !  alas !  without  turning  my  eyes  toward  the 
face  that  I  knew  was  near  me,  so  sweetly  powerful 
was  the  enchantment  that  held  me.  And  so,  slowly 
and  softly,  the  song  and  scene  grew  fainter,  and  ever 
fainter,  to  my  senses,  till  all  was  dark  and  still 
again.  And  then  I  wakened  to  this  world,  as  you 
saw,  comforted,  for  I  knew  that  I  was  forgiven 
much."     Barton  wept  again  long  and  bitterly. 

From  this  time,  as  we  have  said,  the  prevailing 
tone  of  his  mind  was  one  of  profound  and  tranquil 
melancholy.  This,  however,  was  not  without  its  in- 
terruptions. He  was  thoroughly  impressed  with  the 
conviction  that  he  was  to  experience  another  and  a 
final  visitation,  illimitably  transcending  in  horror  all 
he  had  before  experienced.  From  this  anticipated 
and  unknown  agony  he  often  shrunk  in  such 
paroxysms  of  abject  terror  and  distraction,  as  filled 
the  whole  household  with  dismay  and  superstitious 
panic.  Even  those  among  them  who  affected  to  dis- 
credit the  supposition  of  preternatural  agency  in  the 
matter,  were  often  in  their  secret  souls  visited  during 
the  darkness  and  solitude  of  night  with  qualms  and 
apprehensions  which  they  would  not  have  readily 
confessed  ;  and  none  of  them  attempted  to  dissuade 


The  Watcher.  55 

Barton  from  the  resolution  on  which  he  now  systema- 
tically acted,  of  shutting  himself  up  in  his  own  apart- 
ment. The  window-blinds  of  this  room  were  kept 
jealously  down  ;  and  his  own  man  was  seldom  out  of 
his  presence,  day  or  night,  his  bed  being  placed  in 
the  same  chamber. 

This  man  was  an  attached  and  respectable  servant  ; 
and  his  duties,  in  addition  to  those  ordinarily  im- 
posed upon  valets,  but  which  Barton's  independent 
habits  generally  dispensed  with,  were  to  attend  care- 
fully to  the  simple  precautions  by  means  of  which 
his  master  hoped  to  exclude  the  dreaded  intrusion  of 
the  "Watcher,"  as  the  strange  letter  he  had  at  first 
received  had  designated  his  persecutor.  And,  in 
addition  to  attending  to  these  arrangements,  which 
consisted  merely  in  anticipating  the  possibility  of  his 
master's  being,  through  any  unscreened  window  or 
opened  door,  exposed  to  the  dreaded  influence,  the 
valet  was  never  to  suffer  him  to  be  for  one  moment 
alone :  total  solitude,  even  for  a  minute,  had  become 
to  him  now  almost  as  intolerable  as  the  idea  of  going 
abroad  into  the  public  ways  ;  it  was  an  instinctive 
anticipation  of  what  was  coming. 

It  is  needless  to  say,  that,  under  these  mysterious 
and  horrible  circumstances,  no  steps  were  taken  to- 
ward the  fulfilment  of  that  engagement  into  which  he 
had  entered.  There  was  quite  disparity  enough  in 
point   of  years,   and   indeed  of  habits,   between    the 


56  The  Watcher. 

young  lady  and  Captain  Barton,  to  have  precluded 
anything  like  very  vehement  or  romantic  attachment 
on  her  part.  Though  grieved  and  anxious,  there- 
fore, she  was  very  far  from  being  heart-broken  ;  a 
circumstance  which,  for  the  sentimental  purposes  of 
our  tale,  is  much  to  be  deplored.  But  truth  must  be 
told,  especially  in  a  narrative  whose  chief,  if  not 
only,  pretensions  to  interest  consist  in  a  rigid 
adherence  to  facts,  or  what  are  so  reported  to  have 
been. 

Miss  Montague,  nevertheless,  devoted  much  of  her 
time  to  a  patient  but  fruitless  attempt  to  cheer  the 
unhappy  invalid.  She  read  for  him,  and  conversed 
with  him  ;  but  it  was  apparent  that  whatever  exer- 
tions he  made,  the  endeavour  to  escape  from  the  one 
constant  and  ever-present  fear  that  preyed  upon  him 
was  utterly  and  miserably  unavailing. 

Young  ladies,  as  all  the  world  knows,  are  much 
given  to  the  cultivation  of  pets ;  and  among  those 
who  shared  the  favour  of  Miss  Montague  was  a  fine 
old  owl,  which  the  gardener,  who  caught  him  nap- 
ping among  the  ivy  of  a  ruined  stable,  had  dutifully 
presented  to  that  young  lady. 

The  caprice  which  regulates  such  preferences  was 
manifested  in  the  extravagant  favour  with  which  this 
grim  and  ill-favoured  bird  was  at  once  distinguished 
by  his  mistress ;  and,  trifling  as  this  whimsical 
circumstance  may  seem,  I  am  forced  to  mention  it, 


The  Watcher,  57 

inasmuch  as  it  is  connected,  oddly  enough,  with  the 
concluding  scene  of  the  story.  Barton,  so  far  from 
sharing  in  this  liking  for  the  new  favourite,  regarded 
it  from  the  first  with  an  antipathy  as  violent  as  it 
was  utterly  unaccountable.  Its  very  vicinity  was  in- 
supportable to  him.  He  seemed  to  hate  and  dread 
it  with  a  vehemence  absolutely  laughable,  and  to 
those  who  have  never  witnessed  the  exhibition  of 
antipathies  of  this  kind,  his  dread  would  seem  all  but 
incredible. 

With  these  few  words  of  preliminary  explanation, 
I  shall  proceed  to  state  the  particulars  of  the  last 
scene  in  this  strange  series  of  incidents.  It  was 
almost  two  o'clock  one  winter's  night,  and  Barton 
was,  as  usual  at  that  hour,  in  his  bed ;  the  servant 
we  have  mentioned  occupied  a  smaller  bed  in  the 
same  room,  and  a  candle  was  burning.  The  man 
waL  on  a  sudden  aroused  by  his  master,  who  said, — 

"  I  can't  get  it  out  of  my  head  that  that  accursed 
bird  has  escaped  somehow,  and  is  lurking  in  some 
corner  of  the  room.  I  have  been  dreaming  of  him. 
Get  up,  Smith,  and  look  about;  search  for  him. 
Such  hateful  dreams  !  " 

The  servant  rose,  and  examined  the  chamber,  and 
while  engaged  in  so  doing,  he  heard  the  well-known 
sound,  more  like  a  long-drawn  gasp  than  a  hiss,  with 
which  these  birds  from  their  secret  haunts  affright 
the  quiet  of  the  night.     This  ghostly  indication  of  its 


58  The  Watcher. 

proximity,  for  the  sound  proceeded  from  the  passage 
upon  which  Barton's  chamber-door  opened,  deter- 
mined the  search  of  the  serv^ant,  who,  opening  the 
door,  proceeded  a  step  or  two  forward  for  the  purpose 
of  driving  the  bird  away.  He  had,  however,  hardly 
entered  the  lobby,  when  the  door  behind  him  slowly 
swung  to  under  the  impulse,  as  it  seemed,  of  some 
gentle  current  of  air ;  but  as  immediately  over  the 
door  there  was  a  kind  of  window,  intended  in  the 
daytime  to  aid  in  lighting  the  passage,  and  through 
which  the  rays  of  the  candle  were  then  issuing,  the 
valet  could  see  quite  enough  for  his  purpose.  As  he 
advanced  he  heard  his  master  (who^  lying  in  a  well- 
curtained  bed  had  not,  as  it  seemed,  perceived  his 
exit  from  the  room)  call  him  by  name,  and  direct  him 
to  place  the  candle  on  the  table  by  his  bed.  The 
servant,  who  was  now  some  way  in  the  long  passage, 
did  not  like  to  raise  his  voice  for  the  purpose  of  reply- 
ing, lest  he  should  startle  the  sleeping  inmates  of  the 
house,  began  to  walk  hurriedly  and  softly  back  again, 
when,  to  his  amazement,  he  heard  a  voice  in  the 
interior  of  the  chamber  answering  calmly,  and  the  man 
actually  saw,  through  the  window  which  over-topped 
the  door,  that  the  light  was  slowly  shifting,  as  if 
carried  across  the  chamber  in  answer  to  his  master's 
call.  Palsied  by  a  feeling  akin  to  terror,  yet  not  un- 
mingled  with  a  horrible  curiosity,  he  stood  breathless 
and   listening  at  the  threshold,  unable  to   summon 


The  Watcher.  59 

resolution  to  push  open  the  door  and  enter.  Then 
came  a  rusthng  of  the  curtains,  and  a  sound  like  that 
of  one  who  in  a  low  voice  hushes  a  child  to  rest,  in 
the  midst  of  which  he  heard  Barton  say,  in  a  tone 
of  stifled  horror — '^  Oh,  God — oh,  my  God  !  "  and 
repeat  the  same  exclamation  several  times.  Then 
ensued  a  silence,  which  again  was  broken  by  the 
same  strange  soothing  sound  ;  and  at  last  there  burst 
forth,  in  one  swelling  peal,  a  yell  of  agony  so  appal- 
ling and  hideous,  th  it^  under  some  impulse  of  un- 
governable horror,  the  man  rushed  to  the  door,  and 
with  his  whole  strength  strove  to  force  it  open. 
Whether  it  was  that,  in  his  agitation,  he  had  himself 
but  imperfectly  turned  the  handle,  or  that  the  door  was 
really  secured  upon  the  inside^  he  failed  to  effect  an 
entrance;  and  as  he  tugged  and  pushed,  yell  after 
yell  rang  louder  and  wilder  through  the  chamber, 
accompanied  all  the  while  by  the  same  hushing 
sounds.  Actually  freezing  with  terror,  and  scarce 
knowing  what  he  did,  the  man  turned  and  ran  down 
the  passage,  wringing  his  hands  in  the  extremity  of 
horror  and  irresolution.  At  the  stair-head  he  was  en- 
countered by  General  Montague,  scared  and  eager, 
and  just  as  they  met  the  fearful  sounds  had  ceased. 

"  What  is  it  ? — who — where  is  your  master  .''  "  said 
Montague,  with  the  incoherence  of  extreme  agita- 
tion. "  Has  anything — for  God's  sake,  is  anything 
wrong  } " 


6o  The  Watcher. 

"  Lord  have  mercy  on  us,  it's  all  over,"  said  the 
man,  staring  wildly  towards  his  master's  chamber. 
"  He's  dead,  sir  ;  I'm  sure  he's  dead." 

Without  waiting  for  inquiry  or  explanation,  Mon- 
tague, closely  followed  by  the  servant,  hurried  to  the 
chamber-door,  turned  the  handle,  and  pushed  it  open. 
As  the  door  yielded  to  his  pressure,  the  ill-omened 
bird  of  which  the  servant  had  been  in  search,  uttering 
its  spectral  warning,  started  suddenly  from  the  far 
side  of  the  bed,  and  flying  through  the  doorway  close 
over  their  heads,  and  extinguishing,  in  its  passage, 
the  candle  which  Montague  carried,  crashed  through 
the  skylight  that  overlooked  the  lobby,  and  sailed 
away  into  the  darkness  of  the  outer  space. 

"There  it  is,  God  bless  us  !  "  whispered  the  man, 
after  a  breathless  pause. 

"  Curse  that  bird  !"  muttered  the  general,  startled 
by  the  suddenness  of  the  apparition,  and  unable  to 
conceal  his  discomposure. 

"  The  candle  was  moved,"  said  the  man,  after 
another  breathless  pause  ;  "  see,  they  put  it  by  the 
bed  !  " 

"  Draw  the  curtains,  fellow,  and  don't  stand  gaping 
there,"  whispered  Montague,  sternly. 

The  man  hesitated. 

"  Hold  this,  then,"  said  Montague,  impatiently, 
thrusting  the  candlestick  into  the  servant's  hand  ;  and 
himself  advancing  to  the  bedside,  he  drew  the  cur- 


The  Watcher. 


6i 


tarns  apart.  The  light  of  the  candle,  which  was  still 
burning  at  the  bedside,  fell  upon  a  figure  huddled 
together,  and  half  upright,  at  the  head  of  the  bed. 
It  seemed  as  though  it  had  shrunk  back  as  far  as  the 


—  *g|p^. 


EXTINGUISHING    IN    ITS    PASSAGE    THE    CANDLE   WHICH    MONTAGUE 
CARRIED, 


solid  panelling  would  allow,  and  the  hands  were  still 
clutched  in  the  bed-clothes. 

"  Barton,  Barton,  Barton  !  "  cried  the  general,  with 
a  strange  mixture  of  awe  and  vehemence. 

He  took  the  candle,  and  held  it  so  that  it  shone  full 


62  The  Watcher. 

upon  his  face.  The  features  were  fixed,  stern  and 
white ;  the  jaw  was  fallen,  and  the  sightless  eyes, 
still  open,  gazed  vacantly  forward  toward  the  front 
of  the  bed. 

"  God  Almighty,  he's  dead  !  "  muttered  the  general, 
as  he  looked  upon  this  fearful  spectacle.  They  both 
continued  to  gaze  upon  it  in  silence  for  a  minute  or 
more.  "  And  cold,  too,"  said  Montague,  withdrawing 
his  hand  from  that  of  the  dead  man. 

"  And  see,  see  ;  may  I  never  have  life,  sir,"  added 
the  man,  after  another  pause,  with  a  shudder,  '*  but 
there  was  something  else  on  the  bed  with  him  ! 
Look  there— look  there  ;  see  that,  sir  !  " 

As  the  man  thus  spoke,  he  pointed  to  a  deep  in- 
denture, as  if  caused  by  a  heavy  pressure,  near  the 
foot  of  the  bed. 

Montague  was  silent. 

'^  Come,  sir,  come  away,  for  God's  sake  !  ^'  whispered 
the  man,  drawing  close  up  to  him,  and  holding  fast 
by  his  arm,  while  he  glanced  fearfully  round  ;  "  what 
good  can  be  done  here  now  ? — come  away,  for  God's 
sake  1 " 

At  this  moment  they  heard  the  steps  of  more  than 
one  approaching,  and  Montague,  hastily  desiring  the 
servant  to  arrest  their  progress,  endeavoured  to  loose 
the  rigid  grip  with  which  the  fingers  of  the  dead  man 
were  clutched  in  the  bed-clothes,  and  drew,  as  well  as 
he  was  able,  the  awful  figure  into  a  reclining  posture. 


The  Watcher.  63 

Then  closing  the  curtains  carefully  upon  it,  he  hastened 
himself  to  meet  those  who  were  approaching. 

It  is  needless  to  follow  the  personages  so  slightly 
connected  with  this  narrative  into  the  events  of  their 
after  lives  ;  it  is  enough  for  us  to  remark  that  no  clue 
to  the  solution  of  these  mysterious  occurrences  was 
ever  afterwards  discovered  ;  and  so  long  an  interval 
having  now  passed,  it  is  scarcely  to  be  expected  that 
time  can  throw  any  new  light  upon  their  inexplicable 
obscurity.  Until  the  secrets  of  the  earth  shall  be 
no  longer  hidden  these  transactions  must  remain 
shrouded  in  mystery. 

The  only  occurrence  in  Captain  Barton's  former 
life  to  which  reference  was  ever  made,  as  having  any 
possible  connection  with  the  sufferings  with  which  his 
existence  closed,  and  which  he  himself  seemed  to  re- 
gard as  working  out  a  retribution  for  some  grievous  sin 
of  his  past  life,  was  a  circumstance  which  not  for 
several  years  after  his  death  was  brought  to  light. 
The  nature  of  this  disclosure  was  painful  to  his  rela- 
tives and  discreditable  to  his  memory. 

It  appeared,  then^  that  some  eight  years  before 
Captain  Barton's  final  return  to  Dublin,  he  had 
formed,  in  the  town  of  Plymouth,  a  guilty  attach- 
ment, the  object  of  which  was  the  daughter  of  one  of 
the  ship's  crew  under  his  command.  The  father  had 
visited  the  frailty  of  his  unhappy   child  with  extreme 


64  The  Watcher. 

harshness,  and  even  brutality,  and  it  was  said  that  she 
had  died  heart-broken.  Presuming  upon  Barton's 
implication  in  her  guilt,  this  man  had  conducted  him- 
self towards  him  with  marked  insolence,  and  Barton 
resented  this — and  what  he  resented  with  still  more 
exasperated  bitterness,  his  treatment  of  the  unfortu- 
nate girl — by  a  systematic  exercise  of  those  terrible 
and  arbitrary  severities  with  which  theregulationsofthe 
navy  arm  those  who  are  responsible  for  its  discipline. 
The  man  had  at  length  made  his  escape,  while  the 
vessel  was  in  port  at  Lisbon,  but  died,  as  it  was  said, 
in  an  hospital  in  that  town,  of  the  wounds  inflicted  in 
one  of  his  recent  and  sanguinary  punishments. 

Whether  these  circumstances  in  reality  bear  or  not 
upon  the  occurrences  of  Barton's  after-life,  it  is  of 
course  impossible  to  say.  It  seems,  however,  more 
than  probable  that  they  were,  at  least  in  his  own 
mind,  closely  associated  with  them.  But  however 
the  truth  may  be  as  to  the  origin  and  motives  of  this 
mysterious  persecution,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that, 
with  respect  to  the  agencies  by  which  it  was  accom- 
plished, absolute  and  impenetrable  mystery  is  like  to 
prevail  until  the  day  of  doom. 


KJSt.QSY  -f  ^^  Xx\x^:^amx^^^^^ 


The  following  paper  is  written  in  a  female  hand,  and 
was  no  doubt  communicated  to  my  much  regretted 
friend  by  the  lady  whose  early  history  It  serves  to 

illustrate,  the  Countess  D .     She  is  no  more — she 

long  since  died,  a  childless  and  a  widowed  wife,  and, 
as  her  letter  sadly  predicts,  none  survive  to  whom  the 
publication  of  this  narrative  can  prove  "  injurious,  or 
even  painful."  Strange  !  two  powerful  and  wealthy 
families,  that  in  which  she  was  born,  and  that  into 
which  she  had  married,  are  utterly  extinct. 

To    those  who  know  anything  of  the   history  of 

F 


66  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

Irish  families,  as  they  were  less  than  a  century  ago, 
the  facts  which  immediately  follow  will  at  once  sug- 
gest the  names  of  the  principal  actors  ;  and  to  others 
their  publication  would  be  useless — to  us,  possibly,  if 
not  probably  injurious.  I  have  therefore  altered 
such  of  the  names  as  might,  if  stated,  get  us  into 
difficulty  ;  others,  belonging  to  minor  characters  in  the 
strange  story,  I  have  left  untouched. 

My  dear  Friend, — You  have  asked  me  to  furnish 
you  with  a  detail  of  the  strange  events  which  marked 
my  early  history,  and  I  have,  without  hesitation, 
applied  myself  to  the  task,  knowing  that,  while  I  live, 
a  kind  consideration  for  my  feelings  will  prevent  you 
giving  publicity  to  the  statement ;  and  conscious 
that,  when  I  am  no  more,  there  will  not  survive  one 
to  whom  the  narrative  can  prove  injurious,  or  even 
painful. 

My  mother  died  when  I  was  quite  an  infant,  and 
of  her  I  have  no  recollection,  even  the  faintest.  By 
her  death,  my  education  and  habits  were  left  solely 
to  the  guidance  of  my  surviving  parent ;  and,  so  far  as 
a  stern  attention  to  my  religious  instruction,  and  an 
active  anxiety  evinced  by  his  procuring  for  me  the 
best  masters  to  perfect  me  in  those  accomplishments 
which  my  station  and  wealth  might  seem  to  require, 
could  avail,  he  amply  discharged  the  task. 

My  father  was  what  is  called  an  oddity,  and  his 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  67 

treatment  of  me,  though  uniformly  kind,  flowed  less 
from  affection  and  tenderness  than  from  a  sense  of 
obligation  and  duty.  Indeed,  I  seldom  even  spoke 
to  him  except  at  meal-times,  and  then  his  manner 
was  silent  and  abrupt  ;  his  leisure  hours,  which  were 
many,  were  passed  either  in  his  study  or  in  solitary 
walks  ;  in  short,  he  seemed  to  take  no  further  interest 
in  my  happiness  or  improvement  than  a  conscientious 
regard  to  the  discharge  of  his  own  duty  would  seem 
to  claim. 

Shortlybeforemy  birth,a  circumstance  had  occurred 
which  had  contributed  much  to  form  and  to  confirm 
my  father's  secluded  habits— it  was  the  fact  that  a 
suspicion  of  murder  had  fallen  upon  his  younger 
brother,  a  suspicion  not  sufficiently  definite  to  lead  to 
an  indictment,  yet  strong  enough  to  ruin  him  in 
public  opinion. 

This  disgraceful  and  dreadful  doubt  cast  upon  the 
family  name  my  father  felt  deeply  and  bitterly,  and 
not  the  less  so  that  he  himself  was  thoroughly  con- 
vinced of  his  brother's  innocence.  The  sincerity  and 
strength  of  this  impression  he  shortly  afterwards 
proved  in  a  manner  which  produced  the  dark  events 
which  follow.  Before,  however,  I  enter  upon  the  state- 
ment of  them,  I  ought  to  relate  the  circumstances  which 
had  awakened  the  suspicion  ;  inasmuch  as  they  are  in 
themselves  somewhat  curious,  and,  in  their  effects, 
most  intimately  connected  with  my  after  history. 

F  2 


68  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

My  uncle,  Sir  Arthur  T n,  was  a  gay  and  extra- 
vagant man,  and,  among  other  vices,  was  ruinously 
addicted  to  gaming  ;  this  unfortunate  propensity, 
even  after  his  fortune  had  suffered  so  severely  as 
to  render  inevitable  a  reduction  in  his  expenses  by 
no  means  inconsiderable,  nevertheless  continued  to 
actuate  him,  almost  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other 
pursuits.  He  was  a  proud,  or  rather  a  vain  man, 
and  could  not  bear  to'  make  the  diminution  of 
his  income  a  matter  of  gratulation  and  triumph  to 
those  with  whom  he  had  hitherto  competed  ;  and  the 
consequence  was  that  he  frequented  no  longer  the 
expensive  haunts  of  dissipation,  and  retired  from  the 
gay  world,  leaving  his  coterie  to  discover  his  reasons 
as  best  they  might. 

He  did  not,  however,  forego  his  favourite  vice,  for, 
though  he  could  not  worship  his  divinity  in  the 
costly  temples  where  it  was  formerly  his  wont  to  take 
his  stand,  yet  he  found  it  very  possible  to  bring  about 
him  a  sufficient  number  of  the  votaries  of  chance  to 
answer  all  his  ends.  The  consequence  was  that 
Carrickleigh,  which  was  the  name  of  my  uncle's 
residence,  was  never  without  one  or  more  of  such 
reckless  visitors. 

It  happened  that  upon  one  occasion  he  was  visited 
by  one  Hugh  Tisdall — a  gentleman  of  loose  habits 
but  of  considerable  wealth — who  had,  in  early 
youth,  travelled  with  my  uncle  upon  the  Continent. 


of  an  IrisJi  Countess.  69 

The  period  of  his  visit  was  winter,,  and,  consequently, 
the  house  was  nearly  deserted  except  by  its  regular 
inmates  ;  Mr.  Tisdall  was  therefore  highly  acceptable, 
particularly  as  my  uncle  was  aware  that  his  visitor's 
tastes  accorded  exactly  with  his  own. 

Both  parties  seemed  determined  to  avail  themselves 
of  their  suitability  during  the  brief  sta}'  which  Mr. 
Tisdall  had  promised  ;  the  consequence  was  that  they 
shut  themselves  up  in  Sir  Arthur's  private  room  for 
nearl}'  all  the  day  and  the  greater  part  of  the  night, 
during  the  space  of  nearly  a  week.  At  the  end  of 
this  period  the  servant  having  one  morning,  as  usual, 
knocked  at  Mr.  Tisdall's  bedroom  door  repeatedly, 
received  no  answer,  and,  upon  attempting  to  enter, 
found  that  it  was  locked.  This  appeared  suspicious, 
and  the  inmates  of  the  house  having  been  alarmed, 
the  door  was  forced  open,  and,  on  proceeding  to  the 
bed,  they  found  the  body  of  its  occupant  perfectly 
lifeless,  and  hanging  half-way  out,  the  head  down- 
wards, and  near  the  floor.  One  deep  wound  had 
been  inflicted  upon  the  temple,  apparently  with  some 
blunt  instrument,  which  had  penetrated  the  brain  ; 
and  another  blow  less  efl"ective,  probably  the  first 
aimed,  had  grazed  the  head,  removing  some  of  the 
scalp,  but  leaving  the  skull  untouched.  The  door 
had  been  double-locked  upon  the  inside,  in  evidence 
of  which  the  key  still  lay  where  it  had  been  placed  in 
the  lock. 


/O  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

The  window,  though  not  secured  on  the  interior, 
was  closed — a  circumstance  not  a  little  puzzling,  as 
it  afforded  the  only  other  mode  of  escape  from  the 
room  ;  it  looked  out,  too,  upon  a  kind  of  courtyard, 
round  which  the  old  buildings  stood,  formerly  acces- 
sible by  a  narrow  doorway  and  passage  lying  in  the 
oldest  side  of  the  quadrangle,  but  which  had  since 
been  built  up,  so  as  to  preclude  all  ingress  or  egress. 
The  room  was  also  upon  the  second  story,  and  the 
height  of  the  window  considerable.  Near  the  bed 
were  found  a  pair  of  razors  belonging  to  the  murdered 
man,  one  of  them  upon  the  ground  and  both  of  them 
open.  The  weapon  which  had  inflicted  the  mortal 
wound  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  room,  nor  were 
any  footsteps  or  other  traces  of  the  murderer  dis- 
coverable. 

At  the  suggestion  of  Sir  Arthur  himself,  a  coroner 
was  instantly  summoned  to  attend,  and  an  inquest 
was  held ;  nothing,  however,  in  any  degree  conclu- 
sive was  elicited.  The  walls,  ceiling,  and  floor 
of  the  room  were  carefully  examined,  in  order  to 
ascertain  whether  they  contained  a  trap-door  or  other 
concealed  mode  of  entrance — but  no  such  thing 
appeared. 

Such  was  the  minuteness  of  investigation  employed 
that  although  the  grate  had  contained  a  large  fire  during 
the  night,  they  proceeded  to  examine  even  the  very 
chimney,  in  order  to  discover  whether  escape  by  it 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  71 

were  possible ;  but  this  attempt,  too,  was  fruitless,  for 
the  chimney,  built  in  the  old  fashion,  rose  in  a  per- 
fectly perpendicular  line  from  the  hearth  to  a  height 
of  nearly  fourteen  feet  above  the  roof,  affording  in  its 
interior  scarcely  the  possibility  of  ascent,  the  flue 
being  smoothly  plastered,  and  sloping  towards  the  top 
like  an  inverted  funnel.  Even  if  the  summit  of  the 
chimney  were  attained,  it  promised,  owing  to  its  great 
height,  but  a  precarious  descent  upon  the  sharp  and 
steep-ridged  roof  The  ashes,  too,  which  lay  in  the 
grate,  and  the  soot,  as  far  as  it  could  be  seen,  were 
undisturbed,  a  circumstance  almost  conclusive. 

Sir  Arthur  was  of  course  examined  ;  his  evidence 
was  given  with  a  clearness  and  unreserve  which  seemed 
calculated  to  silence  all  suspicion.  He  stated  that 
up  to  the  day  and  night  immediately  preceding  the 
catastrophe,  he  had  lost  to  a  heavy  amount,  but  that, 
at  their  last  sitting,  he  had  not  only  won  back  his 
original  loss,  but  upwards  of  four  thousand  pounds 
in  addition  ;  in  evidence  of  which  he  produced  an 
acknowledgment  of  debt  to  that  amount  in  the  hand- 
writing of  the  deceased,  and  bearing  the  date  of  the 
fatal  night.  He  had  mentioned  the  circumstance  to 
his  lad}',  and  in  presence  of  some  of  the  domestics  ; 
which  statement  was  supported  by  their  respective 
evidence. 

One  of  the  jury  shrewdly  observed  that  the  cir- 
cumstance of  Mr.  Tisdall's  having  sustained  so  heavy 


72  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

a  loss  might  have  suggested  to  some  ill-minded 
persons,  accidentally  hearing  it,  the  plan  of  robbing 
him.  after  having  murdered  him,  in  such  a  manner  as 
might  make  it  appear  that  he  had  committed  suicide  ; 
a  supposition  which  was  strongly  supported  by  the 
razors  having  been  found  thus  displaced,  and  removed 
from  their  case.  Two  persons  had  probably  been 
engaged  in  the  attempt,  one  watching  by  the  sleeping 
man,  and  ready  to  strike  him  in  case  of  his  awakening 
suddenly,  while  the  other  was  procuring  the  razors 
and  employed  in  inflicting  the  fatal  gash,  so  as  to 
make  it  appear  to  have  been  the  act  of  the  murdered 
man  himself.  It  was  said  that  while  the  juror 
was  making  this  suggestion  Sir  Arthur  changed 
colour. 

Nothing,  however,  like  legal  evidence  appeared 
against  him,  and  the  consequence  was  that  the  verdict 
was  found  against  a  person  or  persons  unknown  ;  and 
for  some  time  the  matter  was  suffered  to  rest,  until, 
after  about  five  months,  my  father  received  a  letter 
from  a  person  signing  himself  Andrew  Collis,  and 
representing  himself  to  be  the  cousin  of  the  deceased. 
This  letter  stated  that  Sir  Arthur  was  likely  to  incur 
not  merely  suspicion,  but  personal  risk,  unless  he 
could  account  for  certain  circumstances  connected 
with  the  recent  murder,  and  contained  a  copy  of  a 
letter  written  by  the  deceased,  and  bearing  date — the 
day  of  the  week,  and  of  the  month — upon  the  night 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  73 

the   deed    of  blood  had  been  perpetrated.     Tisdall's 
note  ran  as  follows  : — 

"  Dear  ColliS,— I  have  had  sharp  work  with  Sir 
Arthur  ;  he  tried  some  of  his  stale  tricks,  but  soon 
found  that  /was  Yorkshire  too  ;  it  would  not  do— you 
understand  me.  We  went  to  the  work  like  good 
ones,  head,  heart  and  soul ;  and,  in  fact,  since  I  came 
here,  I  have  lost  no  time.  I  am  rather  fagged,  but  I 
am  sure  to  be  well  paid  for  my  hardship ;  I  never 
want  sleep  so  long  as  I  can  have  the  music  of  a  dice- 
box,  and  wherewithal  to  pay  the  piper.  As  I  told 
you,  he  tried  some  of  his  queer  turns,  but  I  foiled 
him  like  a  man,  and,  in  return,  gave  him  more  than 
he  could  relish  of  the  genuine  dead  knozvledge. 

"  In  short,  I  have  plucked  the  old  baronet  as  never 
baronet  was  plucked  before  ;  I  have  scarce  left  him 
the  stump  of  a  quill  ;  I  have  got  promissory  notes  in 
his  hand  to  the  amount  of — if  you  like  round  numbers, 
say,  thirty  thousand  pounds,  safely  deposited  in  my 
portable  strong-box,  alias  double-clasped  pocket- 
book.  I  leave  this  ruinous  old  rat-hole  early  on 
to-morrow,  for  two  reasons — first,  I  do  not  want  to 
play  with  Sir  Arthur  deeper  than  I  think  his  security, 
that  is,  his  money,  or  his  money's  worth,  would 
warrant ;  and,  secondly,  because  I  am  safer  a  hundred 
miles  from  Sir  Arthur  than  in  the  house  with  him. 
Look    you,    my    worthy,    I    tell   you   this    between 


74  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

ourselves — I  may  be  wrong,  but,  by  G ,  I  am  as 

sure  as  that  I  am  now  living,  that  Sir  A attempted 

to  poison  me  last  night.     So  much  for  old  friendship 
on  both  sides  ! 

"  When  I  won  the  last  stake,  a  heavy  one  enough, 
my  friend  leant  his  forehead  upon  his  hands,  and 
you'll  laugh  when  I  tell  you  that  his  head  literally 
smoked  like  a  hot  dumpling.  I  do  not  know  whether 
his  agitation  was  produced  by  the  plan  which  he  had 
against  me,  or  by  his  having  lost  so  heavily — though 
it  must  be  allowed  that  he  had  reason  to  be  a  little 
funked,  whichever  way  his  thoughts  went  ;  but  he 
pulled  the  bell,  and  ordered  two  bottles  of  cham- 
pagne. While  the  fellow  was  bringing  them  he 
drew  out  a  promissory  note  to  the  full  amount, 
which  he  signed,  and,  as  the  man  came  in  with  the 
bottles  and  glasses,  he  desired  him  to  be  off;  he 
filled  out  a  glass  for  me,  and,  while  he  thought  my 
eyes  were  off,  for  I  was  putting  up  his  note  at  the 
time,  he  dropped  something  slyly  into  it,  no  doubt 
to  sweeten  it  ;  but  I  saw  it  all,  and  when  he  handed 
it  to  me,  I  said,  with  an  emphasis  which  he  might  or 
might  not  understand  : 

" '  There  is  some  sediment  in  this ;  I'll  not 
drink  it.' 

" '  Is  there  .? '  said  he,  and  at  the  same  time 
snatched  it  from  my  hand  and  threw  it  into  the  fire. 
What  do  you   think   of  that .?  have   I   not  a  tender 


of  an  Irish  Counless.  75 

chicken  to  manage  ?  Win  or  lose,  I  will  not  play- 
beyond  five  thousand  to-night,  and  to-morrow  sees 
me  safe  out  of  the  reach  of  Sir  Arthur's  champagne. 
So,  all  things  considered,  I  think  you  must  allow 
that  you  are  not  the  last  who  have  found  a  knowing 
boy  in 

"  Yours  to  command, 

"  Hugh  Tisdall." 

Of  the  authenticity  of  this  document  I  never  heard 
my  father  express  a  doubt ;  and  I  am  satisfied  that, 
owing  to  his  strong  conviction  in  favour  of  his 
brother,  he  would  not  have  admitted  it  without 
sufficient  inquiry,  inasmuch  as  it  tended  to  confirm 
the  suspicions  which  already  existed  to  his  pre- 
judice. 

Now,  the  only  point  in  this  letter  which  made 
strongly  against  my  uncle  was  the  mention  of  the 
"  double-clasped  pocket-book  "  as  the  receptacle  of 
the  papers  likely  to  involve  him,  for  this  pocket-book 
was  not  forthcoming,  nor  anywhere  to  be  found,  nor 
had  any  papers  referring  to  his  gaming  transactions 
been  found  upon  the  dead  man.  However,  what- 
ever might  have  been  the  original  intention  of  this 
Collis,  neither  my  uncle  nor  my  father  ever  heard 
more  of  him  ;  but  he  published  the  letter  in  Faulkner's 
Newspaper,  which  was  shortly  afterwards  made  the 
vehicle    of  a    much    more    mysterious    attack.     The 


76  Passage  in  the  Sec?^et  Histoi'y 

passage  in  that  periodical  to  which  I  allude  appeared 
about  four  years  afterwards,  and  while  the  fatal 
occurrence  was  still  fresh  in  public  recollection.  It 
commenced  by  a  rambling  preface,  stating  that  "  a 
certain  person  whom  certain  persons  thought  to  be 
dead,  was  not  so,  but  living,  and  in  full  possession  of 
his  memory,  and  moreover  ready  and  able  to  make 
great  delinquents  tremble."  It  then  went  on  to 
describe  the  murder,  without,  however,  mentioning 
names ;  and  in  doing  so,  it  entered  into  minute  and 
circumstantial  particulars  of  which  none  but  an  eye- 
zvitness  could  have  been  possessed,  and  by  implica- 
tions almost  too  unequivocal  to  be  regarded  in  the 
light  of  insinuation,  to  involve  the  '' titled  gaiiibler" 
in  the  guilt  of  the  transaction. 

My  father  at  once  urged  Sir  Arthur  to  proceed 
against  the  paper  in  an  action  of  libel ;  but  he  would 
not  hear  of  it,  nor  consent  to  my  father's  taking  any 
legal  steps  whatever  in  the  matter.  My  father,  how^ 
ever,  wrote  in  a  threatening  tone  to  Faulkner,  de- 
manding a  surrender  of  the  author  of  the  obnoxious 
article.  The  answer  to  this  application  is  still  in  my 
possession,  and  is  penned  in  an  apologetic  tone  :  it 
states  that  the  manuscript  had  been  handed  in,  paid 
for,  and  inserted  as  an  advertisement,  without  suffi- 
cient inquiry,  or  any  knowledge  as  to  whom  it 
referred. 

No  step,   however,  was  taken  to  clear  my  uncle's 


of  ail  IiHsIi  Countess.  yy 

character  in  the  judgment  of  the  public  ;  and  as  he 
immediately  sold  a  small  property,  the  application  of 
the  proceeds  of  which  was  known  to  none,  he  was 
said  to  have  disposed  of  it  to  enable  himself  to  buy 
off  the  threatened  information.  However  the  truth 
might  have  been,  it  is  certain  that  no  charges 
respecting  the  mysterious  murder  were  afterwards 
publicly  made  against  my  uncle,  and,  as  far  as 
external  disturbances  were  concerned,  he  enjoyed 
henceforward  perfect  security  and  quiet. 

A  deep  and  lasting  impression,  however,  had  been 

made  upon  the  public  mind,  and  Sir  Arthur  T n 

was  no  longer  visited  or  noticed  by  the  gentry  and 
aristocracy  of  the  count}-,  whose  attention  and  cour- 
tesies he  had  hitherto  received.  He  accordingly 
affected  to  despise  these  enjoyments  which  he  could 
not  procure,  and  shunned  even  that  society  which  he 
might  have  commanded. 

This  is  all  that  I  need  recapitulate  of  my  uncle's 
history,  and  I  now  recur  to  my  own.  Although  my 
father  had  never,  within  my  recollection,  visited,  or 
been  visited  by,  my  uncle,  each  being  of  sedentar}-, 
procrastinating,  and  secluded  habits,  and  their  re- 
spective residences  being  very  far  apart — the  one 
lying  in  the  county  of  Galway,  the  other  in  that  of 
Cork — he  was  strongly  attached  to  his  brother,  and 
evinced  his  affection  by  an  active  correspondence, 
and  by  deeply  and  proudly  resenting  that  neglect 


yS  Passaic  in  the  Secret  History 

which  had  marked    Sir  Arthur   as    unfit  to  mix  in 
society. 

When  I  was  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  my 
father,  whose  health  had  been  gradually  decHning, 
died,  leaving  me  in  heart  wretched  and  desolate,  and, 
owing  to  his  previous  seclusion,  with  few  acquaint- 
ances, and  almost  no  friends. 

The  provisions  of  his  will  were  curious,  and  when 
I  had  sufficiently  come  to  myself  to  listen  to  or 
comprehend  them,  surprised  me  not  a  little :  all  his 
vast  property  was  left  to  me,  and  to  the  heirs  of  my 
body,  for  ever ;  and,  in  default  of  such  heirs,  it  was 
to  go  after  my  death  to  my  uncle,  Sir  Arthur,  without 
any  entail. 

At  the  same  time,  the  will  appointed  him  my 
guardian,  desiring  that  I  might  be  received  within 
his  house,  and  reside  with  his  family,  and  under  his 
care,  during  the  term  of  my  minority ;  and  in  con- 
sideration of  the  increased  expense  consequent  upon 
such  an  arrangement,  a  handsome  annuity  was 
allotted  to  him  during  the  term  of  my  proposed 
residence. 

The  object  of  this  last  provision  I  at  once  under- 

^  I      stood  :  my  father  desired,  by  making  it  the  direct, 

\  apparent  interest  of  Sir  Arthur  that    I   should  die 

without  issue,  while  at  the    same   time  placing  me 

wholly   in    his  power,  to  prove  to   the    world    how 

ereat  and  unshaken  was  his  confidence  in  his  brother's 


of  an  IrisJi  Countess.  79 

innocence  and  honour,  and  also  to  afford  him  an 
opportunity  of  showing  that  this  mark  of  confidence 
was  not  unworthily  bestowed. 

It  was  a  strange,  perhaps  an  idle  scheme  ;  but  as 
I  had  been  always  brought  up  in  the  habit  of  con- 
sidering my  uncle  as  a  deeply-injured  man,  and  had 
been  taught,  almost  as  a  part  of  my  religion,  to  regard 
him  as  the  very  soul  of  honour,  I  felt  no  further  uneasi- 
ness respecting  the  arrangement  than  that  likely  to 
result  to  a  timid  girl  of  secluded  habits  from  the 
immediate  prospect  of  taking  up  her  abode  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life  among  total  strangers.  Previous 
to  leaving  my  home,  which  I  felt  I  should  do  with  a 
heavy  heart,  I  received  a  most  tender  and  affectionate 
letter  from  my  uncle,  calculated,  if  anything  could 
do  so,  to  remove  the  bitterness  of  parting  from  scenes 
familiar  and  dear  from  my  earliest  childhood,  and  in 
some  degree  to  reconcile  me  to  the  change. 

It  was  during  a  fine  autumn  that  I  approached 
the  old  domain  of  Carrickleigh.  I  shall  not  soon 
forget  the  impression  of  sadness  and  of  gloom  which 
all  that  I  saw  produced  upon  my  mind  ;  the  sun- 
beams were  falling  with  a  rich  and  melancholy  tint 
upon  the  fine  old  trees,  which  stood  in  lordly  groups, 
casting  their  long,  sweeping  shadows  over  rock  and 
sward.  There  was  an  air  of  desolation  and  decay  about 
the  spot,  which  amounted  almost  to  desolation  ;  the 
symptoms  of  this  increased  in   number   as  we   ap- 


8o  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

preached  the  building  itself,  near  which  the  ground 
had  been  originally  more  artificially  and  carefully 
cultivated  than  elsewhere,  and  the  neglect  con- 
sequently more  immediately  and  strikingly  betrayed 
itself. 

As  we  proceeded,  the  road  wound  near  the 
beds  of  what  had  been  formerly  two  fish-ponds — 
now  nothing  more  than  stagnant  swamps,  over- 
grown with  rank  weeds,  and  here  and  there  en- 
croached upon  by  the  straggling  underwood.  The 
avenue  itself  was  much  broken,  and  in  many  places 
the  stones  were  almost  concealed  by  grass  and 
nettles ;  the  loose  stone  walls  which  had  here  and 
there  intersected  the  broad  park  were,  in  many  places, 
broken  down,  so  as  no  longer  to  answer  their  original 
purpose  as  fences  ;  piers  were  now  and  then  to  be 
seen,  but  the  gates  were  gone.  And,  to  add  to  the 
general  air  of  dilapidation,  some  huge  trunks  were 
lying  scattered  through  the  venerable  old  trees, 
either  the  work  of  the  winter  storms,  or  perhaps  the 
victims  of  some  extensive  but  desultory  scheme  of 
denudation,  which  the  projector  had  not  capital  or 
perseverance  to  carry  into  full  effect. 

After  the  carriage  had  travelled  a  mile  of  this 
avenue,  we  reached  the  summit  of  rather  an  abrupt 
eminence,  one  of  the  many  which  added  to  the 
picturesqueness,  if  not  to  the  convenience  of  this 
rude  passage.     From  the  top  of  this  ridge  the  grey 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  8i 

walls  of  Carrickleigh  were  visible,  rising  at  a  small 
distance  in  front,  and  darkened  by  the  hoary  wood 
which  crowded  around  them.  It  was  a  quadrangular 
building  of  considerable  extent,  and  the  front  which 
lay  towards  us,  and  in  which  the  great  entrance  was 
placed,  bore  unequivocal  marks  of  antiquity ;  the 
time-worn,  solemn  aspect  of  the  old  building,  the 
ruinous  and  deserted  appearance  of  the  whole  place, 
and  the  associations  which  connected  it  with  a  dark 
page  in  the  history  of  my  family,  combined  to  de- 
press spirits  already  predisposed  for  the  reception  of 
sombre  and  dejecting  impressions. 

When  the  carriage  drew  up  in  the  grass-grown 
courtyard  before  the  hall  door,  two  lazy-looking 
men,  whose  appearance  well  accorded  with  that  of 
the  place  which  they  tenanted,  alarmed  by  the  ob- 
streperous barking  of  a  great  chained  dog,  ran  out 
from  some  half-ruinous  out-houses,  and  took  charge 
of  the  horses  ;  the  hall  door  stood  open,  and  I  entered 
a  gloomy  and  imperfectly  lighted  apartment,  and 
found  no  one  within.  However,  I  had  not  long  to 
wait  in  this  awkward  predicament,  for  before  my 
luggage  had  been  deposited  in  the  house — indeed, 
before  1  had  well  removed  my  cloak  and  other  wraps, 
so  as  to  enable  me  to  look  around — a  young  girl  ran 
lightly  into  the  hall,  and  kissing  me  heartily,  and 
somewhat  boisterously,  exclaimed  : 

"  My   dear  cousin,    my  dear  Margaret,  I  am    so 

G 


82  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

delighted,  so  out  of  breath.  We  did  not  expect  you 
till  ten  o'clock ;  my  father  is  somewhere  about  the 
place  ;  he  must  be  close  at  hand.  James,  Corney — 
run  out  and  tell  your  master — my  brother  is  seldom 
at  home,  at  least  at  any  reasonable  hour — you  must 
be  so  tired,  so  fatigued,  let  me  show  you  to  your  room. 
See  that  Lady  Margaret's  luggage  is  all  brought  up, 
you  must  lie  down  and  rest  yourself.  Deborah,  bring 
some  coffee —  Up  these  stairs  !  We  are  so  delighted 
to  see  you,  you  cannot  think  how  lonely  I  have  been. 
How  steep  these  stairs  are,  are  they  not  ?  I  am  so 
glad  you  are  come;  I  could  hardly  bring  myself  to 
believe  that  you  were  really  coming;  how  good  of 
you,  dear  Lady  Margaret." 

There  was  real  good  nature  and  delight  in  my 
cousin's  greeting,  and  a  kind  of  constitutional  con- 
fidence of  manner  which  placed  me  at  once  at  ease, 
and  made  me  feel  immediately  upon  terms  of  in- 
timacy with  her.  The  room  into  which  she  ushered 
me,  although  partaking  in  the  general  air  of  decay 
which  pervaded  the  mansion  and  all  about  it,  had 
nevertheless  been  fitted  up  with  evident  attention 
to  comfort,  and  even  with  some  dingy  attempt  at 
luxury  ;  but  what  pleased  me  most  was  that  it  opened, 
by  a  second  door,  upon  a  lobby  which  communicated 
with  my  fair  cousin's  apartment;  a  circumstance 
which  divested  the  room,  in  my  eyes,  of  the  air  of 
solitude   and   sadness   which   would  otherwise  have 


of  ail  Irish  Coitntess.  83 

characterized  it,  to  a  degree  almost  painful  to  one  so 
dejected  in  spirits  as  I  was. 

After  such  arrangements  as  I  found  necessary 
were  completed,  we  both  went  down  to  the  parlour, 
a  large  wainscoted  room,  hung  round  with  grim  old 
portraits,  and,  as  I  was  not  sorry  to  see,  containing 
in  its  ample  grate  a  large  and  cheerful  fire.  Here 
my  cousin  had  leisure  to  talk  more  at  case ;  and  from 
her  I  learned  something  of  the  manners  and  the 
habits  of  the  two  remaining  members  of  her  family, 
whom  I  had  not  yet  seen. 

On  my  arrival  I  had  known  nothing  of  the  family 
among  whom  I  was  come  to  reside,  except  that  it 
consisted  of  three  individuals,  my  uncle,  and  his  son 

and  daughter,  Lady  T ^n  having  been  long  dead. 

In  addition  to  this  very  scanty  stock  of  information, 
I  shortly  learned  from  my  communicative  companion 
that  my  uncle  was,  as  I  had  suspected,  completely 
reserved  in  his  habitSj  and  besides  that,  having  been 
so  far  back  as  she  could  well  recollect,  always  rather 
strict  (as  reformed  rakes  frequently  become),  he  had 
latterly  been  growing  more  gloomily  and  sternly 
religious  than  heretofore. 

Her  account  of  her  brother  was  far  less  favourable, 
though  she  did  not  say  anything  directly  to  his  dis- 
advantage. From  all  that  I  could  gather  from  her, 
I  was  led  to  suppose  that  he  was  a  specimen  of  the 
idle,  coarse-mannered,  profligate,  low-minded  "squire- 

G  2 


84  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

archy  " — a  result  which  might  naturally  have  flowed 
from  the  circumstance  of  his  being,  as  it  were,  out- 
lawed from  society,  and  driven  for  companionship  to 
grades  below  his  own  ;  enjoying,  too,  the  dangerous 
prerogative  of  spending  much  money. 

However,  you  may  easily  suppose  that  I  found 
nothing  in  my  cousin's  communication  fully  to  bear 
me  out  in  so  very  decided  a  conclusion. 

I  awaited  the  arrival  of  my  uncle,  which  was  every 
moment  to  be  expected,  with  feelings  half  of  alarm, 
half  of  curiosity — a  sensation  which  I  have  often 
since  experienced,  though  to  a  less  degree,  when 
upon  the  point  of  standing  for  the  first  time  in  the 
presence  of  one  of  whom  I  have  long  been  in  the  habit 
of  hearing  or  thinking  with  interest. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  some  little  perturbation 
that  I  heard,  first  a  light  bustle  at  the  outer  door, 
then  a  slow  step  traverse  the  hall,  and  finally  wit- 
nessed the  door  open,  and  my  uncle  enter  the  room. 
He  was  a  striking-looking  man  ;  from  peculiarities 
both  of  person  and  of  garb,  the  whole  effect  of  his 
appearance  amounted  to  extreme  singularity.  He 
was  tall,  and  when  young  his  figure  must  have  been 
strikingly  elegant ;  as  it  was,  however,  its  effect  was 
marred  by  a  very  decided  stoop.  His  dress  was  of  a 
sober  colour,  and  in  fashion  anterior  to  anything 
which  I  could  remember.  It  was,  however,  hand- 
some, and  by  no  means  carelessly  put  on.     But  what 


of  an  Irish  Countess. 


H 


completed  the  singularity  of  his  appearance  was  his 
uncut  white  hair,  which  hung  in  long,  but  not  at  all 
neglected  curls,  even  so  far  as  his  shoulders,  and 
which  combined  with  his  regularly  classic  features 


I    ROSE    AS    HE    ENTERED. 


and  fine  dark  eyes,  to  bestow  upon  him  an  air  of 
venerable  dignity  and  pride  which  I  have  never  seen 
equalled  elsewhere.  I  rose  as  he  entered,  and  met 
him  about  the  middle  of  the  room  ;  he  kissed  my 
cheek  and  both  my  hands,  saying  : 

"  You  are  most  welcome,  dear  child,  as  welcome 


86  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

as  the  command  of  this  poor  place  and  all  that  it 
contains  can  make  you,  I  am  most  rejoiced  to  see 
you — truly  rejoiced.  I  trust  that  you  are  not  much 
fatigued— pray  be  seated  again."  He  led  me  to  my 
chair,  and  continued  :  "  I  am  glad  to  perceive  you 
have  made  acquaintance  with  Emily  already ;  I  see, 
in  your  being  thus  brought  together,  the  foundation 
of  a  lasting  friendship.  You  are  both  innocent,  and 
both  young.  God  bless  you — God  bless  you,  and 
make  you  all  that  I  could  wish  !  " 

He  raised  his  eyes,  and  remained  for  a  few 
moments  silent,  as  if  in  secret  prayer.  I  felt  that  it  was 
impossible  that  this  man,  with  feelings  so  quick,  so 
warm,  so  tender,  could  be  the  wretch  that  public 
opinion  had  represented  him  to  be.  I  was  more  than 
ever  convinced  of  his  innocence. 

His  manner  was,  or  appeared  to  me,  most  fascina- 
ting ;  there  was  a  mingled  kindness  and  courtesy  in 
it  which  seemed  to  speak  benevolence  itself.  It  was 
a  manner  which  I  felt  cold  art  could  never  have 
taught ;  it  owed  most  of  its  charm  to  its  appearing 
to  emanate  directly  from  the  heart;  it  must  be  a 
genuine  index  of  the  owner's  mind.     So  I  thought. 

My  uncle  having  given  me  fully  to  understand 
that  I  was  most  welcome,  and  might  command  what- 
ever was  his  own,  pressed  me  to  take  some  refresh- 
ment;  and  on  my  refusing,  he  observed  that  pre- 
viously to  bidding  me  good-night,  he  had  one   duty 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  %'j 

further  to  perform,  one  in  whose  observance  he  was 
convinced  I  would  cheerfully  acquiesce. 

He  then  proceeded  to  read  a  chapter  from  the 
Bible ;  after  which  he  took  his  leave  with  the  same 
affectionate  kindness  with  which  he  had  greeted  me, 
having  repeated  his  desire  that  I  should  consider 
everything  in  his  house  as  altogether  at  my  disposal. 
It  is  needless  to  say  that  I  was  much  pleased  with  my 
uncle — it  was  impossible  to  avoid  being  so ;  and  I 
could  not  help  saying  to  myself,  if  such  a  man  as 
this  is  not  safe  from  the  assaults  of  slander,  who  is  ? 
I  felt  much  happier  than  I  had  done  since  my  father's 
death,  and  enjoyed  that  night  the  first  refreshing 
sleep  which  had  visited  me  since  that  event. 

My  curiosity  respecting  my  male  cousin  did  not 
long  remain  unsatisfied — he  appeared  the  next  day 
at  dinner.  His  manners,  though  not  so  coarse  as  I 
had  expected,  were  exceedingly  disagreeable  ;  there 
was  an  assurance  and  a  forwardness  for  which  I  was  not 
prepared ;  there  was  less  of  the  vulgarity  of  manner, 
and  almost  more  of  that  of  the  mind,  than  I  had 
anticipated.  I  felt  quite  uncomfortable  in  his  pre- 
sence ;  there  was  just  that  confidence  in  his  look  and 
tone  which  would  read  encouragement  even  in  mere 
toleration  ;  and  I  felt  more  disgusted  and  annoyed  at 
the  coarse  and  extravagant  compliments  which  he  was 
pleased  from  time  to  time  to  pay  me,  than  perhaps  the 
extent  of  the  atrocity  might  fully  have  warranted.    It 


88  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

was,  however,  one  consolation  that  he  did  not  often 
appear,  being  much  engrossed  by  pursuits  about 
which  I  neither  knew  nor  cared  anything  ;  but  when 
he  did  appear,  his  attentions,  either  with  a  view  to 
his  amusement  or  to  some  more  serious  advantage, 
were  so  obviously  and  perseveringly  directed  to  me, 
that  young  and  inexperienced  as  I  was,  even  /  could 
not  be  ignorant  of  his  preference.  I  felt  more  pro- 
voked by  this  odious  persecution  than  I  can  express, 
and  discouraged  him  with  so  much  vigour,  that  I  em- 
ployed even  rudeness  to  convince  him  his  assiduities 
were  unwelcome  ;  but  all  in  vain. 

This  had  gone  on  for  nearly  a  twelvemonth,  to  my 
infinite  annoyance,  when  one  day  as  I  was  sitting  at 
some  needlework  with  my  companion  Emily,  as  was 
my  habit,  in  the  parlour,  the  door  opened,  and  my 
cousin  Edward  entered  the  room.  There  was  some- 
thing, I  thought,  odd  in  his  manner  ;  a  kind  of  struggle 
between  shame  and  impudence — a  kind  of  flurry 
and  ambiguity  which  made  him  appear,  if  possible, 
more  than  ordinarily  disagreeable. 

"  Your  servant,  ladies,'^  he  said,  seating  himself  at 
the  same  time  ;  "  sorry  to  spoil  your  tete-a-tete,  but 
never  mind  !  Til  only  take  Emily's  place  for  a  minute 
or  two;  and  then  we  part  for  a  while,  fair  cousin. 
Emily,  my  father  wants  you  in  the  corner  turret.  No 
shilly-shally;  he's  in  a  hurry."    She  hesitated.     "  Be 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  89 

off—tramp,  march  ! "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  which 
the  poor  girl  dared  not  disobey. 

She  left  the  room,  and  Edward  followed  her  to  the 
door.  He  stood  there  for  a  minute  or  two,  as 
if  reflecting  what  he  should  say,  perhaps  satisfy- 
ing himself  that  no  one  was  within  hearing  in  the 
hall. 

At  length  he  turned  about,  having  closed  the  door, 
as  if  carelessly,  with  his  foot ;  and  advancing  slowly, 
as  if  in  deep  thought,  he  took  his  seat  at  the  side  of 
the  table  opposite  to  mine. 

There  was  a  brief  interval  of  silence,  after  which  he 
said  : 

"  I  imagine  that  you  have  a  shrewd  suspicion  of 
the  object  of  my  early  visit ;  but  I  suppose  I  must 
go  into  particulars.     Must  I  ?"" 

"I  have  no  conception,"  I  replied,  "what  your 
object  may  be." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  he,  becoming  more  at  his  ease  as 
he  proceeded,  "  it  may  be  told  in  a  few  words.  You 
know  that  it  is  totally  impossible — quite  out  of  the 
question — that  an  off-hand  young  fellow  like  me,  and 
a  good-looking  girl  like  yourself,  could  meet  con- 
tinually, as  you  and  I  have  done,  without  an  attach- 
ment— a  liking  growing  up  on  one  side  or  other  ;  in 
short,  I  think  I  have  let  you  know  as  plain  as  if  I 
spoke  it,  that  I  have  been  in  love  with  you  almost 
from  the  first  time  I  saw  you." 


90        Passage  in  the  Secret  History,  &c. 

He  paused  ;  but  I  was  too  much  horrified  to  speak. 
He  interpreted  my  silence  favourably. 

"  I  can  tell  you,"  he  continued,  "  I'm  reckoned 
rather  hard  to  please,  and  very  hard  to  hit.  I  can't 
say  when  I  was  taken  with  a  girl  before ;  so  you  see 
fortune  reserved  me " 

Here  the  odious  wretch  wound  his  arm  round  my 
waist.  The  action  at  once  restored  me  to  utterance, 
and  with  the  most  indignant  vehemence  I  released 
myself  from  his  hold,  and  at  the  same  time  said  : 

"  I  have  not  been  insensible,  sir,  of  your  most  dis- 
agreeable attentions — they  have  long  been  a  source  of 
much  annoyance  to  me  ;  and  you  must  be  aware  that 
I  have  marked  my  disapprobation — my  disgust — as 
unequivocally  as  I  possibly  could,  without  actual 
indelicacy." 

I  paused,  almost  out  of  breath  from  the  rapidity 
with  which  I  had  spoken  ;  and,  without  giving  him 
time  to  renew  the  conversation,  I  hastily  quitted  the 
room,  leaving  him  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage  and  morti- 
fication. 

As  I  ascended  the  stairs,  I  heard  him  open  the 
parlour-door  with  violence,  and  take  two  or  three 
rapid  strides  in  the  direction  in  which  I  was  moving. 
I  was  now  much  frightened,  and  ran  the  whole  way 
until  I  reached  my  room ;  and  having  locked  the 
door,  I  listened  breathlessly,  but  heard  no  sound. 
This  relieved  me  for  the  present ;   but  so  much  had 


LEAVING     HIM    IN    A     PAR 

OXYSM    OK   RAGE   AND 

MORTIFICATION. 


%S.\iW">"^''    ^>^Y^wA.^^^ 


92  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

I  been  overcome  by  the  agitation  and  annoyance 
attendant  upon  the  scene  which  I  had  just  gone 
through,  that  when  Emily  knocked  at  my  door,  I 
was  weeping  in  strong  hysterics. 

You  will  readily  conceive  my  distress,  when  you 
reflect  upon  my  strong  dislike  to  my  cousin  Edward, 
combined  with  my  youth  and  extreme  inexperience. 
Any  proposal  of  such  a  nature  must  have  agitated 
me;  but  that  it  should  have  come  from  the  man 
whom  of  all  others  I  most  loathed  and  abhorred,  and 
to  whom  I  had,  as  clearly  as  manner  could  do  it, 
expressed  the  state  of  my  feelings,  was  almost  too 
overwhelming  to  be  borne.  It  was  a  calamity,  too, 
in  which  I  could  not  claim  the  sympathy  of  my 
cousin  Emily,  which  had  always  been  extended  to 
me  in  my  minor  grievances.  Still  I  hoped  that  it 
might  not  be  unattended  with  good ;  for  I  thought 
that  one  inevitable  and  most  welcome  consequence 
would  result  from  this  painful  eclaircissemeiit,  in  the 
discontinuance  of  my  cousin's  odious  persecution. 

When  I  arose  next  morning,  it  was  with  the  fer- 
vent hope  that  I  might  never  again  behold  the  face, 
or  even  hear  the  name,  of  my  cousin  Edward  ;  but 
such  a  consummation,  though  devoutly  to  be  wished, 
was  hardly  likely  to  occur.  The  painful  impressions 
of  yesterday  were  too  vivid  to  be  at  once  erased  ; 
and  I  could  not  help  feeling  some  dim  foreboding  of 
coming  annoyance  and  evil. 


of  an  Irish  Cottnfess.  93 

To  expect  on  my  suitor's  part  anything  like  deli- 
cacy or  consideration  for  me  was  out  of  the  question. 
I  saw  that  he  had  set  his  heart  upon  my  property, 
and  that  he  was  not  likely  easily  to  forego  such  an 
acquisition — possessing  what  might  have  been  con- 
sidered opportunities  and  facilities  almost  to  compel 
my  compliance. 

I  now  keenly  felt  the  unreasonableness  of  my 
father's  conduct  in  placing  me  to  reside  with  a  family 
of  all  whose  members,  with  one  exception,  he  was 
wholly  ignorant,  and  I  bitterly  felt  the  helplessness  of 
my  situation.  I  determined,  however,  in  case  of  my 
cousin's  persevering  in  his  addresses,  to  lay  all  the 
particulars  before  my  uncle  (although  he  had  never 
in  kindness  or  intimacy  gone  a  step  beyond  our  first 
interview),  and  to  throw  myself  upon  his  hospitality 
and  his  sense  of  honour  for  protection  against  a 
repetition  of  such  scenes. 

My  cousin's  conduct  may  appear  to  have  been  an 
inadequate  cause  for  such  serious  uneasiness ;  but 
my  alarm  was  caused  neither  by  his  acts  nor  words, 
but  entirely  by  his  manner,  which  was  strange  and 
even  intimidating  to  excess.  At  the  beginning  of 
yesterday's  interview  there  was  a  sort  of  bullying 
swagger  in  his  air,  which  towards  the  close  gave  place 
to  the  brutal  vehemence  of  an  undisguised  ruffian — 
a  transition  which  had  tempted  me  into  a  belief  that 
he  might  seek  even  forcibly  to  extort  from  me  a  con- 


94  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

sent  to  his  wishes,  or  by  means  still  more  horrible, 
of  which  I  scarcely  dared  to  trust  myself  to  think,  to 
possess  himself  of  my  property. 

I  was  early  next  day  summoned  to  attend  my 
uncle  in  his  private  room,  which  lay  in  a  corner 
turret  of  the  old  building  ;  and  thither  I  accordingly 
went,  wondering  all  the  way  what  this  unusual  mea- 
sure might  prelude.  When  I  entered  the  room,  he 
did  not  rise  in  his  usual  courteous  way  to  greet  me, 
but  simply  pointed  to  a  chair  opposite  to  his  own.  This 
boded  nothing  agreeable.  I  sat  down,  however, 
silently  waiting  until  he  should  open  the  conver- 
sation. 

"Lady  Margaret,"  at  length  he  said,  in  a  tone  of 
o-reater  sternness  than  I  had  thought  him  capable  of 
using,  "  I  have  hitherto  spoken  to  you  as  a  friend,  but 
I  have  not  forgotten  that  I  am  also  your  guardian, 
and  that  my  authority  as  such  gives  me  a  right  to 
control  your  conduct.  I  shall  put  a  question  to  you, 
and  I  expect  and  will  demand  a  plain,  direct  answer. 
Have  I  rightly  been  informed  that  you  have  con- 
temptuously rejected  the  suit  and  hand  of  my  son 
Edward  ? " 

I  stammered  forth  with  a  good  deal  of  trepidation  : 

"  I  believe — that  is,  I  have,  sir,  rejected  my  cousin's 
proposals  ;  and  my  coldness  and  discouragement 
might  have  convinced  him  that  I  had  determined  to 
do  so." 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  95 

"Madam,"  replied  he,  with  suppressed,  but,  as  it 
appeared  to  me,  intense  anger,  "  I  have  lived  long 
enough  to  know  that  coldness  and  discouragement, 
and  such  terms,  form  the  common  cant  of  a  worthless 
coquette.  You  know  to  the  full,  as  well  as  I,  that 
coldness  and  discouragement  may  be  so  exhibited  as  to 
convince  their  object  that  he  is  neither  distasteful  nor 
indifferent  to  the  person  who  wears  this  manner. 
You  know,  too,  none  better,  that  an  affected  neglect, 
when  skilfully  managed,  is  amongst  the  most  formid- 
able of  the  engines  which  artful  beauty  can  employ. 
I  tell  you,  madam,  that  having,  without  one  word 
spoken  in  discouragement,  permitted  my  son's  most 
marked  attentions  for  a  twelvemonth  or  more,  you 
have  no  right  to  dismiss  him  with  no  further  ex- 
planation than  demurely  telling  him  that  you  had 
always  looked  coldly  upon  him  ;  and  neither  your 
wealth  nor  your  ladyship"  (there  was  an  emphasis  of 
scorn  on  the  word,  which  would  have  become  Sir 
Giles  Overreach  himself)  "  can  warrant  you  in  treat- 
ing with  contempt  the  affectionate  regard  of  an 
honest  heart." 

I  was  too  much  shocked  at  this  undisguised 
attempt  to  bully  me  into  an  acquiescence  in  the 
interested  and  unprincipled  plan  for  their  own 
aggrandizement,  which  I  now  perceived  my  uncle 
and  his  son  to  have  deliberately  entered  into,  at  once 
to  find  strength  or  collectedness  to  frame  an  answer 


96  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

to  what  he  had  said.     At  length  I  repHed,  with  some 

firmness  : 

"  In  all  that  you  have  just  now  said,  sir,  you  have 
grossly  misstated  my  conduct  and  motives.  Your 
information  must  have  been  most  incorrect  as  far  as 
it  regards  my  conduct  towards  my  cousin  ;  my  manner 
towards  him  could  have  conveyed  nothing  but  dis- 
like ;  and  if  anything  could  have  added  to  the  strong 
aversion  which  I  have  long  felt  towards  him,  it  would 
be  his  attempting  thus  to  trick  and  frighten  me  into 
a  marriage  which  he  knows  to  be  revolting  to  me, 
and  which  is  sought  by  him  only  as  a  means  for 
securing  to  himself  whatever  property  is  mine." 

As  I  said  this,  I  fixed  my  eyes  upon  those  of  my 
uncle,  but  he  was  too  old  in  the  world's  ways  to  falter 
beneath  the  gaze  of  more  searching  eyes  than  mine  ; 
he  simply  said  : 

"  Are  you  acquainted  with  the  provisions  of  your 
father's  will  ?  " 

I  answered  in  the  affirmative  ;  and  he  continued  : 

"  Then  you  must  be  aware  that  if  my  son  Edward 
^ere — which  God  forbid — the  unprincipled,  reckless 
man  you  pretend  to  think  him" — (here  he  spoke 
very  slowly,  as  if  he  intended  that  every  word  which 
escaped  him  should  be  registered  in  my  memory, 
while  at  the  same  time  the  expression  of  his  coun- 
tenance underwent  a  gradual  but  horrible  change, 
and  the  eyes  which  he  fixed  upon   me  became  so 


of  an  Irish  Co7miess. 


97 


darkly  vivid,  that  I  almost  lost  sight  of  everything 
else) — "  if  he  were  what  you  have  described  him, 
think  you,  girl,  he  could  find  no  briefer  means  than 
wedding  contracts  to  gain  his  ends  ?  'twas  but  to  gripe 
your  slender  neck  until  the  breath  had  stopped,  and 
lands,  and  lakes,  and  all  were  his," 

I  stood  staring  at  him  for  many  minutes  after  he 


TWAS    BUT   TO   GRIPE    YOUR   SLENDER    NECK    UNTIL    THE   BREATH 
HAD   STOPPED." 


had  ceased  to  speak,  fascinated  by  the  terrible 
serpent-like  gaze,  until  he  continued  with  a  welcome 
change  of  countenance : 

"  I  will  not  speak  again  to  you  upon  this  topic 
until  one  month  has  passed.  You  shall  have  time  to 
consider  the  relative   advantages  of  the  two  courses 

H 


98  Passage  in  tJie  Secret  History 

which  are  open  to  you.  I  should  be  sorry  to  hurry 
you  to  a  decision.  I  am  satisfied  with  having  stated 
my  feelings  upon  the  subject,  and  pointed  out  to  you 
the  path  of  duty.  Remember  this  day  month — not 
one  word  sooner." 

He  then  rose,  and  I  left  the  room,  much  agitated 
and  exhausted. 

This  interview,  all  the  circumstances  attending  it, 
but  most  particularly  the  formidable  expression  of 
my  uncle's  countenance  while  he  talked,  though 
hypothetically,  of  murder,  combined  to  arouse  all  my 
worst  suspicions  of  him,  I  dreaded  to  look  upon 
the  face  that  had  so  recently  worn  the  appalling 
livery  of  guilt  and  malignity.  I  regarded  it  with  the 
mingled  fear  and  loathing  with  which  one  looks 
upon  an  object  which  has  tortured  them  in  a  nightmare. 

In  a  few  days  after  the  interview,  the  particulars 
of  which  I  have  just  related,  I  found  a  note  upon  my 
toilet-table,  and  on  opening  it  I  read  as  follows  : 

"My  dear  Lady  Margaret, 

"You  will  be  perhaps  surprised  to  see  a 
strange  face  in  your  room  to-day.  I  have  dismissed 
your  Irish  maid,  and  secured  a  French  one  to  wait 
upon  you — a  step  rendered  necessary  by  my  pro- 
posing shortly  to  visit  the  Continent,  with  all  my 
family. 

"  Your  faithful  guardian, 

"Arthur  T n." 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  99 

On  inquiry,  I  found  that  my  faithful  attendant 
was  actually  gone,  and  far  on  her  way  to  the  town 
of  Galway  ;  and  in  her  stead  there  appeared  a  tall, 
raw-boned,  ill-looking,  elderly  Frenchwoman,  whose 
sullen  and  presuming  manners  seemed  to  imply  that 
her  vocation  had  never  before  been  that  of  a  lady's 
maid.  I  could  not  help  regarding  her  as  a  creature 
of  my  uncle's,  and  therefore  to  be  dreaded,  even  had 
she  been  in  no  other  way  suspicious. 

Days  and  weeks  passed  away  without  any,  even 
a  momentary  doubt  upon  my  part,  as  to  the  course 
to  be  pursued  by  me.  The  allotted  period  had  at 
length  elapsed ;  the  day  arrived  on  which  I  was  to 
communicate  my  decision  to  my  uncle.  Although 
my  resolution  had  never  for  a  moment  wavered,  I 
could  not  shake  off  the  dread  of  the  approaching 
colloquy;  and  my  heart  sank  within  me  as  I  heard 
the  expected  summons. 

I  had  not  seen  my  cousin  Edward  since  the  oc- 
currence of  the  grand  eclaircissenient ;  he  must  have 
studiously  avoided  me — I  suppose  from  policy,  it 
could  not  have  been  from  delicacy.  I  was  prepared 
for  a  terrific  burst  of  fury  from  my  uncle,  as  soon  as 
I  should  make  known  my  determination  ;  and  I  not 
unreasonably  feared  that  some  act  of  violence  or  of 
intimidation  would  next  be  resorted  to. 

Filled  with  these  dreary  forebodings,  I  fearfully 
opened  the  study  door,  and  the  next   minute  I  stood 

H   2 


lOO  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

in  my  uncle's  presence.  He  received  me  with  a 
politeness  which  I  dreaded,  as  arguing  a  favourable 
anticipation  respecting  the  answer  which  I  was  to 
give ;  and  after  some  slight  delay,  he  began  by 
saying : 

"  It  will  be  a  relief  to  both  of  us,  I  believe,  to  bring 
this  conversation  as  soon  as  possible  to  an  issue. 
You  will  excuse  me,  then^  my  dear  niece,  for  speaking 
with  an  abruptness  which,  under  other  circumstances, 
would  be  unpardonable.  You  have,  I  am  certain, 
given  the  subject  of  our  last  interview  fair  and  serious 
consideration  ;  and  I  trust  that  you  are  now  prepared 
with  candour  to  lay  your  answer  before  me.  A  few 
words  will  suffice — we  perfectly  understand  one 
another." 

He  paused,  and  I,  though  feeling  that  I  stood 
upon  a  mine  which  might  in  an  instant  explode, 
nevertheless  answered  with  perfect  composure  : 

"  I  must  now,  sir,  make  the  same  reply  which  I  did 
upon  the  last  occasion,  and  I  reiterate  the  declaration 
which  I  then  made,  that  I  never  can  nor  will,  while 
life  and  reason  remain,  consent  to  a  union  with  my 
cousin  Edward." 

This  announcement  wrought  no  apparent  change 
in  Sir  Arthur,  except  that  he  became  deadly,  almost 
lividly  pale.  He  seemed  lost  in  dark  thought  for  a 
minute,  and  then  with  a  slight  effort  said  . 

"You   have  answered  me  honestly  and   directly; 


of  an  Irish  Coimtess.  loi 

and  you  say  your  resolution  Is  uachancjsab'l.^^  vV'ell. 
would  it  had  been  otherwise — would  it  had  been 
otherwise  ;  but  be  it  as  it  is,  I  am  satisfied." 

He  gave  me  his  hand — it  was  cold  and  damp  as 
death  ;  under  an  assumed  calmness,  it  was  evident 
that  he  was  fearfully  agitated.  He  continued  to  hold 
my  hand  with  an  almost  painful  pressure,  while,  as  if 
unconsciously,  seeming  to  forget  my  presence,  he 
muttered : 

"  Strange,  strange,  strange^  indeed  !  fatuity,  help- 
less fatuity  !  "  there  was  here  a  long  pause.  "  Madness 
indeed  to  strain  a  cable  that  is  rotten  to  the  very 
heart — it  must  break — and  then — all  goes." 

There  was  again  a  pause  of  some  minutes,  after 
which,  suddenly  changing  his  voice  and  manner  to 
one  of  wakeful  alacrity,  he  exclaimed  : 

"  Margaret;  my  son  Edward  shall  plague  you  no 
more.  He  leaves  this  country  on  to-morrow  for 
France — he  shall  speak  no  more  upon  this  subject — 
never,  never  more — whatever  events  depended  upon 
your  answer  must  now  take  their  own  course  ;  but, 
as  for  this  fruitless  proposal,  it  has  been  tried  enough  \ 
it  can  be  repeated  no  more." 

At  these  words  he  coldly  suffered  my  hand  to 
drop,  as  if  to  express  his  total  abandonment  of  all 
his  projected  schemes  of  alliance ;  and  certainly  the 
action,  with  the  accompanying  words,  produced  upon 
my  mind  a  more  solemn  and  depressing  effect  than 


rQ2  Possag£.  in  the  Secret  History 

/libeiieveql  possible  tQ have  been  caused  by  the  course 
which  I  had  determined  to  pursue ;  it  struck  upon 
my  heart  with  an  awe  and  heaviness  which  will 
accompany  the  accomphshment  of  an  important  and 
irrevocable  act,  even  though  no  doubt  or  scruple 
remains  to  make  it  possible  that  the  agent  should 
wish  it  undone. 

"  Well/'  said  my  uncle,  after  a  little  time,  "  we  now 
cease  to  speak  upon  this  topic,  never  to  resume  it 
again.  Remember  you  shall  have  no  further  un- 
easiness from  Edward  ;  he  leaves  Ireland  for  France 
on  to-morrow  ;  this  will  be  a  relief  to  you.  May  I 
depend  upon  your  honour  that  no  word  touching  the 
subject  of  this  interview  shall  ever  escape  you  ?  " 

I  gave  him  the  desired  assurance  ;  he  said  : 

"  It  is  well — I  am  satisfied;  we  have  nothing  more, 
I  believe,  to  say  upon  either  side,  and  my  presence 
must  be  a  restraint  upon  you,  I  shall  therefore  bid 
you  farewell." 

I  then  left  the  apartment,  scarcely  knowing  what 
to  think  of  the  stange  interview  which  had  just  taken 
place. 

On  the  next  day  my  uncle  took  occasion  to  tell 
me  that  Edward  had  actually  sailed,  if  his  intention 
had  not  been  interfered  with  by  adverse  circum- 
stances ;  and  two  days  subsequently  he  actually 
produced  a  letter  from  his  son,  written,  as  it  said,  on 
board,  and  despatched  while    the   ship  was  getting 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  1 03 

under  weigh.  This  was  a  great  satisfaction  to  me 
and  as  being  likely  to  prove  so,  it  was  no  doubt 
communciatcd  to  me  by  Sir  Arthur. 

During  all  this  trying  period,  I  had  found  infinite 
consolation  in  the  society  and  sympathy  of  my  dear 
cousin  Emily.  I  never  in  after-life  formed  a  friend- 
ship so  close,  so  fervent,  and  upon  which,  in  all  its 
progress,  I  could  look  back  with  feelings  of  such 
unalloyed  pleasure,  upon  whose  termination  I  must 
ever  dwell  with  so  deep,  yet  so  unembittered  regret. 
In  cheerful  converse  with  her  I  soon  recovered  my 
spirits  considerably,  and  passed  my  time  agreeably 
enough,  although  still  in  the  strictest  seclusion. 

Matters  went   on    sufficiently  smooth,  although  I 
could  not  help  sometimes  feeling  a  momentary,  but 
horrible  uncertainty  respecting  my  uncle's  character  ; 
which  was  not  altogether  unwarranted  by   the  cir- 
cumstances   of   the    two    trying    interviews    whose 
particulars    I    have   just   detailed.      The    unpleasant 
impression  which  these  conferences  were  calculated 
to    leave    upon  my    mind   was    fast   wearing    away, 
when  there  occurred  a  circumstance,  slight  indeed  in 
itself,  but  calculated    irresistibly  to    awaken    all  my 
worst  suspicions,  and  to  overwhelm   me  again   with 
anxiety  and  terror. 

I  had  one  day  left  the  house  with  my  cousin  Emily, 
in  order  to  take  a  ramble  of  considerable  length,  for 
the  purpose  of  sketching  some  favourite  views,  and 


I04  Passage  in  tJie  Secret  History 

he  had  walked  about  half  a  mile,  when  I  perceived 
that  we  had  forgotten  our  drawing  materials,  the 
absence  of  which  would  have  defeated  the  object  of 
our  walk.  Laughing  at  our  own  thoughtlessness,  we 
returned  to  the  house,  and  leaving  Emily  without,  I 
ran  upstairs  to  procure  the  drawing-books  and  pencils, 
which  lay  in  my  bedroom. 

As  I  ran  up  the  stairs  I  was  met  by  the  tall,  ill- 
looking  Frenchwoman,  evidently  a  good  deal  flurried. 

"Que  veut,  madame?"  said  she,  with  a  more  de- 
cided effort  to  be  polite  than  I  had  ever  known  her 
make  before. 

*'  No,  no — no  matter,"  said  I,  hastily  running  by 
her  in  the  direction  of  my  room. 

"  Madame,"  cried  she,  in  a  high  key,  "  rcstez  ici, 
s'il  vous  plait;  votre  chambre  n'est  pas  faitc — your 
room  is  not  ready  for  your  reception  yet." 

I  continued  to  move  on  without  heeding  her.  She 
was  some  way  behind  me,  and  feeling  that  she  could 
not  otherwise  prevent  my  entrance,  for  I  was  now 
upon  the  very  lobby,  she  made  a  desperate  attempt 
to  seize  hold  of  my  person  :  she  succeeded  in  grasp- 
ing the  end  of  my  shawl,  which  she  drew  from  my 
shoulders  ;  but  slipping  at  the  same  time  upon  the 
polished  oak  floor,  she  fell  at  full  length  upon  the 
boards. 

A  little  frightened  as  well  as  angry  at  the  rudeness 
of  this  strange   woman,   I   hastily  pushed  open   the 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  105 

door  of  my  room,  at  which  I  now  stood,  in  order  to 
escape  from  her ;  but  great  was  my  amazement  on 
entering  to  find  the  apartment  occupied. 

The  window  was  open,  and  beside  it  stood  two 
male  figures ;  they  appeared  to  be  examining  the 
fastenings  of  the  casement,  and  their  backs  \vere 
turned  towards  the  door.  One  of  them  was  my 
uncle  ;  they  both  turned  on  my  entrance,  as  if 
startled.  The  stranger  was  booted  and  cloaked,  and 
wore  a  heavy  broad-leafed  hat  over  his  brows.  He 
turned  but  for  a  moment,  and  averted  his  face ;  but  I 
had  seen  enough  to  convince  me  that  he  was  no  other 
than  my  cousin  Edward.  My  uncle  had  some  iron 
instrument  in  his  hand,  which  he  hastily  concealed 
behind  his  back  ;  and,  coming  towards  me,  said  some- 
thing as  if  in  an  explanatory  tone ;  but  I  was  too 
much  shocked  and  confounded  to  understand  what 
it  might  be.  He  said  something  about  "  repairs— 
window-frames — cold,  and  safety." 

I  did  not  wait,  however,  to  ask  or  to  receive  ex- 
planations, but  hastily  left  the  room.  As  I  went 
down  the  stairs  I  thought  I  heard  the  voice  of  the 
French  woman  in  all  the  shrill  volubility  of  excuse, 
which  was  met,  however,  by  suppressed  but  vehement 
imprecations,  or  what  seemed  to  me  to  be  such, 
in  which  the  voice  of  my  cousin  Edward  distinctly 
mingled. 

I  joined  my  cousin  Emily  quite  out  of  breath.     I 


io6  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

need  not  say  that  my  head  was  too  full  of  other 
things  to  think  much  of  drawing  for  that  day.  I 
imparted  to  her  frankly  the  cause  of  my  alarms,  but 
at  the  same  time  as  gently  as  I  could  ;  and  with  tears 
she  promised  vigilance,  and  devotion,  and  love.  1 
never  had  reason  for  a  moment  to  repent  the  un- 
reserved confidence  which  I  then  reposed  in  her. 
She  was  no  less  surprised  than  I  at  the  unexpected 
appearance  of  her  brother,  whose  departure  for  France 
neither  of  us  had  for  a  moment  doubted,  but  which 
was  now  proved  by  his  actual  presence  to  be  nothing 
more  than  an  imposture,  practised,  I  feared,  for  no 
good  end. 

The  situation  in  which  I  had  found  my  uncle  had 
removed  completely  all  my  doubts  as  to  his  designs. 
I  magnified  suspicions  into  certainties,  and  dreaded 
night  after  night  that  I  should  be  murdered  in  my 
bed.  The  nervousness  produced  by  sleepless  nights 
and  days  of  anxious  fears  increased  the  horrors  of 
my  situation  to  such  a  degree,  that  I  at  length  wrote 
a  letter  to  a  Mr.  Jefferies,  an  old  and  faithful  friend  of 
niy  father's, and  perfeciy  acquainted  with  all  his  affairs, 
praying  him,  for  God's  sake,  to  relieve  me  from  my 
present  terrible  situation,  and  communicating  without 
reserve  the  nature  and  grounds  of  my  suspicions. 

This  letter  I  kept  sealed  and  directed  for  two  or 
three  days  always  about  my  person — for  discovery 
would  have  been  ruinous — in  expectation  of  an  oppor- 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  107 

tunity  which  might  be  safely  trusted,  whereby  to  have 
it  placed  in  the  post-office.  As  neither  Emily  nor  I 
was  permitted  to  pass  beyond  the  precincts  of  the 
demesne  itself,  which  was  surrounded  by  high  walls 
formed  of  dry  stone,  the  difficulty  of  procuring  such 
an  opportunity  was  greatly  enhanced. 

At  this  time  Emily  had  a  short  conversation  with 
her  father,  which  she  reported  to  me  instantly. 

After  some  indifferent  matter,  he  had  asked  her 
whether  she  and  I  were  upon  good  terms,  and 
whether  I  was  unreserved  in  my  disposition.  She 
answered  in  the  affirmative  ;  and  he  then  inquired 
whether  I  had  been  much  surprised  to  find  him  in 
my  chamber  on  the  other  day.  She  answered  that  I 
had  been  both  surprised  and  amused. 

"  And  what  did  she  think  of  George  Wilson's 
appearance  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  "  inquired  she. 

"  Oh,  the  architect/'  he  answered,  "  who  is  to  con- 
tract for  the  repairs  of  the  house  ;  he  is  accounted  a 
handsome  fellow." 

"  She  could  not  see  his  face,"  said  Emily,  "  and  she 
was  in  such  a  hurry  to  escape  that  she  scared}' 
noticed  him." 

Sir  Arthur  appeared  satisfied,  and  the  conversation 
ended. 

This  slight  conversation,  repeated  accurately  to  me 
by  Emily,  had  the   effect   of    confirming,  if    indeed 


io8  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

anything  was  required  to  do  so,  all  that  I  had  before 
believed  as  to  Edward's  actual  presence ;  and  I 
naturally  became,  if  possible,  more  anxious  than 
ever  to  despatch  the  letter  to  Mr.  Jefferies.  An 
opportunity  at  length  occurred. 

As  Emily  and  I  were  walking  one  day  near  the 
gate  of  the  demesne,  a  man  from  the  village  happened 
to  be  passing  down  the  avenue  from  the  house ;  the 
spot  was  secluded,  and  as  this  person  was  not  con- 
nected by  service  with  those  whose  observation  I 
dreaded,  I  committed  the  letter  to  his  keeping,  with 
strict  injunctions  that  he  should  put  it  without  delay 
into  the  receiver  of  the  town  post-office  ;  at  the  same 
time  I  added  a  suitable  gratuity,  and  the  man, 
having  made  many  protestations  of  punctuality,  was 
soon  out  of  sight. 

He  was  hardly  gone  when  I  began  to  doubt  my 
discretion  in  having  trusted  this  person  ;  but  I  had 
no  better  or  safer  means  of  despatching  the  letter, 
and  I  was  not  warranted  in  suspecting  him  of  such 
wanton  dishonesty  as  an  inclination  to  tamper  with 
it ;  but  I  could  not  be  quite  satisfied  of  its  safety 
until  I  had  received  an  answer,  which  could  not 
arrive  for  a  few  days.  Before  I  did,  however,  an 
event  occurred  which  a  little  surprised  me. 

I  was  sitting  in  my  bedroom  early  in  the  day, 
reading  by  myself,  when  I  heard  a  knock  at  the 
door. 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  109 

"  Come  in,"  said  I ;  and  my  uncle  entered  the 
room. 

"Will  you  excuse  me  ?  "  said  he.  "  I  sought  you 
in  the  parlour,  and  thence  I  have  come  here.  I 
desire  to  say  a  word  with  you.  I  trust  that  you  have 
hitherto  found  my  conduct  to  you  such  as  that  of  a 
guardian  towards  his  ward  should  be." 

I  dared  not  withhold  my  assent. 

"And,"  he  continued,  "  I  trust  that  you  have  not 
found  me  harsh  or  unjust,  and  that  you  have  per- 
ceived, my  dear  niece,  that  I  have  sought  to  make 
this  poor  place  as  agreeable  to  you  as  may  be." 

I  assented  again  ;  and  he  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket,  whence  he  drew  a  folded  paper,  and  dashing 
it  upon  the  table  with  startling  emphasis,  he  said, — 

"  Did  you  write  that  letter  ?  " 

The  sudden  and  fearful  alteration  of  his  voice, 
manner,  and  face,  but,  more  than  all,  the  unexpected 
production  of  my  letter  to  Mr.  Jefferies,  which  I  at 
once  recognized,  so  confounded  and  terrified  me  that 
I  felt  almost  choking. 

I  could  not  utter  a  word. 

"  Did  you  write  that  letter  ? "  he  repeated,  with 
slow  and  intense  emphasis.  "  You  did,  liar  and 
hypocrite  I  You  dared  to  write  this  foul  and  in- 
famous libel  ;  but  it  shall  be  }our  last.  Men  will 
universally  believe  you  mad,  if  I  choose  to  call  for 
an  inquiry.     I  can   make  you  appear  so.     The  sus- 


I  TO  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

picions  expressed  in  this  letter  are  the  hallucinations 
^  ,  and  alarms  of  moping  lunacy.  I  have  defeated  your 
first  attempt,  madam  ;  and  by  the  holy  God,  if  ever 
you  make  another,  chains,  straw,  darkness,  and  the 
keeper's  whip  shall  be  your  lasting  portion  ! " 

With  these  astounding  words  he  left  the  room, 
leaving  me  almost  fainting. 

I  was  now  almost  reduced  to  despair;  my  last  cast 
had  failed  ;  I  had  no  course  left  but  that  of  eloping 
secretly  from  the  castle  and  placing  myself  under 
the  protection  of  the  nearest  magistrate.  I  felt  if 
this  were  not  done,  and  speedily,  that  I  should  be 
murdered. 

No  one,  from  mere  description,  can  have  an  idea 
of  the  unmitigated  horror  of  my  situation— a  helpless, 
weak,  inexperienced  girl,  placed  under  the  power  and 
wholly  at  the  mercy  of  evil  men,  and  feeling  that  she 
had  it  not  in  her  power  to  escape  for  a  moment  from 
the  malignant  influences  under  which  she  was  pro- 
bably fated  to  fail  ;  and  with  a  consciousness  that  if 
violence,  if  murder  were  designed,  her  dying  shriek 
would  be  lost  in  void  space  ;  no  human  being  would 
be  near  to  aid  her,  no  human  interposition  could 
deliver  her. 

I  had  seen  Edward  but  once  during  his  visit,  and, 
as  I  did  not  meet  with  him  again,  I  began  to  think 
that  he  must  have  taken  his  departure — a  conviction 
which    was    to    a    certain    degree    satisfactory,    as    I 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  ill 

regarded  his  absence  as  indicating  the  removal  of 
immediate  danger. 

Emily  also  arrived  circuitously  at  the  same  conclu- 
sion, and  not  without  good  grounds,  for  she  managed 
indirectly  to  learn  that  Edward's  black  horse  had 
actually  been  for  a  day  and  part  of  a  night  in  the 
castle  stables,  just  at  the  time  of  her  brother's  sup- 
posed visit.  The  horse  had  gone  and,  as  she  argued, 
the  rider  must  have  departed  with  it. 

This  point  being  so  far  settled,  I  felt  a  little  less 
uncomfortable  ;  when,  being  one  day  alone  in  my 
bedroom,  I  happened  to  look  out  from  the  window, 
and,  to  my  unutterable  horror,  I  beheld,  peering 
through  an  opposite  casement,  my  cousin  Edward's 
face.  Had  I  seen  the  evil  one  himself  in  bodily 
shape,  I  could  not  have  experienced  a  more  sickening 
revulsion. 

I  was  too  much  appalled  to  move  at  once  from  the 
window,  but  I  did  so  soon  enough  to  avoid  his  eye. 
He  was  looking  fixedly  into  the  narrow  quadrangle 
upon  which  the  window  opened.  I  shrank  back  un- 
perceived,  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  terror  and 
despair,  I  went  to  my  room  early  that  night,  but  I 
was  too  miserable  to  sleep. 

At  about  twelve  o'clock,  feeling  very  nervous,  I 
determined  to  call  my  cousin  Emily,  who  slept,  you 
will  remember,  in  the  next  room,  which  communi- 
cated with   mine  by  a  second  door.     By  this  private 


112  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

entrance  I  found  my  way  into  her  chamber,  and 
without  difficulty  persuaded  her  to  return  to  my 
room  and  sleep  with  me.  We  accordingly  lay  down 
together,  she  undressed,  and  I  with  my  clothes  on, 
for  I  was  every  moment  walking  up  and  down  the 
room,  and  felt  too  nervous  and  miserable  to  think  of 
rest  or  comfort. 

Emily  was  soon  fast  asleep,  and  I  lay  awake,  fer- 
vently longing  for  the  first  pale  gleam  of  morning  ; 
reckoning  every  stroke  of  the  old  clock  with  an 
impatience  which  made  every  hour  appear  like  six. 

It  must  have  been  about  one  o'clock  when  I 
thought  I  heard  a  slight  noise  at  the  partition-door 
between  Emily's  room  and  mine,  as  if  caused  by 
somebody  turning  the  key  in  the  lock.  I  held  my 
breath,  and  the  same  sound  was  repeated  at  the 
second  door  of  my  room — that  which  opened  upon 
the  lobby — the  sound  was  here  distinctly  caused  by 
the  revolution  of  the  bolt  in  the  lock,  and  it  was 
followed  by  a  slight  pressure  upon  the  door  itself,  as 
if  to  ascertain  the  security  of  the  lock. 

The  person,  whoever  it  might  be,  was  probably 
satisfied,  for  I  heard  the  old  boards  of  the  lobby 
creak  and  strain,  as  if  under  the  weight  of  somebody 
moving  cautiously  over  them.  My  sense  of  hear- 
ing became  unnaturally,  almost  painfully  acute.  I 
suppose  my  imagination  added  distinctness  to  sounds 
vague  in  themselves.     I  thought  that  I  could  actually 


of  an  frisk  Countess.  1 1 3 

hear  the  breathing  of  the  person  who  was  slowly 
returning  down  the  lobby.  At  the  head  of  the 
staircase  there  appeared  to  occur  a  pause ;  and  I 
could  distinctly  hear  two  or  three  sentences  hastily 
whispered  ;  the  steps  then  descended  the  stairs  with 
apparently  less  caution.  I  now  ventured  to  walk 
quickly  and  lightly  to  the  lobby  door,  and  attempted 
to  open  it ;  it  was  indeed  fast  locked  upon  the  out- 
side, as  was  also  the  other. 

I  now  felt  that  the  dreadful  hour  was  come  ;  but 
one  desperate  expedient  remained — it  was  to  awaken 
Emily,  and  by  our  united  strength  to  attempt  to 
force  the  partition-door,  which  was  slighter  than  the 
other,  and  through  this  to  pass  to  the  lower  part  of 
the  house,  whence  it  might  be  possible  to  escape  to 
the  grounds,  and  forth  to  the  village. 

I  returned  to  the  bedside  and  shook  Emily,  but 
in  vain.  Nothing  that  I  could  do  availed  to  produce 
from  her  more  than  a  few  incoherent  words — it  was 
a  deathlike  sleep.  She  had  certainly  drunk  of  some 
narcotic,  as  had  I  probably  also,  spite  of  all  the 
caution  with  which  I  had  examined  everything  pre- 
sented to  us  to  eat  or  drink. 

I  now  attempted,  with  as  little  noise  as  possible, 
to  force  first  one  door,  then  the  other ;  but  all  in 
vain.  I  believe  no  strength  could  have  effected  my 
object,  for  both  doors  opened  inwards.  I  therefore 
collected  whatever  movables  I   could  carry  thither, 

I 


1 1 4,  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

and  piled  them  against  the  doors,  so  as  to  assist  me 
in  whatever  attempts  I  should  make  to  resist  the 
entrance  of  those  without.  I  then  returned  to  the 
bed  and  endeavoured  again,  but  fruitlessly,  to  awaken 
my  cousin.  It  was  not  sleep,  it  was  torpor,  lethargy, 
death.  I  knelt  down  and  prayed  with  an  agony  of 
earnestness  ;  and  then  seating  myself  upon  the  bed, 
I  awaited  my  fate  with  a  kind  of  terrible  tran- 
quillity. 

I  heard  a  faint  clanking  sound  from  the  narrow 
court  which  I  have  already  mentioned,  as  if  caused 
by  the  scraping  of  some  iron  instrument  against 
stones  or  rubbish.  I  at  first  determined  not  to  dis- 
turb the  calmness  which  I  now  felt  by  uselessly 
watching  the  proceedings  of  those  who  sought  my 
life ;  but  as  the  sounds  continued,  the  horrible 
curiosity  which  I  felt  overcame  every  other  emotion, 
and  I  determined,  at  all  hazards,  to  gratify  it.  I 
therefore  crawled  upon  my  knees  to  the  window,  so 
as  to  let  the  smallest  portion  of  my  head  appear 
above  the  sill. 

The  moon  was  shining  with  an  uncertain  radiance 
upon  the  antique  grey  buildings,  and  obliquely  upon 
the  narrow  court  beneath,  one  side  of  which  was 
therefore  clearly  illuminated,  while  the  other  was  lost 
in  obscurity  ;  the  sharp  outlines  of  the  old  gables, 
with  their  nodding  clusters  of  ivy,  being  at  first  alone 
visible. 


of  an  h'ish  Coimtcss.  115 

Whoever  or  whatever  occasioned  the  noise  which 
had  excited  my  curiosity,  was  concealed  under  the 
shadow  of  the  dark  side  of  the  quadrangle.  I  placed 
my  hand  over  my  eyes  to  shade  them  from  the 
moonlight,  which  was  so  bright  as  to  be  almost 
dazzling,  and,  peering  into  the  darkness,  I  first  dimly, 
but  afterwards  gradually  almost  with  full  distinctness, 
beheld  the  form  of  a  man  engaged  in  digging  what 
appeared  to  be  a  rude  hole  close  under  the  wall. 
Some  implements,  probably  a  shovel  and  pickaxe, 
lay  beside  him,  and  to  these  he  every  now  and  then 
applied  himself  as  the  nature  of  the  ground  required. 
He  pursued  his  task  rapidly,  and  with  as  little  noise 
as  possible. 

"  So,"  thought  I,  as,  shovelful  after  shovelful,  the 
dislodged  rubbish  mounted  into  a  heap,  "  they  are 
digging  the  grave  in  which,  before  two  hours  pass,  I 
must  lie,  a  cold,  mangled  corpse.  I  am  theirs — I 
cannot  escape." 

I  felt  as  if  my  reason  was  leaving  me.  I  started 
to  my  feet,  and  in  mere  despair  I  applied  myself 
again  to  each  of  the  two  doors  alternately.  I 
strained  every  nerve  and  sinew,  but  I  might  as  well 
have  attempted,  with  my  single  strength,  to  force  the 
building  itself  from  its  foundation.  I  threw  myself 
madly  upon  the  ground,  and  clasped  my  hands 
over  my  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  the  horrible  images 
which  crowded  upon  me. 

I  2 


[  1 6  PassaoT  in  the  Seci-et  History 

The  paroxysm  passed  away.  I  prayed  once  more, 
with  the  bitter,  agonized  fervour  of  one  who  feels 
that  the  hour  of  death  is  present  and  inevitable. 
When  I  arose,  I  went  once  more  to  the  window  and 
looked  out,  just  in  time  to  see  a  shadowy  figure  glide 
stealthily  along  the  wall.  The  task  was  finished. 
The  catastrophe  of  the  tragedy  must  scon  be  accom- 
plished. 

I  determined  now  to  defend  my  life  to  the  last  ; 
and  that  I  might  be  able  to  do  so  with  some  effect,  I 
searched  the  room  for  something  which  might  serve 
as  a  weapon  ;  but  either  through  accident,  or  from 
an  anticipation  of  such  a  possibility,  everything 
which  might  have  been  made  available  for  such  a 
purpose  had  been  carefully  removed.  I  must  then 
die  tamely,  and  without  an  effort  to  defend  myself. 

A  thought  suddenly  struck  me — might  it  not  be 
possible  to  escape  through  the  door,  which  the 
assassin  must  open  in  order  to  enter  the  room  ?  I 
resolved  to  make  the  attempt.  I  felt  assured  that 
the  door  through  which  ingress  to  the  room  would 
be  effected  was  that  which  opened  upon  the  lobby. 
It  was  the  more  direct  way,  besides  being,  for  obvious 
reasons,  less  liable  to  interruption  than  the  other. 
I  resolved,  then,  to  place  myself  behind  a  projection 
of  the  wall,  whose  shadow  would  serve  fully  to  con- 
ceal me,  and  when  the  door  should  be  opened,  and 
before  they  should  have  discovered  the  identity  of 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  1 1 7 

the  occupant  of  the  bed,  to  creep  noiselessly  from 
the  room,  and  then  to  trust  to  Providence  for  escape. 
In  order  to  facilitate  this  scheme,  I  removed  all 
the  lumber  which  I  had  heaped  against  the  door ; 
and  I  had  nearly  completed  my  arrangements,  when 
I  perceived  the  room  suddenly  darkened  by  the 
close  approach  of  some  shadowy  object  to  the 
window.  On  turning  my  eyes  in  that  direction,  I 
observed  at  the  top  of  the  casement,  as  if  suspended 
from  above,  first  the  feet,  then  the  legs,  then  the 
body,   and    at   length    the    whole  figure    of  a    man 

present  himself.     It  was  Edward  T n. 

He  appeared  to  be  guiding  his  descent  so  as  to 
bring  his  feet  upon  the  centre  of  the  stone  block 
which  occupied  the  lower  part  of  the  window  ;  and, 
having  secured  his  footing  upon  this,  he  kneeled 
down  and  began  to  gaze  into  the  room.  As  the 
moon  was  gleaming  into  the  chamber,  and  the  bed- 
curtains  were  drawn,  he  was  able  to  distinguish  the 
bed  itself  and  its  contents.  He  appeared  satisfied 
with  his  scrutiny,  for  he  looked  up  and  made  a  sign 
with  his  hand,  upon  which  the  rope  by  which  his 
descent  had  been  effected  was  slackened  from  above, 
and  he  proceeded  to  disengage  it  from  his  waist ;  this 
accomplished,  he  applied  his  hands  to  the  window- 
frame,  which  must  have  been  ingeniously  con- 
trived for  the  purpose,  for,  with  apparently  no  resis- 
tance, the  whole  frame,  containing  casement  and  all. 


1 1 S  Passage  iii  the  Secret  History 

slipped  from  its  position  in  the  wall,  and  was  by  him 
lowered  into  the  room. 

The  cold  night  wind  waved  the  bed-curtains,  and 
he  paused  for  a  moment ;  all  was  still  again,  and 
he  stepped  in  upon  the  floor  of  the  room.  He  held 
in  his  hand  what  appeared  to  be  a  steel  instrument, 
shaped  something  like  a  hammer,  but  larger  and 
sharper  at  the  extremities.  This  he  held  rather 
behind  him,  while,  with  three  long,  tip-toe  strides,  he 
brought  himself  to  the  bedside. 

I  felt  that  the  discovery  must  now  be  made,  and 
held  my  breath  in  momentary  expectation  of  the 
execration  in  which  he  would  vent  his  surprise  and 
disappointment.  I  closed  my  eyes — there  was  a 
pause,  but  it  was  a  short  one.  I  heard  two  dull 
blows,  given  in  rapid  succession :  a  quivering  sigh, 
and  the  long-drawn,  heavy  breathing  of  the  sleeper 
was  for  ever  suspended.  I  unclosed  my  eyes,  and 
saw  the  murderer  fling  the  quilt  across  the  head  of 
his  victim  :  he  then,  with  the  instrument  of  death 
still  in  his  hand,  proceeded  to  the  lobby  door,  upon 
which  he  tapped  sharply  twice  or  thrice.  A  quick 
step  was  then  heard  approaching,  and  a  voice  whis- 
pered something  from  without.  Edward  answered, 
with  a  kind  of  chuckle,  "  Her  ladyship  is  past  com- 
plaining ;  unlock  the  door,  in  the  devil's  name, 
unless  you're  afraid  to  come  in,  and  help  me  to  lift 
the  body  out  of  the  window." 


of  an  Irish  Countess.  119 

The  key  was  turned  in  the  lock— the  door  opened, 
and  my  uncle  entered  the  room. 

I  have  told  you  already  that  I  had  placed  myself 
under  the  shade  of  a  projection  of  the  wall,  close  to 
the  door.  I  had  instinctively  shrunk  down,  cowering 
towards  the  ground,  on  the  entrance  of  Edward 
through  the  window.  When  my  uncle  entered  the 
room,  he  and  his  son  both  stood  so  very  close  to  me 
that  his  hand  was  every  moment  upon  the  point  of 
touching  my  face.  I  held  my  breath,  and  remained 
motionless  as  death, 

"You  had  no  interruption  from  the  next  room  ?" 
said  my  uncle.  ■'; 

"  No,"  was  the  brief  reply. 

"  Secure  the  jewels,  Ned  ;  the  French  harpy  must 
not  lay  her  claws  upon  them.  You're  a  steady  hand, 
by  G !  not  much  blood — eh  ?  " 

"  Not  twenty  drops,"  replied  his  son,  "  and  those 
on  the  quilt." 

"  I'm  glad  it's  over,"  whispered  my  uncle  again. 
"We  must  lift  the — the  tJiing  through  the  window 
and  lay  the  rubbish  over  it." 

They  then  turned  to  the  bedside,  and,  winding  the 
bed-clothes  round  the  body,  carried  it  between  them 
slowly  to  the  window,  and,  exchanging  a  few  brief 
words  with  some  one  below,  they  shoved  it  over  the 
window-sill,  and  I  heard  it  fall  heavily  on  the  ground 
underneath. 


I20  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

"  I'll  take  the  jewels,"  said  my  uncle  ;  "  there  are 
two  caskets  in  the  lower  drawer." 

He  proceeded,  with  an  accuracy  which,  had  I  been 
more  at  ease,  would  have  furnished  me  with  matter 
of  astonishment,  to  lay  his  hand  upon  the  very  spot 
where  my  jewels  lay  ;  and  having  possessed  himself 
of  them,  he  called  to  his  son  : 

"  Is  the  rope  made  fast  above  ? " 

"  I'm  not  a  fool — to  be  sure  it  is,"  replied  he. 

They  then  lowered  themselves  from  the  window. 
I  now  rose  lightly  and  cautiously,  scarcely  daring  to 
breathe,  from  my  place  of  concealment,  and  was 
creeping  towards  the  door,  when  I  heard  my  cousin's 
voice,  in  a  sharp  whisper,  exclaim  ;  "  Scramble  up 

again  !  G — d  d n  you,  you've  forgot  to  lock  the 

room-door  !  "  and  I  perceived,  by  the  straining  of  the 
rope  which  hung  from  above,  that  the  mandate  was 
instantly  obeyed. 

Not  a  second  was  to  be  lost.  I  passed  through  the 
door,  which  was  only  closed,  and  moved  as  rapidly 
as  I  could,  consistently  with  stillness,  along  the  lobby. 
Before  I  had  gone  many  yards,  I  heard  the  door 
through  which  I  had  just  passed  double-locked  on 
the  inside.  I  glided  down  the  stairs  in  terror,  lest,  at 
every  corner,  I  should  meet  the  murderer  or  one  of 
his  accomplices. 

I  reached  the  hall,  and  listened  for  a  moment,  to 
ascertain  whether  all  was  silent  around  ;  no  sound 


of  a7i  Irish  Countess.  1 2 1 

was  audible.  The  parlour  windows  opened  on  the 
park,  and  through  one  of  them  I  might,  I  thought, 
easily  effect  my  escape.  Accordingly,  I  hastily 
entered  ;  but,  to  my  consternation,  a  candle  was 
burning  in  the  room,  and  by  its  light  I  saw  a  figure 
seated  at  the  dinner-table,  upon  which  lay  glasses, 
bottles,  and  the  other  accompaniments  of  a  drinking- 
party.  Two  or  three  chairs  were  placed  about  the 
table  irregularly,  as  if  hastily  abandoned  by  their 
occupants. 

A  single  glance  satisfied  me  that  the  figure  was 
that  of  my  French  attendant.  She  was  fast  asleep, 
having  probably  drunk  deeply.  There  was  some- 
thing malignant  and  ghastly  in  the  calmness  of  this 
bad  woman's  features,  dimly  illuminated  as  they  were 
by  the  flickering  blaze  of  the  candle.  A  knife  lay 
upon  the  table,  and  the  terrible  thought  struck  me — 
"  Should  I  kill  this  sleeping  accomplice,  and  thus 
secure  my  retreat  ?  " 

Nothing  could  be  easier — it  was  but  to  draw  the 
blade  across  her  throat — the  work  of  a  second.  An 
instant's  pause,  however,  corrected  me.  "  No," 
thought  I,  "  the  God  who  has  conducted  me  thus  far 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  will  not 
abandon  me  now.  I  will  fall  into  their  hands,  or  I 
will  escape  hence,  but  it  shall  be  free  from  the  stain 
of  blood.     His  will  be  done  !  " 

I  felt  a  confidence  arising  from  this  reflection,  an 


I  22  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

assurance  of  protection  which  I  cannot  describe. 
There  was  no  other  means  of  escape,  so  I  advanced, 
with  a  firm  step  and  collected  mind,  to  the  window. 
I  noiselessly  withdrew  the  bars  and  unclosed  the 
shutters — I  pushed  open  the  casement,  and,  without 
waiting  to  look  behind  me,  I  ran  with  my  utmost 
speed,  scarcely  feeling  the  ground  under  me,  down 
the  avenue,  taking  care  to  keep  upon  the  grass  which 
bordered  it. 

I  did  not  for  a  moment  slacken  my  speed,  and  I 
had  now  gained  the  centre  point  between  the  park-gate 
and  the  mansion-house.  Here  the  avenue  made  a 
wider  circuit,  and  in  order  to  avoid  delay,  I  directed 
my  way  across  the  smooth  sward  round  which  the 
pathway  wound,  intending,  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
flat,  at  a  point  which  I  distinguished  by  a  group  of 
old  birch-trees,  to  enter  again  upon  the  beaten  track, 
which  v/as  from  thence  tolerably  direct  to  the  gate. 

I  had,  with  my  utmost  speed,  got  about  half  way 
across  this  broad  flat,  when  the  rapid  treading  of  a 
horse's  hoofs  struck  upon  my  ear.  My  heart  swelled 
in  my  bosom  as  though  I  would  smother.  The 
clattering  of  galloping  hoofs  approached — I  was 
pursued — they  were  now  upon  the  sward  on  which  I 
was  running — there  was  not  a  bush  or  a  bramble  to 
shelter  me — and,  as  if  to  render  escape  altogether 
desperate,  the  moon,  which  had  hitherto  been  ob- 
scured,  at   this  moment   shone  forth   with  a    broad 


of  an  Irish  Coimtess.  123 

clear  light,  which  made  every  object  distinctly 
visible. 

The  sounds  were  now  close  behind  me.  I  felt  my 
knees  bending  under  me,  with  the  sensation  which 
torments  one  in  dreams.  I  reeled — I  stumbled — I 
fell — and  at  the  same  instant  the  cause  of  my  alarm 
wheeled  past  me  at  full  gallop.  It  was  one  of  the 
young  fillies  which  pastured  loose  about  the  park, 
whose  frolics  had  thus  all  but  maddened  me  with 
terror.  I  scrambled  to  my  feet,  and  rushed  on  with 
weak  but  rapid  steps,  m,y  sportive  companion  still 
galloping  round  and  round  me  with  many  a  frisk  and 
fling,  until,  at  length,  more  dead  than  alive,  I  reached 
the  avcnuc-gate,  and  crossed  the  stile,  I  scarce  knew 
how. 

I  ran  through  the  village,  in  which  all  was  silent 
as  the  grave,  until  my  progress  was  arrested  by  the 
hoarse  voice  of  a  sentinel,  who  cried,  "  Who  goes 
there  1 "  I  felt  that  I  was  now  safe.  I  turned  in  the 
direction  of  the  voice,  and  fell  fainting  at  the  soldier's 
feet.  When  I  came  to  myself,  I  was  sitting  in  a 
miserable  hovel,  surrounded  by  strange  faces,  all 
bespeaking  curiosity  and  compassion. 

Many  soldiers  were  in  it  also  :  indeed,  as  I  after- 
wards found,  it  was  employed  as  a  guard-room  by  a 
detachment  of  troops  quartered  for  that  night  in  the 
town.  In  a  {q.\\  words  I  informed  their  officer  of  the 
circumstances  which   had  occurred,  describing  also 


124  Passage  in  the  Secret  History 

the  appearance  of  the  persons  engaged  in  the  murder; 
and  he,  without  loss  of  time,  proceeded  to  the  mansion- 
house  of  Carrickleigh,  taking  with  him  a  party  of  his 
men.  But  the  villains  had  discovered  their  mistake, 
and  had  effected  their  escape  before  the  arrival  of 
the  military. 

The  Frenchwoman  was,  however,  arrested  in  the 
neighbourhood  upon  the  next  day.  She  was  tried 
and  condemned  upon  the  ensuing  assizes ;  and  pre- 
vious to  her  execution,  confessed  that  ^^  she  had  a 
hand  in  making  Hugh  Tisdall's  bed!'  She  had  been 
a  housekeeper  in  the  castle  at  the  time,  and  a  kind  of 
cJicre  aniie  of  my  uncle's.  She  was,  in  reality,  able  to 
speak  English  like  a  native^  but  had  exclusively  used 
the  French  language,  I  suppose,  to  facilitate  her 
disguise.  She  died  the  same  hardened  wretch 
she  had  lived,  confessing  her  crimes  only,  as  she 
alleged,  that  her  doing  so  might  involve  Sir  Arthur 

T n,  the  great  author  of  her  guilt  and  misery,  and 

whom  she  now  regarded  with  unmitigated  detes- 
tation. 

With  the  particulars  of  Sir  Arthur's  and  his  son's 
escape,  as  far  as  they  are  known,  you  are  acquainted. 
You  are  also  in  possession  of  their  after  fate — the 
terrible,  the  tremendous  retribution  which,  after  long 
delays  of  many  years,  finally  overtook  and  crushed 
them.  Wonderful  and  inscrutable  are  the  dealings 
of  God  with  His  creatures. 


of  an  Irish  Cojmtess.  125 

Deep  and  fervent  as  must  always  bo  my  gratitude 
to  Heaven  for  my  deliverance,  effected  by  a  chain  of 
providential  occurrences,  the  failing  of  a  single  link 
of  which  must  have  ensured  my  destruction,  I  was 
long  before  I  could  look  back  upon  it  with  other 
feelings  than  those  of  bitterness,  almost  of  agony. 
The  only  being  that  had  ever  really  loved  me,  my 
nearest  and  dearest  friend,  ever  ready  to  sympathize, 
to  counsel,  and  to  assist — the  gayest,  the  gentlest, 
the  warmest  heart ;  the  only  creature  on  earth  that 
cared  for  me — her  life  had  been  the  price  of  my 
deliverance ;  and  I  then  uttered  the  wish,  which  no 
event  of  my  long  and  sorrowful  life  has  taught  me 
to  recall,  that  she  had  been  spared,  and  that,  in 
her  stead,  /were  mouldering  in  the  grave,  forgotten 
and  at  rest. 


You  will  no  doubt  be  surprised,  my  dear  friend,  at 
the  subject  of  the  following  narrative.  What  had  I 
to  do  with  Schalken,  or  Schalkcn  with  me  ?  He 
had  returned  to  his  native  land,  and  was  probably 
dead  and  buried  before  I  was  born  ;  I  never  visited 
Holland,  nor  spoke  with  a  native  of  that  country. 
So  much  I  believe  you  already  know.  I  must,  then, 
give  you  my  authority,  and  state  to  you  frankly  the 
ground  upon  which  rests  the  credibility  of  the  strange 
story  which  I  am  about  to  lay  before  you. 

I  was  acquainted,  in  my  early  days,  with  a  Captain 
Vandael,  whose  father  had  served  King  William  in 
the  Low  Countries,  and  also  in  my  own  unhappy 
land  during  the  Irish  campaigns.     I  know  not  how 


Strange  Eve7it  in  the  Life  of  Schalken.     127 

it  happened  that  I  liked  this  man's  society,  spite  of 
his  politics  and  religion  :  but  so  it  was  ;  and  it  was 
by  means  of  the  free  intercourse  to  which  our  inti- 
macy gave  rise  that  I  became  possessed  of  the  curious 
tale  which  you  are  about  to  hear. 

I  had  often  been  struck,  while  visiting  Vandael, 
by  a  remarkable  picture,  in  which,  though  no  con- 
noisseiir  myself,  I  could  not  fail  to  discern  some  very 
strong  peculiarities,  particularly  in  the  distribution  of 
light  and  shade,  as  also  a  certain  oddity  in  the  design 
itself,  which  interested  my  curiosity.  It  represented 
the  interior  of  what  might  be  a  chamber  in  some 
antique  religious  building — the  foreground  was  occu- 
pied by  a  female  figure,  arrayed  in  a  species  of  white 
robe,  part  of  which  was  arranged  so  as  to  form  a  veil. 
The  dress,  however,  was  not  strictly  that  of  any  reli- 
gious order.  In  its  hand  the  figure  bore  a  lamp,  by 
whose  light  alone  the  form  and  face  were  illuminated  ; 
the  features  were  marked  by  an  arch  smile,  such  as 
pretty  women  wear  when  engaged  in  successfully 
practising  some  roguish  trick  ;  in  the  background, 
and  (excepting  where  the  dim  red  light  of  an  expiring 
fire  serves  to  define  the  form)  totally  in  the  shade, 
stood  the  figure  of  a  man  equipped  in  the  old  fashion, 
with  doublet  and  so  forth,  in  an  attitude  of  alarm,  his 
hand  being  placed  upon  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  which 
he  appeared  to  be  in  the  act  of  drawing. 

"  There  are  some  pictures,"  said  I  to  my  friend, 


128  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

*'  which  impress  one,  I  know  not  how,  with  a  con- 
viction that  they  represent  not  the  mere  ideal  shapes 
and  combinations  which  have  floated  through  the 
imagination  of  the  artist,  but  scenes,  faces,  and  situa- 
tions which  have  actually  existed.  When  I  look 
upon  that  picture,  something  assures  me  that  I 
behold  the  representation  of  a  reality/' 

Vandael  smiled,  and,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  the 
painting  musingly,  he  said, — 

"  Your  fancy  has  not  deceived  you,  my  good  friend, 
for  that  picture  is  the  record,  and  I  believe  a  faithful 
one,  of  a  remarkable  and  mysterious  occurrence.  It 
was  painted  by  Schalken,  and  contains,  in  the  face 
of  the  female  figure  which  occupies  the  most  promi- 
nent place  in  the  design,  an  accurate  portrait  of  Rose 
Velderkaust,  the  niece  of  Gerard  Douw,  the  first  and, 
I  believe,  the  only  love  of  Godfrey  Schalken.  My 
father  knew  the  painter  well,  and  from  Schalken  him- 
self he  learned  the  story  of  the  mysterious  drama, 
one  scene  of  which  the  picture  has  embodied.  This 
painting,  which  is  accounted  a  fine  specimen  of 
Schalken's  style,  was  bequeathed  to  my  father  by 
the  artist's  will,  and,  as  you  have  observed,  is  a  very 
striking  and  interesting  production." 

I  had  only  to  request  Vandael  to  tell  the  story  of 
the  painting  in  order  to  be  gratified  ;  and  thus  it  is 
that  I  am  enabled  to  submit  to  you  a  faithful  recital 
of  what  I  heard  myself,  leaving  you  to  reject  or  to 


Schalken  the  Painter.  129 

allow  the  evidence  upon  which  the  truth  of  the  tra- 
dition depends — with  this  one  assurance,  that  Schalken 
was  an  honest,  blunt  Dutchman,  and,  I  believe, 
wholly  incapable  of  committing  a  flight  of  imagina- 
tion ;  and  further,  that  Vandael,  from  whom  I  heard 
the  story,  appeared  firmly  convinced  of  its  truth. 

There  are  few  forms  upon  which  the  mantle  of 
mystery  and  romance  could  seem  to  hang  more  un- 
gracefully than  upon  that  of  the  uncouth  and  clown- 
ish Schalken — the  Dutch  boor — the  rude  and  dogged, 
but  most  cunning  worker  in  oils,  whose  pieces  delight 
the  initiated  of  the  present  day  almost  as  much  as  his 
manners  disgusted  the  refined  of  his  own  ;  and  yet 
this  man,  so  rude,  so  dogged,  so  slovenly,  I  had 
almost  said  so  savage  in  mien  and  manner,  during 
his  after  successes,  had  been  selected  by  the  capri- 
cious goddess,  in  his  early  life,  to  figure  as  the  hero 
of  a  romance  by  no  means  devoid  of  interest  or  of 
mystery. 

Who  can  tell  how  meet  he  may  have  been  in  his 
young  days  to  play  the  part  of  the  lover  or  of  the 
hero  ?  who  can  say  that  in  early  life  he  had  been  the 
same  harsh,  unlicked,  and  rugged  boor  that,  in  his 
maturer  age,  he  proved  ?  or  how  far  the  neglected 
rudeness  which  afterwards  marked  his  air,  and  garb, 
and  manners,  may  not  have  been  the  growth  of  that 
reckless  apathy  not  unfrequently  produced  by  bitter 
misfortunes  and  disappointments  in  early  life  ? 

K 


130  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

These  questions  can  never  now  be  answered. 

We  must  content  ourselves,  then,  with  a  plain 
statement  of  facts,  leaving  matters  of  speculation  to 
those  who  like  them. 

When  Schalken  studied  under  the  immortal  Gerard 
Douw,  he  was  a  young  man ;  and  in  spite  of  the 
phlegmatic  constitution  and  excitable  manner  which 
he  shared,  we  believe,  with  his  countrymen,  he  was 
not  incapable  of  deep  and  vivid  impressions,  for  it  is 
an  established  fact  that  the  young  painter  looked 
with  considerable  interest  upon  the  beautiful  niece  of 
his  wealthy  master. 

Rose  Velderkaust  was  very  young,  having,  at  the 
period  of  which  we  speak,  not  yet  attained  her  seven- 
teenth year ;  and,  if  tradition  speaks  truth,  she  possessed 
all  the  soft  dimpling  charms  of  the  fair,  light-haired 
Flemish  maidens.  Schalken  had  not  studied  long  in 
the  school  of  Gerard  Douw  when  he  felt  this  interest 
deepening  into  something  of  a  keener  and  intenser 
feeling  than  was  quite  consistent  with  the  tranquillity 
of  his  honest  Dutch  heart ;  and  at  the  same  time  he 
perceived,  or  thought  he  perceived,  flattering  symp- 
toms of  a  reciprocal  attachment,  and  this  was  quite 
sufficient  to  determine  whatever  indecision  he  might 
have  heretofore  experienced,  and  to  lead  him  to 
devote  exclusively  to  her  every  hope  and  feeling  of 
his  heart.  In  short,  he  was  as  much  in  love  as  a 
Dutchman  could  be.     He  was  not  long  in  making 


Scha/ken  the  Painter.  131 

his  passion  known  to  the  pretty  maiden  herself,  and 
his  declaration  was  followed  by  a  corresponding  con- 
fession upon  her  part. 

Schalken,  howbeit,  was  a  poor  man,  and  he  pos- 
sessed no  counterbalancing  advantages  of  birth  or 
position  to  induce  the  old  man  to  consent  to  a  union 
which  must  involve  his  niece  and  ward  in  the  strug- 
glings  and  difficulties  of  a  young  and  nearly  friendless 
artist.  He  was,  therefore,  to  wait  until  time  had 
furnished  him  with  opportunity,  and  accident  with 
success  ;  and  then,  if  his  labours  were  found  suffi- 
ciently lucrative,  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  his  proposals 
might  at  least  be  listened  to  by  her  jealous  guardian. 
Months  passed  away,  and,  cheered  by  the  smiles  of 
the  little  Rose,  Schalken's  labours  were  redoubled, 
and  with  such  effect  and  improvement  as  reasonably 
to  promise  the  realization  of  his  hopes,  and  no  con- 
temptible eminence  in  his  art,  before  many  years 
should  have  elapsed. 

The  even  course  of  this  cheering  prosperity  was, 
unfortunately,  destined  to  experience  a  sudden  and  for- 
midable interruption,  and  that,  too,  in  a  manner  so 
strange  and  mysterious  as  to  baffle  all  investigation, 
and  throw  upon  the  events  themselves  a  shadow  of 
almost  supernatural  horror. 

Schalken  had  one  evening  remained  in  the  master's 
studio  considerably  longer  than  his  more  volatile 
companions,  who  had  gladly  availed  themselves  of 

K  3 


132  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

the  excuse  which  the  dusk  of  evening  afforded  to 
withdraw  from  their  several  tasks,  in  order  to  finish 
a  day  of  labour  in  the  jollity  and  conviviality  of  the 
tavern. 

But  Schalken  worked  for  improvement,  or  rather 
for  love.  Besides,  he  was  now  engaged  merely  in 
sketching  a  design,  an  operation  which,  unlike  that 
of  colouring,  might  be  continued  as  long  as  there  was 
light  sufficient  to  distinguish  between  canvas  and 
charcoal.  He  had  not  then,  nor,  indeed,  until  long 
after,  discovered  the  peculiar  powers  of  his  pencil  ; 
and  he  was  engaged  in  composing  a  group  of  ex- 
tremely roguish-looking  and  grotesque  imps  and 
demons,  who  were  inflicting  various  ingenious  tor- 
ments upon  a  perspiring  and  pot-bellied  St.  Anthony, 
who  reclined  in  the  midst  of  them,  apparently  in  the 
last  stage  of  drunkenness. 

The  young  artist,  however,  though  incapable  of 
executing,  or  even  of  appreciating,  anything  of  true 
sublimity,  had  nevertheless  discernment  enough  to 
prevent  his  being  by  any  means  satisfied  with  his 
work  ;  and  many  were  the  patient  erasures  and  cor- 
rections which  the  limbs  and  features  of  saint  and 
devil  underwent,  yet  all  without  producing  in  their 
new  arrangement  anything  of  improvement  or  in- 
creased effect. 

The  large,  old-fashioned  room  was  silent,  and, 
with  the  exception  of  himself,  quite  deserted  by  its 


Sckalken  the  Painter.  133 

usual  inmates.  An  hour  had  passed — nearly  two — 
without  any  improved  result.  Daylight  had  already 
declined,  and  twilight  was  fast  giving  way  to  the 
darkness  of  night.  The  patience  of  the  young  man 
was  exhausted,  and  he  stood  before  his  unfinished 
production,  absorbed  in  no  very  pleasing  ruminations, 
one  hand  buried  in  the  folds  of  his  long  dark  hair, 
and  the  other  holding  the  piece  of  charcoal  which 
had  so  ill  executed  its  office,  and  which  he  now 
rubbed,  without  much  regard  to  the  sable  streaks 
which  it  produced,  with  irritable  pressure  upon  his 
ample  Flemish  inexpressibles. 

''  Pshaw !  "  said  the  young  man  aloud,  "would  that 
picture,  devils,  saint,  and  all,  were  where  they  should 
be— in  hell !  " 

A  short,  sudden  laugh,  uttered  startlingly  close  to 
his  ear,  instantly  responded  to  the  ejaculation. 

The  artist  turned  sharply  round,  and  now  for  the 
first  time  became  aware  that  his  labours  had  been 
overlooked  by  a  stranger. 

Within  about  a  yard  and  a  half,  and  rather  behind 
him,  there  stood  what  was,  or  appeared  to  be,  the 
figure  of  an  elderly  man  :  he  wore  a  short  cloak,  and 
broad-brimmed  hat  with  a  conical  crown,  and  in  his 
hand,  which  was  protected  with  a  heavy,  gauntlet- 
shaped  glove,  he  carried  a  long  ebony  walking-stick, 
surmounted  with  what  appeared,  as  it  glittered  dimly 
in   the  twilight  to  be  a   massive  head  of  gold  ;  and 


I  34  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

upon  his  breast,  through  the  folds  of  the  cloak, 
there  shone  the  links  of  a  rich  chain  of  the  same 
metal. 

The  room  was  so  obscure  that  nothing  further  of 
the  appearance  of  the  figure  could  be  ascertained, 
and  the  face  was  altogether  overshadowed  by  the 
heavy  flap  of  the  beaver  which  overhung  it,  so  that  no 
feature  could  be  clearly  discerned.  A  quantity  of  dark 
hair  escaped  from  beneath  this  sombre  hat,  a  cir- 
cumstance which,  connected  with  the  firm,  upright 
carriage  of  the  intruder,  proved  that  his  years  could 
not  yet  exceed  threescore  or  thereabouts. 

There  was  an  air  of  gravity  and  importance  about 
the  garb  of  this  person,  and  something  indescribably 
odd — I  might  say  awful — in  the  perfect,  stone-like 
movelessness  of  the  figure,  that  effectually  checked 
the  testy  comment  which  had  at  once  risen  to  the 
lips  of  the  irritated  artist.  He  therefore,  as  soon  as 
he  had  sufficiently  recovered  the  surprise,  asked  the 
stranger,  civilly,  to  be  seated,  and  desired  to  know  if 
he  had  any  message  to  leave  for  his  master. 

"  Tell  Gerard  Douvv,"  said  the  unknown,  without 
altering  his  attitude  in  the  smallest  degree,  "  that 
Mynher  Vanderhausen,  of  Rotterdam,  desires  to 
speak  with  him  to-morrow  evening  at  this  hour,  and, 
if  he  please,  in  this  room,  upon  matters  of  weight ; 
that  is  all.     Good-night.'^ 

The  stranger,  having  finished  this  message,  turned 


Schalken  the  Painter.  135 

abruptly,  and,  with  a  quick  but  silent  step  quitted 
the  room  before  Schalken  had  time  to  say  a  word  in 
reply. 

The  young  man  felt  a  curiosity  to  see  in  what 
direction  the  burgher  of  Rotterdam  would  turn  on 
quitting  the  studio,  and  for  that  purpose  he  went 
directly  to  the  window  which  commanded  the  door. 

A  lobby  of  considerable  extent  intervened  between 
the  inner  door  of  the  painter's  room  and  the  street 
entrance,  so  that  Schalken  occupied  the  post  of 
observation  before  the  old  man  could  possibly  have 
reached  the  street. 

He  watched  in  vain,  however.  There  was  no  other 
mode  of  exit. 

Had  the  old  man  vanished,  or  was  he  lurking  about 
the  recesses  of  the  lobby  for  some  bad  purpose  ? 
This  last  suggestion  filled  the  mind  of  Schalken  with 
a  vague  horror,  which  was  so  unaccountably  intense 
as  to  make  him  alike  afraid  to  remain  in  the  room 
alone  and  reluctant  to  pass  through  the  lobby. 

However,  with  an  effort  which  appeared  very  dis- 
proportioned  to  the  occasion,  he  summoned  resolution 
to  leave  the  room,  and,  having  double-locked  the 
door,  and  thrust  the  key  in  his  pocket,  without 
looking  to  the  right  or  left,  he  traversed  the  passage 
which  had  so  recently,  perhaps  still,  contained  the 
person  of  his  mysterious  visitant,  scarcely  venturing 
to  breathe  till  he  had  arrived  in  the  open  street. 


136  Straftge  Event  in  the  Life  of 

"  Mynher  Vanderhausen,"  said  Gerard  Douw,  within 
himself,  as  the  appointed  hour  approached;  "  Mynher 
Vanderhausen,  of  Rotterdam  !  I  never  heard  of  the 
man  till  yesterday.  What  can  he  want  of  me  ?  A 
portrait,  perhaps,  to  be  painted  ;  or  a  younger  son  or 
a  poor  relation  to  be  apprenticed  ;  or  a  collection  to  be 
valued  ;  or — pshav/  !  there's  no  one  in  Rotterdam  to 
leave  me  a  legacy.  Well,  whatever  the  business  may 
be,  we  shall  soon  know  it  all." 

It  was  now  the  close  of  day,  and  every  easel, 
except  that  of  Schalken,  was  deserted.  Gerard 
Douw  was  pacing  the  apartment  with  the  restless 
step  of  impatient  expectation,  every  now  and  then 
humming  a  passage  from  a  piece  of  music  which  he 
was  himself  composing  ;  for,  though  no  great  pro- 
ficient, he  admired  the  art;  sometimes  pausing  to 
glance  over  the  work  of  one  of  his  absent  pupils,  but 
more  h'equently  placing  himself  at  the  window,  from 
whence  he  might  observe  the  passengers  who  threaded 
the  obscure  by-street  in  which  his  studio  was  placed. 

"  Said  you  not,  Godfrey,"  exclaimed  Douw,  after  a 
long  and  fruitless  gaze  from  his  post  of  observation, 
and  turning  to  Schalken — "  said  you  not  the  hour  of 
appointment  was  at  about  seven  by  the  clock  of  the 
Stadhouse  ? " 

"  It  had  just  told  seven  when  I  first  saw  him,  sir," 
answered  the  student. 

"  The  hour  is  close  at  hand,  then,"  said  the  master. 


Schalken  fhe  Painter.  137 

consulting  a  horologe  as  large  and  as  round  as  a 
full-grown  orange.  "  Mynher  Vanderhausen,  from 
Rotterdam — is  it  not  so  ?  " 

*'  Such  was  the  name." 

"  And  an  elderly  man,  richly  clad  .'  "  continued 
Douw. 

''As  well  as  I  might  see/'  replied  his  pupil.  "■  He 
could  not  be  young,  nor  yet  very  old  neither,  and  his 
dress  was  rich  and  grave,  as  might  become  a  citizen 
of  wealth  and  consideration." 

At  this  moment  the  sonorous  boom  of  the  Stad- 
house  clock  told,  stroke  after  stroke,  the  hour  of 
seven  ;  the  eyes  of  both  master  and  student  were 
directed  to  the  door  ;  and  it  was  not  until  the  last 
peal  of  the  old  bell  had  ceased  to  vibrate,  that  Douw 
exclaimed, — 

"  So,  so  ;  we  shall  have  his  worship  presently — 
that  is,  if  he  means  to  keep  his  hour  ;  if  not,  thou 
mayst  wait  for  him,  Godfrey,  if  you  court  the 
acquaintance  of  a  capricious  burgomaster.  As  for 
me,  I  think  our  old  Leyden  contains  a  sufficiency 
of  such  commodities,  without  an  importation  from 
Rotterdam." 

Schalken  laughed,  as  in  duty  bound  ;  and,  after  a 
pause  of  some  minutes,  Douw  suddenly  exclaimed, — 

"  What  if  it  should  all  prove  a  jest,  a  piece  of 
mummery  got  up  by  Vankarp,  or  some  such  worthy ! 
I  wish  you  had  run  all  risks,  and  cudgelled  the  old 


138  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

burgomaster^  stadholdcr,  or  whatever  else  he  may 
be,  soundly.  I  would  wager  a  dozen  of  Rhenish, 
his  worship  would  have  pleaded  old  acquaintance 
before  the  third  application/' 

"  Here  he  comes,  sir,"  said  Schalken,  in  a  low, 
admonitory  tone ;  and  instantly,  upon  turning  to- 
wards the  door,  Gerard  Douw  observed  the  same 
figure  which  had,  on  the  day  before,  so  unexpectedly 
greeted  the  vision  of  his  pupil  Schalken, 

There  was  something  in  the  air  and  mien  of  the 
figure  which  at  once  satisfied  the  painter  that  there 
was  no  mummery  in  the  case,  and  that  he  really 
stood  in  the  presence  of  a  man  of  worship ;  and  so, 
without  hesitation,  he  doffed  his  cap,  and  courteously 
saluting  the  stranger,  requested  him  to  be  seated. 

The  visitor  waved  his  hand  slightly,  as  if  in 
acknowledgment  of  the  courtesy,  but  remained 
standing, 

"  I  have  the  honour  to  see  Mynher  Vanderhausen, 
of  Rotterdam  ?  "  said  Gerard  Douw. 

"  The  same,"  was  the  laconic  reply. 

"  I  understand  your  worship  desires  to  speak  with 
me,"  continued  Douw,  "and  I  am  here  by  appoint- 
ment to  wait  your  commands." 

"Is  that  a  man  of  trust?"  said  Vanderhausen, 
turning  towards  Schalken,  who  stood  at  a  little 
distance  behind  his  master. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Gerard. 


Schalken  the  Painter.  139 

"  Then  let  him  take  this  box  and  get  the  nearest 
jeweller  or  goldsmith  to  value  its  contents,  and  let 
him  return  hither  with  a  certificate  of  the  valua- 
tion." 

At  the  same  time  he  placed  a  small  case,  about 
nine  inches  square,  in  the  hands  of  Gerard  Douw, 
who  was  as  much  amazed  at  its  weight  as  at  the 
strange  abruptness  with  which  it  was  handed  to 
him. 

In  accordance  with  the  wishes  of  the  stranger,  he 
delivered  it  into  the  hands  of  Schalken,  and  repeating 
Jus  directions,  despatched  him  upon  the  mission. 

Schalken  disposed  his  precious  charge  securely 
beneath  the  folds  of  his  cloak,  and  rapidly  traversing 
two  or  three  narrow  streets,  he  stopped  at  a  corner 
house,  the  lower  part  of  which  was  then  occupied  by 
the  shop  of  a  Jewish  goldsmith. 

Schalken  entered  the  shop,  and  calling  the  little 
Hebrew  into  the  obscurity  of  its  back  recesses,  he 
proceeded  to  lay  before  him  Vanderhausen's  packet. 

On  being  examined  by  the  light  of  a  lamp,  it 
appeared  entirely  cased  with  lead,  the  outer  surface 
of  which  was  much  scraped  and  soiled,  and  nearly 
white  with  age.  This  was  with  difficulty  partially 
removed,  and  disclosed  beneath  a  box  of  some  dark 
and  singularly  hard  wood  ;  this,  too,  was  forced,  and 
after  the  removal  of  two  or  three  folds  of  linen,  its 
contents  proved  to  be  a  mass  of  golden  ingots,  close 


140  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

packed,  and,  as  the  Jew  declared,  of  the  most  perfect 
quality. 

Every  ingot  underwent  the  scrutiny  of  the  little 
Jew,  who  seemed  to  feel  an  epicurean  delight  in 
touching  and  testing  these  morsels  of  the  glorious 
metal ;  and  each  one  of  them  was  replaced  in  the 
box  with  the  exclamation, — 

'' Mein  6^(9//,  how  very  perfect!  not  one  grain  of 
alloy — beautiful,  beautiful  !  " 

The  task  was  at  length  finished,  and  the  Jew 
certified  under  his  hand  that  the  value  of  the  ingots 
submitted  to  his  examination  amounted  to  many 
thousand  rix-dollars. 

With  the  desired  document  in  his  bosom,  and  the 
rich  box  of  gold  carefully  pressed  under  his  arm,  and 
concealed  by  his  cloak,  he  retraced  his  way,  and, 
entering  the  studio,  found  his  master  and  the  stranger 
in  close  conference. 

Schalken  had  no  sooner  left  the  room,  in  order  to 
execute  the  commission  he  had  taken  in  charge, 
than  Vanderhausen  addressed  Gerard  Douw  in  the 
following  terms  : 

"  I  may  not  tarry  with  you  to-night  more  than  a 
few  minutes,  and  so  I  shall  briefly  tell  you  the  matter 
upon  which  I  come.  You  visited  the  town  of  Rot- 
terdam some  four  months  ago,  and  then  I  saw  in  the 
church  of  St.  Lawrence  your  niece.  Rose  Velderkaust. 
I  desire  to  marry  her,  and  if  I   satisfy  you  as  to  the 


Schalken  the  Painter,  \  4 1 

fact  that  I  am  very  wealthy — more  wealthy  than 
any  husband  you  could  dream  of  for  her — I  ex- 
pect that  you  will  forward  my  views  to  the  utmost 
of  your  authority.  If  you  approve  my  proposal, 
you  must  close  with  it  at  once,  for  I  cannot 
command  time  enout^h  to  wait  for  calculations 
and  delays." 

Gerard  Douw  was,  perhaps,  as  much  astonished  as 
anyone  could  be  by  the  very  unexpected  nature  of 
Mynher  Vanderhausen's  communication  ;  but  he  did 
not  give  vent  to  any  unseemly  expression  of  surprise. 
In  addition  to  the  motives  supplied  by  prudence  and 
politeness,  the  painter  experienced  a  kind  of  chill 
and  oppressive  sensation — a  feeling  like  that  which 
is  supposed  to  affect  a  man  who  is  placed  uncon- 
sciously in  immediate  contact  with  something  to 
which  he  has  a  natural  antipathy — an  undefined 
horror  and  dread — while  standing  in  the  presence  of 
the  eccentric  stranger,  which  made  him  very  unwill- 
ing to  say  anything  that  might  reasonably  prove 
offensive. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Gerard,  after  two  or  three 
prefatory  hems,  "  that  the  connection  which  you 
propose  would  prove  alike  advantageous  and  honour- 
able to  my  niece  ;  but  you  must  be  aware  that  she 
has  a  will  of  her  own,  and  may  not  acquiesce  in  what 
we  may  design  for  her  advantage." 

"  Do  not  seek   to  deceive    me.   Sir  Painter,"  said 


142  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

Vanderhausen  ;  "you  are  her  guardian — she  is  your 
ward.     She  is  mine  \{  yoii  like  to  make  her  so." 

The  man  of  Rotterdam  moved  forward  a  little  as 
he  spoke,  and  Gerard  Douvv,  he  scarce  knew  why, 
inwardly  prayed  for  the  speedy  return  of  Schalken. 

"  I  desire,"  said  the  mysterious  gentleman,  '^  to 
place  in  your  hands  at  once  an  evidence  of  my  wealth, 
and  a  security  for  my  liberal  dealing  with  your  niece. 
The  lad  will  return  in  a  minute  or  two  with  a  sum  in 
value  five  times  the  fortune  which  she  has  a  right  to 
expect  from  a  husband.  This  shall  lie  in  your 
hands,  together  with  her  dowry,  and  you  may 
apply  the  united  sum  as  suits  her  interest  best  ;  it 
shall  be  all  exclusively  hers  while  she  lives.  Is  that 
liberal .? " 

Douw  assented,  and  inwardly  thought  that  fortune 
had  been  extraordinarily  kind  to  his  niece.  The 
stranger,  he  deemed,  must  be  most  wealthy  and 
generous,  and  such  an  offer  was  not  to  be  despised, 
though  made  by  a  humorist,  and  one  of  no  very 
prepossessing  presence. 

Rose  had  no  very  high  pretensions,  for  she  was 
almost  without  dowry ;  indeed,  altogether  so,  ex- 
cepting so  far  as  the  deficiency  had  been  supplied  by 
the  generosity  of  her  uncle.  Neither  had  she  any 
right  to  raise  any  scruples  against  the  match  on  the 
score  of  birth,  for  her  own  origin  was  by  no  means 
elevated  ;  and  as  to  other  objections,  Gerard  resolved, 


Schalken  the  Painter.  143 

and,  indeed,  by  the  usages  of  the  time  was  warranted 
in  resolving,  not  to  listen  to  them  for  a  moment. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  addressing  the  stranger,  "your  offer 
is  most  liberal,  and  whatever  hesitation  I  may  feel  in 
closing  with  it  immediately,  arises  solely  from  my 
not  having  the  honour  of  knowing  anything  of  your 
family  or  station.  Upon  these  points  you  can,  of 
course,  satisfy  me  without  difficulty  ?  " 

"As  to  my  respectability,"  said  the  stranger,  drily, 
"  you  must  take  that  for  granted  at  present ;  pester 
me  with  no  inquiries ;  you  can  discover  nothing 
more  about  me  than  I  choose  to  make  known.  You 
shall  have  sufficient  security  for  my  respectability — 
my  word,  if  you  are  honourable :  if  you  are  sordid, 
my  gold." 

"  A  testy  old  gentleman,"  thought  Douw ;  "  he 
must  have  his  own  way.  But,  all  things  considered, 
I  am  justified  in  giving  my  niece  to  him.  Were  she 
my  own  daughter,  I  would  do  the  like  by  her.  I 
v.'ill  not  pledge  myself  unnecessarily,  however." 

"  You  will  not  pledge  yourself  unnecessarily/'  said 
Vanderhausen,  strangely  uttering  the  very  words 
which  had  just  floated  through  the  mind  of  his  com- 
panion ;  "  but  you  will  do  so  if  it  is  necessary,  I 
presume;  and  I  will  show  you  that  I  consider  it  in- 
dispensable. If  the  gold  I  mean  to  leave  in  your 
hands  satisfies  you,  and  if  you  desire  that  my  proposal 
shall  not  be  at  once  withdrawn,  you  must,  before  I 


14.4  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

leave  this  room,  write  your  name  to  this  engage- 
ment." 

Having  thus  spoken,  he  placed  a  paper  in  the 
hands  of  Gerard,  the  contents  of  which  expressed  an 
engagement  entered  into  by  Gerard  Douw,  to  give 
to  Wilken  Vanderhausen,  of  Rotterdam,  in  marriage, 
Rose  Velderkaust,  and  so  forth,  within  one  week  of 
the  date  hereof 

While  the  painter  was  employed  in  reading  this 
covenant,  Schalken,  as  we  have  stated,  entered  the 
studio,  and  having  delivered  the  box  and  the  valua- 
tion of  the  Jew  into  the  hands  of  the  stranger,  he  was 
about  to  retire,  when  Vanderhausen  called  to  him  to 
wait ;  and,  presenting  the  case  and  the  certificate  to 
Gerard  Douw,  he  waited  in  silence  until  he  had  satis- 
fied himself  by  an  inspection  of  both  as  to  the  value 
of  the  pledge  left  in  his  hands.     At  length  he  said  : 

"  Are  you  content  ?  " 

The  painter  said  "  he  would  fain  have  another  day 
to  consider." 

"  Not  an  hour,"  said  the  suitor,  coolly. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Douw,  "  I  am  content ;  it  is  a 
bargain." 

"  Then  sign  at  once,"  said  Vanderhausen  ;  "  I  am 
weary." 

At  the  same  time  he  produced  a  small  case  of 
writing  materials,  and  Gerard  signed  the  important 
document. 


Schalken  the  Painter.  145 

•'  Let  this  youth  witness  the  covenant,"  said  the 
old  man ;  and  Godfrey  Schalken  unconsciously 
signed  the  instrument  which  bestowed  upon  another 
that  hand  which  he  had  so  long  regarded  as  the 
object  and  reward  of  all  his  labours. 

The  compact  being  thus  completed,  the  strange 
visitor  folded  up  the  paper,  and  stowed  it  safely  in  an 
inner  pocket. 

"  I  will  visit  you  to-morrow  night,  at  nine  of  the 
clock,  at  your  house,  Gerard  Douw,  and  will  see  the 
subject  of  our  contract.  Farewell."  And  so  saying, 
Wilken  Vanderhausen  moved  stiffly,  but  rapidly  out 
of  the  room. 

Schalken,  eager  to  resolve  his  doubts,  had  placed 
himself  by  the  window  in  order  to  watch  the  street 
entrance;  but  the  experiment  served  only  to  support 
his  suspicions,  for  the  old  man  did  not  issue  from  the 
door.  This  was  very  strange,  very  odd,  very  fearful. 
He  and  his  master  returned  together,  and  talked  but 
little  on  the  way,  for  each  had  his  own  subjects  of 
reflection,  of  anxiety,  and  of  hope. 

Schalken,  however,  did  not  know  the  ruin  which 
threatened  his  cherished  schemes. 

Gerard  Douw  knew  nothing  of  the  attachment 
which  had  sprung  up  between  his  pupil  and  his 
niece;  and  even  if  he  had,  it  is  doubtful  whether  he 
would  have  regarded  its  existence  as  any  serious 
obstruction  to  the  wishes  of  Mynher  Vanderhausen. 

L 


146  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

Marriages  were  then  and  there  matters  of  traffic 
and  calculation;  and  it  would  have  appeared  as 
absurd  in  the  eyes  of  the  guardian  to  make  a  mutual 
attachment  an  essential  element  in  a  contract  of 
marriage,  as  it  would  have  been  to  draw  up  his  bonds 
and  receipts  in  the  language  of  chivalrous  romance. 

The  painter,  however,  did  not  communicate  to  his 
niece  the  important  step  which  he  had  taken  in  her 
behalf,  and  his  resolution  arose  not  from  any  antici- 
pation of  opposition  on  her  part,  but  solely  from  a 
ludicrous  consciousness  that  if  his  ward  were,  as  she 
very  naturally  might  do,  to  ask  him  to  desciibe  the 
ajDpearance  of  the  bridegroom  whom  he  destined  for 
her,  he  would  be  forced  to  confess  that  he  had  not 
seen  his  face,  and,  if  called  upon,  would  find  it  im- 
possible to  identify  him. 

Upon  the  next  day,  Gerard  Douw  having  dined, 
called  his  niece  to  him,  and  having  scanned  her 
person  with  an  air  of  satisfaction,  he  took  her  hand, 
and  looking  upon  her  pretty,  innocent  face  with  a 
smile  of  kindness,  he  said  : 

"  Rose,  my  girl,  that  face  of  yours  will  make  your 
fortune."  Rose  blushed  and  smiled.  "  Such  faces 
and  such  tempers  seldom  go  together,  and,  when  they 
do,  the  compound  is  a  love-potion  which  {<t^  heads 
or  hearts  can  resist.  Trust  me,  thou  wilt  soon  be  a 
bride,  girl.  But  this  is  trifling,  and  I  am  pressed  for 
time,  so  make  ready  the  large  room  by  eight  o'clock 


Schalken  the  Painter.  147 

to-night,  and  give  directions  for  supper  at  nine.  I 
expect  a  friend  to-night ;  and  observe  nic,  child,  do 
thou  trick  thyself  out  handsomely.  I  would  not  have 
him  think  us  poor  or  sluttish." 

With  these  words  he  left  the  chamber,  and  took 
his  way  to  the  room  to  which  we  have  already  had 
occasion  to  introduce  our  readers — that  in  which  his 
pupils  worked. 

When  the  evening  closed  in,  Gerard  called  Schal- 
ken, who  v/as  about  to  take  his  departure  to  his 
obscure  and  comfortless  lodgings,  and  asked  him 
to  come  home  and  sup  with  Rose  and  Vanderhausen. 

The  invitation  was  of  course  accepted,  and  Gerard 
Douw  and  his  pupil  soon  found  themselves  in  the 
handsome  and  somewhat  antique-looking  room  which 
had  been  prepared  for  the  reception  of  the  stranger. 

A  cheerful  wood-fire  blazed  in  the  capacious 
hearth;  a  little  at  one  side  an  old-fashioned  table, 
with  richly-carved  legs,  was  placed — destined,  no 
doubt,  to  receive  the  supper,  for  which  preparations 
were  going  forward  ;  and  ranged  with  exact  regularity 
stood  the  tall-backed  chairs  whose  ungracefulness 
was  more  than  counterbalanced  by  their  comfort. 

The  little  party,  consisting  of  Rose,  her  uncle,  and 
the  artist,  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  expected  visitor 
with  considerable  impatience. 

Nine  o'clock  at  length  came,  and  with  it  a  summons 
at   the  street-door,  which,   being  speedily    answered, 

L  2 


148  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

was  followed  by  a  slow  and  emphatic  tread  upon  the 
staircase  ;  the  steps  moved  heavily  across  the  lobby, 
the  door  of  the  room  in  which  the  party  which  we 
have  described  were  assembled  slowly  opened,  and 
there  entered  a  figure  which  startled,  almost  appalled, 
the  phlegmatic  Dutchmen,  and  nearly  made  Rose 
scream  with  affright  ;  it  was  the  form,  and  arrayed 
in  the  garb,  of  Mynher  Vanderhausen  ;  the  air,  the 
gait,  the  height  was  the  same,  but  the  features  had 
never  been  seen  by  any  of  the  party  before. 

The  stranger  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  room,  and 
displayed  his  form  and  face  completely.  He  wore  a 
dark-coloured  cloth  cloak,  which  was  short  and  full, 
not  falling  quite  to  the  knees  ;  his  legs  were  cased  in 
dark  purple  silk  stockings,  and  his  shoes  were  adorned 
with  roses  of  the  same  colour.  The  opening  of  the 
cloak  in  front  showed  the  under-suit  to  consist  of 
some  very  dark,  perhaps  sable  material,  and  his 
hands  were  enclosed  in  a  pair  of  heavy  leather  gloves 
which  ran  up  considerably  above  the  wrist,  in  the 
manner  of  a  gauntlet.  In  one  hand  he  carried  his 
walking-stick  and  his  hat,  which  he  had  removed,  and 
the  other  hung  heavily  by  his  side.  A  quantity  of 
grizzled  hair  descended  in  long  tresses  from  his  head, 
and  its  folds  rested  upon  the  plaits  of  a  stiff  ruff, 
which  effectually  concealed  his  neck. 

So  far  all  was  well  ;  but  the  face  ! — all  the  flesh 
of  the  face  was   coloured  with  the  bluish  leaden  hue 


Schalken  the  Painter.  149 

which  is  sometimes  produced  by  the  operation  of 
metallic  medicines  administered  in  excessive  quanti- 
ties ;  the  eyes  were  enormous,  and  the  white  appeared 
both  above  and  below  the  iris,  which  gave  to  them 
an  expression  of  insanity,  which  was  heightened  by 
their  glassy  fixedness  ;  the  nose  was  well  enough,  but 
the  mouth  was  writhed  considerably  to  one  side, 
where  it  opened  in  order  to  give  egress  to  two  long, 
discoloured  fangs,  which  projected  from  the  upper 
jaw,  far  below  the  lower  lip  ;  the  hue  of  the  lips  them- 
selves bore  the  usual  relation  to  that  of  the  face,  and 
was  consequently  nearly  black.  The  character  of 
the  face  was  malignant,  even  satanic,  to  the  last 
degree  ;  and,  indeed,  such  a  combination  of  horror 
could  hardly  be  accounted  for,  except  by  supposing 
the  corpse  of  some  atrocious  malefactor,  which  had 
long  hung  blackening  upon  the  gibbet,  to  have  at 
length  become  the  habitation  of  a  demon — the  fright- 
ful sport  of  satanic  possession. 

It  was  remarkable  that  the  worshipful  stranger 
suffered  as  little  as  possible  of  his  flesh  to  appear,  and 
that  during  his  visit  he  did  not  once  remove  his  gloves. 

Having  stood  for  some  moments  at  the  door, 
Gerard  Douw  at  length  found  breath  and  collected- 
ness  to  bid  him  welcome,  and,  with  a  mute  in- 
clination of  the  head,  the  stranger  stepped  forward 
into  the  room. 

There   was    something    indescribably    odd,    even 


150  Stfange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

horrible  about  alibis  motions,  something'  undefinable, 
something  unnatural,  unhuman  — it  was  as  if  the  limbs 
were  guided  and  directed  by  a  spirit  unused  to  the 
management  of  bodily  machinery. 

The  stranger  said  hardly  anything  during  his  visit, 
which  did  not  exceed  half  an  hour ;  and  the  host 
himself  could  scarcely  muster  courage  enough  to 
utter  the  few  necessary  salutations  and  courtesies  : 
and,  indeed,  such  was  the  nervous  terror  which  the 
presence  of  Vanderhausen  inspired^  that  very  little 
would  have  made  all  his  entertainers  fly  bellowing 
from  the  room. 

They  had  not  so  far  lost  all  self-possession,  how- 
ever, as  to  fail  to  observe  two  strange  peculiarities  of 
their  visitor. 

During  his  stay  he  did  not  once  suffer  his  eyelids 
to  close,  nor  even  to  move  in  the  slightest  degree ; 
and  further,  there  was  a  death-like  stillness  in  his 
whole  person,  owing  to  the  total  absence  of  the 
heaving  motion  of  the  chest  caused  by  the  process 
of  respiration. 

These  two  peculiarities,  though  when  told  they 
may  appear  trifling,  produced  a  very  striking  and 
unpleasant  effect  when  seen  and  observed.  Vander- 
hausen at  length  relieved  the  painter  of  Leyden  of 
his  inauspicious  presence  ;  and  with  no  small 
gratification  the  little  party  heard  the  street  door 
close  after  him. 


Schalken  the  Painter.  151 

"Dear  uncle,"  said  Rose,  '^  what  a  frightful  man! 
I  would  not  see  him  again  for  the  wealth  of  the 
States!^' 

''  Tush,  foolish  girl !  ^'  said  Douw,  whose  sensations 
were  anything  but  comfortable.  "  A  man  may  be  as 
ugly  as  the  devil,  and  yet  if  his  heart  and  actions  are 
good,  he  is  worth  all  the  pretty-faced,  perfumed 
puppies  that  walk  the  Mall,  Rose,  my  girl,  it  is 
very  true  he  has  not  thy  pretty  face,  but  I  know  him 
to  be  wealthy  and  liberal  ;  and  were  he  ten  times 
more  ugly — '^ 

''  Which  is  inconceivable,"  observed  Rose. 

"These  two  virtues  would  be  sufficient,"  continued 
her  uncle,  "  to  counterbalance  all  his  deformity  ;  and 
if  not  of  power  sufficient  actually  to  alter  the  shape 
of  the  features,  at  least  of  efficacy  enough  to  prevent 
one  thinking  them  amiss." 

^'  Do  you  know,  uncle,"  said  Rose,  "  when  I  saw 
him  standing  at  the  door,  I  could  not  get  it  out  of 
my  head  that  I  saw  the  old,  painted,  wooden  figure 
that  used  to  frighten  me  so  much  in  the  church  of 
St.  Laurence  at  Rotterdam." 

Gerard  laughed,  though  he  could  not  help  inwardly 
acknowledging  the  justness  of  the  comparison.  He 
was  resolved,  however,  as  far  as  he  could,  to  check 
his  niece^s  inclination  to  ridicule  the  ugliness  of  her 
intended  bridegroom,  although  he  was  not  a  little 
pleased  to  observe  that  she  appeared  totally  exempt 


152  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

from  that  mysterious  dread  of  the  stranger,  which,  he 
could  not  disguise  it  from  himself,  considerably 
affected  him,  as  it  also  did  his  pupil  Godfrey  Schalken, 

Early  on  the  next  day  there  arrived  from  various 
quarters  of  the  town,  rich  presents  of  silks,  velvets, 
jewellery,  and  so  forth,  for  Rose  ;  and  also  a  packet 
directed  to  Gerard  Douw,  which,  on  being  opened, 
was  found  to  contain  a  contract  of  marriage,  formally 
drawn  up,  between  Wilken  Vanderhausen  of  the 
Boom-quay,  in  Rotterdam,  and  Rose  Velderkaust  of 
Leyden,  niece  to  Gerard  Douw,  master  in  the  art  of 
painting,  also  of  the  same  city;  and  containing 
engagements  on  the  part  of  Vanderhausen  to  make 
settlements  upon  his  bride  far  more  splendid  than  he 
had  before  led  her  guardian  to  believe  likely,  and 
which  were  to  be  secured  to  her  use  in  the  most 
unexceptionable  manner  possible — the  money  being 
placed  in  the  hands  of  Gerard  Douw  himself. 

I  have  no  sentimental  scenes  to  describe,  no  cruelty 
of  guardians  or  magnanimity  of  wards,  or  agonies  of 
lovers.  The  record  I  have  to  make  is  one  of 
sordid ncss,  levity,  and  interest.  In  less  than  a  week 
after  the  first  interview  which  we  have  just  described, 
the  contract  of  marriage  was  fulfilled,  and  Schalken 
saw  the  prize  which  he  would  have  risked  anything 
to  secure,  carried  off  tiiumphantly  by  his  formidable 
rival. 

For  two  or  three  days  he  absented  himself  from 


Schalkcn  the  Painter.  1 5  3 

the  school ;  he  then  returned  and  worked,  if  with  less 
cheerfulness,  with  far  more  dogged  resolution  than 
before  ;  the  dream  of  love  had  given  place  to  that  of 
ambition. 

Months  passed  away,  and,  contrary  to  his  ex- 
pectation, and,  indeed,  to  the  direct  promise  of  the 
parties,  Gerard  Douw  heard  nothing  of  his  niece  or 
her  worshipful  spouse.  The  interest  of  the  money, 
which  was  to  have  been  demanded  in  quarterly  sums, 
lay  unclaimed  in  his  hands.  He  began  to  grow 
extremely  uneasy. 

Mynher  Vanderhausen's  direction  in  Rotterdam 
he  was  fully  possessed  of.  After  some  irresolution 
he  finally  determined  to  journey  thither — a  trifling 
undertaking,  and  easily  accomplished — and  thus  to 
satisfy  himself  of  the  safety  and  comfort  of  his  ward, 
for  whom  he  entertained  an  honest  and  strong 
affection. 

His  search  was  in  vain,  however.  No  one  in 
Rotterdam  had  ever  heard  of  Mynher  Vander- 
hausen. 

Gerard  Douw  left  not  a  house  in  the  Boom-quay 
untried ;  but  all  in  vain.  No  one  could  give  him 
any  information  whatever  touching  the  object  of  his 
inquiry;  and  he  was  obliged  to  return  to  Leydcn, 
nothing  wiser  than  when  he  had  left  it. 

On  his  arrival  he  hastened  to  the  establishment 
from  which  Vanderhausen  had  hired  the  lumbering, 


154  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

though,  considering  the  times,  most  luxurious 
vehicle  which  the  bridal  party  had  employed  to 
convey  them  to  Rotterdam.  From  the  driver  of  this 
machine  he  learned,  that  having  proceeded  by  slow- 
stages,  they  had  late  in  the  evening  approached 
Rotterdam  ;  but  that  before  they  entered  the  city, 
and  while  yet  nearly  a  mile  from  it,  a  small  party  of 
men,  soberly  clad,  and  after  the  old  fashion,  with 
peaked  beards  and  moustaches,  standing  in  the 
centre  of  the  road,  obstructed  the  further  progress 
of  the  carriage.  The  driver  reined  in  his  horses, 
much  fearing,  from  the  obscurity  of  the  hour,  and 
the  loneliness  of  the  road,  that  some  mischief  was 
intended. 

His  fears  were,  however,  somewhat  allayed  by  his 
observing  that  these  strange  men  carried  a  large 
litter,  of  an  antique  shape,  and  which  they  im- 
mediately set  down  upon  the  pavement,  whereupon 
the  bridegroom,  having  opened  the  coach-door  from 
within,  descended,  and  having  assisted  his  bride  to 
do  likewise,  led  her,  weeping  bitterly  and  wringing 
her  hands,  to  the  litter,  which  they  both  entered. 
It  was  then  raised  by  the  men  who  surrounded  it, 
and  speedily  carried  towards  the  cit\',  and  before  it 
had  proceeded  many  yards  the  darkness  concealed 
it  from  the  view  of  the  Dutch  chariot. 

In  the  inside  of  the  vehicle  he  found  a  purse, 
whose  contents  more  than  thrice  paid  the  hire  of  the 


Schalken  the  Painter.  155 

carriage  and  man.  He  saw  and  could'  tell  nothing 
more  of  Mynher  Vandcrhausen  and  his  beautiful 
lady.  This  mystery  was  a  source  of  deep  anxiety 
and  almost  of  grief  to  Gerard  Douw. 

There  was  evidently  fraud  in  the  dealing  of  Vandcr- 
hausen with  him,  though  for  what  purpose  committed 
he  could  not  imagine.  He  greatly  doubted  how  far 
it  was  possible  for  a  man  possessing  in  his 
countenance  so  strong  an  evidence  of  the  presence  of 
the  most  demoniac  feelings  to  be  in  reality  any- 
thing but  a  villain  ;  and  every  day  that  passed  with- 
out his  hearing  from  or  of  his  niece,  instead  of 
inducing  him  to  forget  his  fears,  tended  more  and 
more  to  intensify  them. 

The  loss  of  his  niece's  cheerful  society  tended  also 
to  depress  his  spirits ;  and  in  order  to  dispel  this 
despondency,  which  often  crept  upon  his  mind  after 
his  daily  employment  was  over,  he  was  wont 
frequently  to  prevail  upon  Schalken  to  accompany 
him  home,  and  by  his  presence  to  dispel,  in  some 
degree,  the  gloom  of  his  otherwise  solitary  supper. 

One  evening,  the  painter  and  his  pupil  were 
sitting  by  the  fire,  having  accomplished  a  comfortable 
supper.  They  had  yielded  to  that  silent  pensiveness 
sometimes  induced  by  the  process  of  digestion,  when 
their  reflections  were  disturbed  by  a  loud  sound  at 
the  street-door,  as  if  occasioned  by  some  person 
rushing    forcibly    and    repeatedly     against      it.     A 


156  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

domestic  had  run  without  delay  to  ascertain  the 
cause  of  the  disturbance,  and  they  heard  him  twice  or 
thrice  interrogate  the  appHcant  for  admission,  but 
without  producing  an  answer  or  any  cessation  of  the 
sounds. 

They  heard  him  then  open  the  hall  door,  and 
immediately  there  followed  a  light  and  rapid  tread 
upon  the  staircase.  Schalken  laid  his  hand  on  his 
sword,  and  advanced  towards  the  door.  It  opened 
before  he  reached  it,  and  Rose  rushed  into  the  room. 
She  looked  wild  and  haggard,  and  pale  with 
exhaustion  and  terror ;  but  her  dress  surprised  them 
as  much  even  as  her  unexpected  appearance.  It 
consisted  of  a  kind  of  white  woollen  wrapper,  made 
close  about  the  neck,  and  descending  to  the  very 
ground.  It  was  much  deranged  and  travel-soiled. 
The  poor  creature  had  hardly  entered  the  chamber 
when  she  fell  senseless  on  the  floor.  With  some 
difficulty  they  succeeded  in  reviving  her,  and  on 
recovering  her  senses  she  instantly  exclaimed,  in  a 
tone  of  eager,  terrified  impatience, — 

''  Wine,  wine,  quickly,  or  I'm  lost  !  " 

Much  alarmed  at  the  strange  agitation  in  which 
the  call  was  made,  they  at  once  administered  to  her 
wishes,  and  she  drank  some  wine  with  a  haste  and 
eagerness  which  surprised  him.  She  had  hardly 
swallowed  it,  when  she  exclaimed  with  the  same 
urgency, — 


Schalken  the  Painter.  1 5  7 

"  Food,  food,  at  once,  or  I  perish  ! " 
A  considerable  fragment  of  a  roast  joint  was  upon 
the  table,  and  Schalken  immediately  proceeded  to 
cut  some,  but  he  was  anticipated;  for  no  sooner  had 
she  become  aware  of  its  presence  than  she  darted  at 
it  with  the  rapacity  of  a  vulture,  and,  seizing  it  in 
her  hands,  she  tore  off  the  flesh  with  her  teeth  and 
swallowed  it. 

When  the  paroxysm  of  hunger  had  been  a  little 
appeased,  she  appeared  suddenly  to  become  aware 
how  strange  her  conduct  had  been,  or  it  m.ay  have 
been  that  other  more  agitating  thoughts  recurred  to 
her  mind,  for  she  began  to  weep  bitterly,  and  to  wring 
her  hands. 

"  Oh !  send  for  a  minister  of  God,"  said  she ; 
"  I  am  not  safe  till  he  comes  ;  send  for  him 
speedily." 

Gerard  Douw  despatched  a  messenger  instantly, 
and  prevailed  on  his  niece  to  allow  him  to  surrender 
his  bedchamber  to  her  use  ;  he  also  persuaded  her  to 
retire  to  it  at  once  and  to  rest;  her  consent  was 
extorted  upon  the  condition  that  they  would  not 
leave  her  for  a  moment. 

"  Oh  that  the  holy  man  were  here !  "  she  said  ; 
"  he  can  deliver  me.  The  dead  and  the  living  can 
never  be  one — God  has  forbidden  it." 

With  these  mysterious  words  she  surrendered 
herseh  to  their  guidance,  and  they   proceeded  to  the 


158  Sf range  Event  in  the  Life  of 

chamber  which  Gerard   Douw  had  assigned   to  her 
use. 

"Do  not— do  not  leave  me  for  a  moment,"  said 
she.     "  I  am  lost  for  ever  if  you  do.^' 

Gerard  Douvv's  chamber  was  approached  through 
a  spacious  apartment,  which  they  were  now  about  to 
enter.  Gerard  Douw  and  Schalken  each  carried  a 
wax  candle,  so  that  a  sufficient  degree  of  light  was 
cast  upon  all  surrounding  objects.  They  were  now 
entering  the  large  chamber,  which,  as  I  have  said, 
communicated  with  Douw's  apartment,  when  Rose 
suddenly  stopped,  and,  in  a  whisper  which  seemed 
to  thrill  with  horror,  she  said, — 

"  O  God  !  he  is  here — he  is  here  !  See,  see — there 
he  goes  !  " 

She  pointed  towards  the  door  of  the  inner  room, 
and  Schalken  thought  he  saw  a  shadowy  and  ill- 
defined  form  gliding  into  that  apartment.  Pie  drew 
his  sword,  and  raising  the  candle  so  as  to  throw  its 
light  with  increased  distinctness  upon  the  objects  in 
the  room,  he  entered  the  chamber  into  which  the 
figure  had  glided.  No  figure  was  there — nothing 
but  the  furniture  which  belonged  to  the  room,  and 
yet  he  could  not  be  deceived  as  to  the  fact  that 
something  had  moved  before  them  into  the  chamber. 

A  sickening  dread  came  upon  him,  and  the  cold 
perspiration  broke  out  in  heavy  drops  upon  his 
forehead  ;  nor  was  he  more  composed  when  he  heard 


ScJialkcn  tJic  Painter.  159 

the  increased  urgency,  the  agony  of  entreaty,  with 
which  Rose  implored  them  not  to  leave  her  for  a 
moment. 

"  I  saw  him,"  said  she.  "  He's  here  !  I  cannot  be 
deceived — I  know  him.  He's  by  me -he's  with  me 
— he's  in  the  room.  Then,  for  God's  sake,  as  you 
would  save,  do  not  stir  from  beside  me  !  " 

They  at  length  prevailed  upon  her  to  lie  down 
upon  the  bed,  where  she  continued  to  urge  them  to 
stay  by  her.  She  frequently  uttered  incoherent 
sentences,  repeating  again  and  again,  "  The  dead  and 
the  living  cannot  be  one — God  has  forbidden  it  !  " 
and  then  again,  "  Rest  to  the  wakeful— sleep  to  the 
sleep-walkers." 

These  and  such  mysterious  and  broken  sentences 
she  continued  to  utter  until  the  clergyman  arrived. 

Gerard  Douw  began  to  fear,  naturally  enough,  that 
the  poor  girl,  owing  to  terror  or  ill-treatmicnt,  had 
become  deranged  ;  and  he  half  suspected,  by  the 
suddenness  of  her  appearance,  and  the  unseasonable- 
ness  of  the  hour,  and,  above  all_,  from  the  wildness 
and  terror  of  her  manner,  that  she  had  made  her 
escape  from  some  place  of  confinement  for  lunatics, 
and  was  in  immediate  fear  of  pursuit.  He  resolved 
to  summon  medical  advice  as  soon  as  the  mind  of  his 
niece  had  been  in  some  measure  set  at  rest  by  the 
offices  of  the  clergyman  whose  attendance  she  had 
so  earnestly  desired ;  and  until  this  object  had  been 


i6o  Siravge  Eve?it  in  the  Life  of 

attained,  he  did  not  venture  to  put  any  questions  to 
her,  which  might  possibly,  by  reviving  painful  or 
horrible  recollections,  increase  her  agitation. 

The  clergyman  soon  arrived — a  man  of  ascetic 
countenance  and  venerable  age — one  whom  Gerard 
Douw  respected  much,  forasmuch  as  he  was  a  veteran 
polemic,  though  one,  perhaps,  more  dreaded  as  a 
combatant  than  beloved  as  a  Christian— of  pure 
morality ;,  subtle  brain,  and  frozen  heart.  He  entered 
the  chamber  which  communicated  with  that  in  which 
Rose  reclined,  and  immediately  on  his  arrival  she 
requested  him  to  pray  for  her,  as  for  one  who  lay  in 
the  hands  of  Satan,  and  who  could  hope  for  deliver- 
ance only  from  Heaven. 

That  our  readers  may  distinctly  understand  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  event  which  we  are  about  im- 
perfectly to  describe,  it  is  necessary  to  state  the 
relative  positions  of  the  parties  who  were  engaged  in 
it.  The  old  clergyman  and  Schalken  were  in  the 
ante-room  of  which  we  have  already  spoken  ;  Rose 
lay  in  the  inner  chamber,  the  door  of  which  was 
open  ;  and  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  at  her  urgent 
desire,  stood  her  guardian  ;  a  candle  burned  in  the 
bedchamber,  and  three  were  lighted  in  the  outer 
apartment. 

The  old  man  now  cleared  his  voice,  as  if  about  to 
commence  ;  but  before  he  had  time  to  begin,  a  sudden 
<7ust  of  air  blew  out  the  candle  which  served  to  illu- 


Schalken  the  Painter.  1 6 1 

minate  the  room  in  which  the  poor  girl  lay,  and  she 
with  hurried  alarm,  exclaimed  : 

"  Godfrey,  bring  in  another  candle  ;  the  darkness  is 
unsafe." 

Gerard  Douw,  forgetting  for  the  moment  her  re- 
peated injunctions  in  the  immediate  impulse,  stepped 
from  the  bedchamber  into  the  other,  in  order  to 
supply  what  she  desired. 

"  O  God  1  do  not  go,  dear  uncle !  "  shrieked  the 
unhappy  girl  ;  and  at  the  same  time  she  sprang  from 
the  bed  and  darted  after  him,  in  order,  by  her  grasp, 
to  detain  him. 

But  the  warning  came  too  late,  for  scarcely  had  he 
passed  the  threshold,  and  hardly  had  his  niece  had 
time  to  utter  the  startling  exclamation,  when  the 
door  which  divided  the  two  rooms  closed  violently 
after  him,  as  if  swung  to  by  a  strong  blast  of  wind. 

Schalken  and  he  both  rushed  to  the  door,  but  their 
united  and  desperate  efforts  could  not  avail  so  much 
as  to  shake  it. 

Shriek  after  shriek  burst  from  the  inner  chamber, 
with  all  the  piercing  loudness  of  despairing  terror. 
Schalken  and  Douw  applied  every  energy  and 
strained  every  nerve  to  force  open  the  door  ;  but  all 
in  vain. 

There  was  no  sound  of  struggling  from  within,  but 
the  screams  seemed  to  increase  in  loudness,  and  at 
the  same  time  they  heard  the  bolts  of  the  latticed 

M 


1 62     Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of  Schalken. 

window  withdrawn,  and  the  window  itself  grated  upon 
the  sill  as  if  thrown  open. 

One  last  shriek,  so  long  and  piercing  and  agonized 
as  to  be  scarcely  human,  swelled  from  the  room,  and 
suddenly  there  followed  a  death-like  silence. 

A  light  step  was  heard  crossing  the  floor,  as  if  from 
the  bed  to  the  window ;  and  almost  at  the  same 
instant  the  door  gave  way,  and  yielding  to  the 
pressure  of  the  external  applicants,  they  were  nearly 
precipitated  into  the  room.  It  was  empty.  The 
window  was  open,  and  Schalken  sprang  to  a  chair  and 
gazed  out  upon  the  street  and  at  the  canal  below.  He 
saw  no  form,  but  he  beheld,  or  thought  he  beheld,  the 
waters  of  the  broad  canal  beneath  settling  ring  after 
ring  in  heavy  circular  ripples,  as  if  a  moment  before 
disturbed  by  the  immersion  of  some  large  and  heavy 
mass. 

No  trace  of  Rose  was  ever  after  discovered,  nor 
was  anything  certain  respecting  her  mysterious  wooer 
detected  or  even  suspected  ;  no  clue  whereby  to  trace 
the  intricacies  of  the  labyrinth,  and  to  arrive  at  a 
distinct  conclusion  was  to  be  found.  But  an  incident 
occurred,  which,  though  it  will  not  be  received  by  our 
rational  readers  as  at  all  approaching  to  evidence 
upon  the  matter,  nevertheless  produced  a  strong  and 
a  lasting  impression  upon  the  mind  of  Schalken. 

Many  years   after   the  events  which  we  have  de- 
tailed, Schalken^  then  remotely  situated,  received  an 


THE    WATERS   OF   THP.     BROAD    CANAL   BENEATH    SETTLING    RING 
AFTER    RING    IN    HEAVY    CIRCULAR    RIPPLES. 


M  2 


164  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

intimation  of  his  father's  death,  and  of  his  intended 
burial  upon  a  fixed  day  in  the  church  of  Rotterdam. 
It  was  necessary  that  a  very  considerable  journey 
should  be  performed  by  the  funeral  procession,  which, 
as  it  will  readily  be  believed,  was  not  very  numerously 
attended.  Schalken  with  difficulty  arrived  in  Rotter- 
dam late  in  the  day  upon  which  the  funeral  was 
appointed  to  take  place.  The  procession  had  not 
then  arrived.  Evening  closed  in,  and  still  it  did  not 
appear. 

Schalken  strolled  down  to  the  church — he  found  it 
open  ;  notice  of  the  arrival  of  the  funeral  had  been 
given,  and  the  vault  in  which  the  body  was  to  be  laid 
had  been  opened.  The  official  who  corresponds  to 
our  sexton,  on  seeing  a  well-dressed  gentleman,  whose 
object  was  to  attend  the  expected  funeral,  pacing  the 
aisle  of  the  church,  hospitably  invited  him  to  share 
with  him  the  comforts  of  a  blazing  wood  fire,  which 
as  was  his  custom  in  winter  time  upon  such  occasions, 
he  had  kindled  on  the  hearth  of  a  chamber  which 
communicated  by  a  flight  of  steps  with  the  vault 
below. 

In  this  chamber  Schalken  and  his  entertainer 
seated  themselves ;  and  the  sexton,  after  some  fruit- 
less attempts  to  engage  his  guest  in  conversation, 
was  obliged  to  apply  himself  to  his  tobacco-pipe  and 
can  to  solace  his  solitude. 

In  spite  of  his  grief  and   cares,  the  fatigues  of  a 


Sckalken  the  Painter.  \  65 

rapid  journey  of  nearly  forty  hours  gradually  over- 
came the  mind  and  body  of  Godfrey  Schalken,  and 
he  sank  into  a  deep  sleep,  from  which  he  was 
awakened  by  some  one  shaking  him  gently  by  the 
shoulder.  He  first  thought  that  the  old  sexton  had 
called  him,  but  he  was  no  longer  in  the  room. 

He  roused  himself,  and  as  soon  as  he  could  clearly 
see  what  was  around  him,  he  perceived  a  female  form, 
clothed  in  a  kind  of  light  robe  of  muslin,  part  of 
which  was  so  disposed  as  to  act  as  a  veil,  and  in  her 
hand  she  carried  a  lamp.  She  was  moving  rather 
away  from  him,  and  towards  the  flight  of  steps  which 
conducted  towards  the  vaults. 

Schalken  felt  a  vague  alarm  at  thj  sight  of  this 
figure,  and  at  the  same  time  an  irresistible  impulse 
to  follow  its  guidance.  He  followed  it  towards  the 
vaults,  but  when  it  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs,  he 
paused  ;  the  figure  paused  also,  and  turning  gently 
round,  displayed,  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  it  carried, 
the  face  and  features  of  his  first  love,  Rose  Velder- 
kaust.  There  was  nothing  horrible,  or  even  sad,  in 
the  countenance.  On  the  contrary,  it  wore  the  same 
arch  smile  which  used  to  enchant  the  artist  long 
before  in  his  happy  days. 

A  feeling  of  awe  and  of  interest,  too  intense  to  be 
resisted,  prompted  him  to  follow  the  spectre,  if  spectre 
it  were.  She  descended  the  stairs — he  followed  ; 
and,  turning  to  the  left,  through  a  narrow  passage 


166  Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of 

she  led  him,  to  his  infinite  surprise,  into  what 
appeared  to  be  an  old-fashioned  Dutch  apartment, 
such  as  the  pictures  of  Gerard  Douw  have  served  to 
immortalize. 

Abundance  of  costly  antique  furniture  was  disposed 
about  the  room,  and  in  one  corner  stood  a  four-post 
bed,  with  heavy  black  cloth  curtains  around  it.  The 
figure  frequently  turned  towards  him  with  the  same 
arch  smile  ;  and  when  she  came  to  the  side  of  the 
bed,  she  drew  the  curtains,  and  by  the  light  of  the 
lamp  which  she  held  towards  its  contents,  she  dis- 
closed to  the  horror-stricken  painter,  sitting  bolt 
upright  in  the  bed,  the  livid  and  demoniac  form  of 
Vanderhausen.  Schalkcn  had  hardly  seen  him  when 
he  fell  senseless  upon  the  floor,  where  he  lay  until 
discovered,  on  the  next  morning,  by  persons  em- 
ployed in  closing  the  passages  into  the  vaults.  He 
was  lying  in  a  cell  of  considerable  size,  which  had 
not  been  disturbed  for  a  long  time,  and  he  had  fallen 
beside  a  large  coffin  which  was  supported  upon  small 
stone  pillars,  a  security  against  the  attacks  of  vermin. 

To  his  dying  day  Schalken  was  satisfied  of  the 
reality  of  the  vision  which  he  had  witnessed,  and  he 
has  left  behind  him  a  curious  evidence  of  the  impres- 
sion which  it  wrought  upon  his  fancy,  in  a  painting 
executed  shortly  after  the  event  we  have  narrated, 
and  which  is  valuable  as  exhibiting  not  only  the 
peculiarities  which    have    made  Schalken's   pictures 


Schalken  the  Painter. 


167 


sought  after,  but  even  more  so  as  presenting  a  por- 
trait, as  close  and  faithful  as  one  taken  from  memory 
can  be,  of  his  early- 
love,  Rose  Velderkaust,  l4Sf4l^W 
whose  mysterious  fate  i^^.^->-j 
must  ever  remain  matter 
of  speculation.  i*!l»i?*^5''* 


SHE    DREW    THE    CURTAINS. 


The  picture  represents  a  chamber  of  antique 
masonry,  such  as  might  be  found  in  most  old  cathe- 
drals, and  is  lighted  faintly  by  a  lamp  carried  in  the 


1 68       Strange  Event  in  the  Life  of  Schalken. 

hand  of  a  female  figure,  such  as  we  have  above 
attempted  to  describe  ;  and  in  the  background,  and 
to  the  left  of  him  who  examines  the  painting,  there 
stands  the  form  of  a  man  apparently  aroused  from 
sleep,  and  by  his  attitude,  his  hand  being  laid  upon 
his  sword,  exhibiting  considerable  alarm  ;  this  last 
figure  is  illuminated  only  by  the  expiring  glare  of  a 
wood  or  charcoal  fire. 

The  whole  production  exhibits  a  beautiful  specimen 
of  that  artful  and  singular  distribution  of  light  and 
shade  which  has  rendered  the  name  of  Schalken 
immortal  among  the  artists  of  his  country.  This 
tale  is  traditionary,  and  the  reader  will  easily  perceive, 
by  our  studiously  omitting  to  heighten  many  points 
of  the  narrative,  when  a  little  additional  colouring 
might  have  added  effect  to  the  recital,  that  we  have 
desired  to  lay  before  him,  not  a  figment  of  the  brain, 
but  a  curious  tradition  connected  with,  and  belonging 
to,  the  biography  of  a  famous  artist. 


"  The  earth  hath  bubbles  as  the  water  hath — 
And  these  are  of  them.'' 

In  the  south  of  Ireland,  and  on  the  borders  of  the 
county  of  Limerick,  there  lies  a  district  of  two  or 
three  miles  in  length,  which  is  rendered  interesting 
by  the  fact  that  it  is  one  of  the  very  few  spots 
throughout  this  country  in  which  some  vestiges  of 
aboriginal  forests  still  remain.  It  has  little  or  none 
of  the  lordly  character  of  the  American  forest,  for  the 
axe  has  felled  its  oldest  and  its  grandest  trees  ;  but 
in  the  close  wood  which  survives  live  all  the  wild  and 
pleasing  peculiarities  of  nature  :  its  complete  irregu- 
larity, its  vistas,  in  whose  perspective  the  quiet  cattle 
are  browsing  ;  its  refreshing  glades,  where  the  grey 


I  70     The  Fortunes  of  Sir  Robert  Ardagk. 

rocks  arise  from  amid  the  nodding  fern  ;  the  silvery- 
shafts  of  the  old  birch-trees  ;  the  knotted  trunks  of 
the  hoary  oak,  the  grotesque  but  graceful  branches 
which  never  shed  their  honours  under  the  tyrant 
pruning-hook  ;  the  soft  green  sward  ;  the  chequered 
light  and  shade  ;  the  wild  luxuriant  weeds  ;  the  lichen 
and  the  moss — all  are  beautiful  alike  in  the  green 
freshness  of  spring  or  in  the  sadness  and  sere  of 
autumn.  Their  beauty  is  of  that  kind  which  makes 
the  heart  full  with  joy — appealing  to  the  affections 
with  a  power  which  belongs  to  nature  only.  This 
wood  runs  up,  from  below  the  base,  to  the  ridge  of  a 
long  line  of  irregular  hills,  having  perhaps,  in  primi- 
tive times,  formed  but  the  skirting  -of  some  mighty 
forest  which  occupied  the  level  below. 

But  now,  alas  !  whither  have  we  drifted  ?  whither 
has  the  tide  of  civilization  borne  us  ?  It  has  passed 
over  a  land  unprepared  for  it — it  has  left  nakedness 
behind  it ;  we  have  lost  our  forests,  but  our  marauders 
remain  ;  we  have  destroyed  all  that  is  picturesque, 
while  we  have  retained  everything  that  is  revolting  in 
barbarism.  Through  the  midst  of  this  woodland 
there  runs  a  deep  gully  or  glen,  where  the  stillness  of 
the  scene  is  broken  in  upon  by  the  brawling  of  a 
mountain-stream,  which,  however,  in  the  winter 
season,  swells  into  a  rapid  and  formidable  torrent. 

There  is  one  point  at  which  the  glen  becomes 
extremely  deep  and  narrow  ;  the  sides  descend  to  the 


The  Forttines  of  Sir  Robert  Ardagh,    171 

depth  of  some  hundred  feet,  and  are  so  steep  as  to 
be  nearly  perpendicular.  The  wild  trees  which  have 
taken  root  in  the  crannies  and  chasms  of  the  rock 
are  so  intersected  and  entangled,  that  one  can  with 
difficulty  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  stream  which  wheels, 
(lashes,  and  foams  below,  as  if  exulting  in  the  sur- 
rounding silence  and  solitude. 

This  spot  was  not  unwisely  chosen,  as  a  point  of  no 
ordinary  strength,  for  the  erection  of  a  massive  square 
tower  or  keep,  one  side  of  which  rises  as  if  in  con- 
tinuation of  the  precipitous  cliff  on  Avhich  it  is  based. 
Originally,  the  only  mode  of  ingress  was  by  a  narrow 
portal  in  the  very  wall  which  overtopped  the  precipice, 
opening  upon  a  ledge  of  rock  which  afforded  a  pre- 
carious pathway,  cautiously  intersected,  however,  by 
a  deep  trench  cut  out  with  great  labour  in  the  living 
rock  ;  so  that,  in  its  pristine  state,  and  before  the 
introduction  of  artillery  into  the  art  of  war,  this  tower 
might  have  been  pronounced,  and  that  not  presump- 
tuously, impregnable. 

The  progress  of  improvement  and  the  increasing 
security  of  the  times  had,  however,  tempted  its  suc- 
cessive proprietors,  if  not  to  adorn,  at  least  to  enlarge 
their  premises,  and  about  the  middle  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, when  the  castle  was  last  inhabited,  the  original 
square  tower  formed  but  a  small  part  of  the  edifice. 

The  castle,  and  a  wide  tract  of  the  surrounding 
country,  had  from  time  immemorial  belonged   to  a 


17?     The  Fortunes  of  Sir  Robert  Ardagh. 

family  which,  for  distinctness,  we  shall  call  by  the 
name  of  Ardagh ;  and  owing  to  the  associations 
which,  in  Ireland,  almost  always  attach  to  scenes 
which  have  long  witnessed  alike  the  exercise  of  stern 
feudal  authority,  and  of  that  savage  hospitality  which 
distinguished  the  good  old  times,  this  building  has  be- 
come the  subject  and  the  scene  of  many  wild  and  extra- 
ordinary traditions.  One  of  them  I  have  been  enabled, 
by  a  personal  acquaintance  with  an  eye-witness  of  the 
events,  to  trace  to  its  origin  ;  and  yet  it  is  hard  to  say 
whether  the  events  which  I  am  about  to  record  ap- 
pear more  strange  and  improbable  as  seen  through 
the  distorting  medium  of  tradition,  or  in  the  appalling 
dimness  of  uncertainty  which  surrounds  the  reality. 

Tradition  says  that,  sometime  in  the  last  century, 
Sir  Robert  Ardagh,  a  young  man,  and  the  last  heir 
of  that  family,  went  abroad  and  served  in  foreign 
armies  ;  and  that,  having  acquired  considerable  honour 
and  emolument,  he  settled  at  Castle  Ardagh,  the 
building  we  have  just  now  attempted  to  describe. 
He  was  what  the  country  people  call  a  dark  man ; 
that  is,  he  was  considered  morose,  reserved,  and  ill- 
tempered  ;  and,  as  it  was  supposed  from  the  utter 
solitude  of  his  life,  was  upon  no  terms  of  cordiality 
with  the  other  members  of  his  family. 

The  only  occasion  upon  which  he  broke  through 
the  solitary  monotony  of  his  life  was  during  the  con- 
tinuance of  the  racing  season,  and  immediately  sub- 


The  Fortunes  of  Sir  Robert  Ardagh.    173 

sequent  to  it  ;  at  which  time  he  was  to  be  seen  among 
the  busiest  upon  the  course,  betting  deeply  and  un- 
hesitatingly, and  invariably  with  success.  Sir  Robert 
was,  however,  too  well  known  as  a  man  of  honour, 
and  of  too  high  a  family,  to  be  suspected  of  any 
unfair  dealing.  He  was,  moreover,  a  soldier,  and  a 
man  of  intrepid  as  well  as  of  a  haughty  character ; 
and  no  one  cared  to  hazard  a  surmise,  the  conse- 
quences of  which  would  be  felt  most  probably  by  its 
originator  only. 

Gossip,  however,  was  not  silent ;  it  was  remarked 
that  Sir  Robert  never  appeared  at   the  race-ground, 
which  was  the  only  place  of  public  resort  which  he 
frequented,  except  in  company  with  a  certain  strange- 
looking  person,  who  was    never    seen  elsewhere,  or 
under  other  circumstances.     It  was    remarked,  too, 
that  this  man,  whose  relation  to  Sir  Robert  was  never 
distinctly  ascertained,  was  the  only  person  to  whom 
he  seemed   to  speak  unnecessarily  ;  it  was  observed 
that  while  with  the  country  gentry  he  exchanged  no 
further  communication  than  what  was  unavoidable  in 
arranging  his  sporting  transactions,  with  this  person 
he  would  converse  earnestly  and  frequently.     Tradi- 
tion asserts  that,  to  enhance  the  curiosity  which  this 
unaccountable  and  exclusive  preference  excited,  the 
stranger  possessed  some  striking  and  unpleasant  pecu- 
liarities of  person  and  of  garb — though  it  is  not  stated, 
however,  what  these  were — but  they,  in  conjunction 


174      '^^^^  Fortunes  of  Sir  Robert  Ai'dagh. 

with  Sir  Robert's  secluded  habits  and  extraordinary 
run  of  luck — a  success  which  was  supposed  to  result 
from  the  suggestions  and  immediate  advice  of  the 
unknown — were  sufficient  to  warrant  report  in  pro- 
nouncing that  there  was  something  queer  in  the  wind, 
and  in  surmising  that  Sir  Robert  was  playing  a 
fearful  and  a  hazardous  game,  and  that,  in  short,  his 
strange  companion  was  little  better  than  the  Devil 
himself. 

Years  rolled  quietly  away,  and  nothing  very 
novel  occurred  in  the  arrangements  of  Castle  Ardagh, 
excepting  that  Sir  Robert  parted  with  his  odd  com- 
panion, but  as  nobody  could  tell  whence  he  came, 
so  nobody  could  say  whither  he  had  gone.  Sir 
Robert's  habits,  however,  underwent  no  consequent 
change  ;  he  continued  regularly  to  frequent  the 
race  meetings,  without  mixing  at  all  in  the  con- 
vivialities of  the  gentry,  and  immediately  afterwards 
to  relapse  into  the  secluded  monotony  of  his  ordinary 
life. 

It  was  said  that  he  had  accumulated  vast  sums  of 
money — and,  as  his  bets  were  always  successful 
and  always  large,  such  must  have  been  the  case.  He 
did  not  suffer  the  acquisition  of  wealth,  however,  to 
influence  his  hospitality  or  his  house-keeping — he 
neither  purchased  land,  nor  extended  his  establish- 
ment ;  and  his  mode  of  enjoying  his  money  must 
have  been  altogether  that  of  the  raiser — consisting 


The  For  twines  of  Sir  Robert  Ardagh.    175 

merely  in  the  pleasure  of  touching  and  telling  his 
gold,  and  in  the  consciousness  of  wealth. 

Sir  Robert's  temper,  so  far  from  improving,  became 
more  than  ever  gloomy  and  morose.  He  sometimes 
carried  the  indulgence  of  his  evil  dispositions  to  such 
a  height  that  it  bordered  upon  insanity.  During 
these  paroxysms  he  would  neither  eat,  drink,  nor  sleep. 
On  such  occasions  he  insisted  on  perfect  privacy, 
even  from  the  intrusion  of  his  most  trusted  servants  ; 
his  voice  was  frequently  heard,  sometimes  in  earnest 
supplication,  sometimes  raised,  as  if  in  loud  and 
angry  altercation  with  some  unknown  visitant.  Some- 
times he  would  for  hours  together  walk  to  and  fro 
throughout  the  long  oak-wainscoted  apartment  which 
he  generally  occupied,  with  wild  gesticulations  and 
agitated  pace,  in  the  manner  of  one  who  has  been 
roused  to  a  state  of  unnatural  excitement  by  some 
sudden  and  appalling  intimation. 

These  paroxysms  of  apparent  lunacy  were  so 
frightful,  that  during  their  continuance  even  his  oldest 
and  most  faithful  domestics  dared  not  approach  him  ; 
consequently  his  hours  of  agony  were  never  intruded 
upon,  and  the  mysterious  causes  of  his  sufferings 
appeared  likely  to  remain  hidden  for  ever. 

On  one  occasion  a  fit  of  this  kind  continued  for  an 
unusual  time  ;  the  ordinary  term  of  their  duration — 
about  two  days — had  been  long  past,  and  the  old 
servant  who  generally  waited  upon  Sir  Robert  after 


I  76      The  Fortunes  of  Sir  Robert  Ardagh. 

these  visitations,  having  in  vain  listened  for  the  well- 
known  tinkle  of  his  master's  hand-bell,  began  to  feel 
extremely  anxious ;  he  feared  that  his  master  might 
have  died  from  sheer  exhaustion,  or  perhaps  put  an 
end  to  his  own  existence  during  his  miserable  de- 
pression. These  fears  at  length  became  so  strong, 
that  having  in  vain  urged  some  of  his  brother  servants 
to  accompany  him,  he  determined  to  go  up  alone, 
and  himself  see  whether  any  accident  had  befallen 
Sir  Robert, 

He  traversed  the  several  passages  which  conducted 
from  the  new  to  the  more  ancient  parts  of  the 
mansion,  and  having  arrived  in  the  old  hall  of  the 
castle,  the  utter  silence  of  the  hour — for  it  was  very 
late  in  the  night — the  idea  of  the  nature  of  the  enter- 
prise in  which  he  was  engaging  himself,  a  sensation 
of  remoteness  from  anything  like  human  companion- 
ship, but,  more  than  all,  the  vivid  but  undefined 
anticipation  of  something  horrible,  came  upon  him 
with  such  oppressive  weight  that  he  hesitated  as  to 
whether  he  should  proceed.  Real  uneasiness,  how- 
ever, respecting  the  fate  of  his  master,  for  whom  he 
felt  that  kind  of  attachment  which  the  force  of 
habitual  intercourse  not  unfrequently  engenders  re- 
specting objects  not  in  themselves  amiable,  and  also 
a  latent  unwillingness  to  expose  his  weakness  to  the 
ridicule  of  his  fellow-servants,  combined  to  overcome 
his  reluctance  ;  and  he  had  just  placed  his  foot  upon 


The  Fortunes  of  Sir  Robert  Ardagh.    lyy 

the  first  step  of  the  staircase  which  conducted  to  his 
master's  chamber,  when  his  attention   was  arrested 
by   a    low   but  distinct  knocking   at   the   hall-door. 
Not,  perhaps,  very  sorry  at  finding  thus  an  excuse 
even  for  deferring  his  intended  expedition,  he  placed 
the  candle  upon  a  stone  block  which  lay  in  the  hall 
and  approached  the  door,  uncertain  whether  his  ears 
had  not  deceived   him.     This  doubt  was  justified  by 
the  circumstance  that  the  hall  entrance  had  been  for 
nearly  fifty  years  disused  as   a  mode   of  ingress  to 
the  castle.     The  situation  of  this  gate  also,  which  we 
have  endeavoured  to  describe,  opening  upon  a  narrow 
ledge    of    rock   which    overhangs    a    perilous    cliff, 
rendered  it  at  all   times,  but  particularly  at  night,  a 
dangerous  entrance.     This  shelving  platform  of  rock, 
which    formed    the   only   avenue    to   the    door,  was 
divided,  as  I  have  already  stated,  by  a  broad  chasm, 
the  planks  across   which  had  long  disappeared,  by 
decay  or  otherwise  ;  so  that  it  seemed  at  least  highly 
improbable  that  any  man  could  have  found  his  way 
across  the  passage  in  safety  to  the  door,  more  par- 
ticularly on  a   night  like  this,  of  singular  darkness. 
The  old  man,  therefore,  listened  attentively,  to  ascer- 
tain whether  the  first  application  should  be  followed 
by  another.     He  had   not  long  to  wait.     The  same 
low  but  singularly  distinct  knocking  was  repeated  ; 
so  low  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  applicant  had  em- 
ployed   no   harder   or   heavier   instrument   than   his 

N 


178     The  Forttines  of  Sir  Robert  Ardagh. 

hand,  and  yet,  despite  tlie  immense  thickness  of  the 
doofj  with  such  strength  that  the  sound  was  distinctly 
audible. 

The  knock  was  repeated  a  third  time,  without  any 
increase  of  loudness  ;  and  the  old  man,  obeying  an 
impulse  for  which  to  his  dying  hour  he  could  never 
account,  proceeded  to  remove,  one  by  one,  the  three 
great  oaken  bars  which  secured  the  door.  Time  and 
damp  had  effectually  corroded  the  iron  chambers  of 
the  lock,  so  that  it  afforded  little  resistance.  With 
some  effort,  as  he  believed,  assisted  from  without, 
the  old  servant  succeeded  in  opening  the  door ;  and 
a  low,  square-built  figure,  apparently  that  of  a  man 
wrapped  in  a  large  black  cloak,  entered  the  hall. 
The  servant  could  not  see  much  of  this  visitor  with 
any  distinctness ;  his  dress  appeared  foreign,  the 
skirt  of  his  ample  cloak  was  thrown  over  one 
shoulder ;  he  wore  a  large  felt  hat,  with  a  very 
heavy  leaf,  from  under  which  escaped  what  appeared 
to  be  a  mass  of  long  sooty-black  hair ;  his  feet  were 
cased  in  heavy  riding-boots.  Such  were  the  few 
particulars  which  the  servant  had  time  and  light 
to  observe.  The  stranger  desired  him  to  let  his 
master  know  instantly  that  a  friend  had  come, 
by  appointment,  to  settle  some  business  with  him. 
The  servant  hesitated,  but  a  slight  motion  on  the  part 
of  his  visitor,  as  if  to  possess  himself  of  the  candle, 


The  Fortunes  of  Sir  Robert  Ardagh.    179 


determined  him  ;    so,    taking  it  in  his  hand,  he  as- 
cended the  castle  stairs,  leaving  the  guest  in  the  hall. 
On  reaching  the  apartment    which  opened   upon 
the   oak-chamber  he  was  surprised  to   observe  the 
/^sH^^s.  door    of    that    room 


partly  open,  and  the 
roomitself  lit  up.  He 
paused,  but  there  was 
no  sound  ;  he  looked 
in,  and  saw  Sir 
Robert,  his  head  and 


HE    PAUSED,    BUT     THERE 
WAS   NO  SOUND. 

the  upper  part  of  his  body 
reclining  on  a  table,  upon 
which   two   candles  burned  *, 
his  arms  were  stretched  for- 
ward   on    either    side,    and     perfectly     motionless  ; 
it     appeared    that,    having     been    sitting     at     the 
table,  he   had    thus    sunk    forward,   either   dead   or 
in    a   swoon.      There   was    no    sound  of  breathing; 

N  2 


I  So    The  FortiLiies  of  Sir  Robert  Arda^h. 

all  was  silent,  except  the  sharp  ticking  of  a 
watch,  which  lay  beside  the  lamp.  The  servant 
coughed  twice  or  thrice,  but  with  no  effect ;  his  fears 
now  almost  amounted  to  certainty,  and  he  was 
approaching  the  table  on  which  his  master  partly 
lay,  to  satisfy  himself  of  his  death,  when  Sir  Robert 
slowly  raised  his  head,  and,  throwing  himself  back 
in  his  chair^  fixed  his  eyes  in  a  ghastly  and  un- 
certain gaze  upon  his  attendant.  At  length  he 
said,  slowly  and  painfully,  as  if  he  dreaded  the 
answer, — 

**  In  God's  name,  what  are  you  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  said  the  servant,  "  a  strange  gentleman 
wants  to  see  you  below." 

At  this  intimation  Sir  Robert,  starting  to  his  feet 
and  tossing  his  arms  wildly  upwards,  uttered  a  shriek 
of  such  appalling  and  despairing  terror  that  it  was 
almost  too  fearful  for  human  endurance ;  and  long 
after  the  sound  had  ceased  it  seemed  to  the  terrified 
imagination  of  the  old  servant  to  roll  through  the 
deserted  passages  in  bursts  of  unnatural  laughter. 
After  a  few  moments  Sir  Robert  said, — 

"  Can't  you  send  him  away  ?  Why  does  he  come 
so  soon  ?  O  Merciful  Powers  !  let  him  leave  me  for 
an  hour  ;  a  little  time.  I  can't  see  him  now;  try  to 
get  him  away.  You  see  I  can't  go  down  now  ;  I 
have  not  strength.     O  God  !  O  God  !    let  him  come 


The  Fortunes  of  Sir  Robert  Ardagh.     i8  i 

back  in  an  hour  ;  it  is  not  long  to  wait.  He  cannot 
lose  anything  by  it  ;  nothing,  nothing,  nothing.  Tell 
him  that  !     Say  anything  to  him." 

The  servant  went  down.  In  his  own  words,  he 
did  not  feel  the  stairs  under  him  till  he  got 
to  the  hall.  The  figure  stood  exactly  as  he  had  left 
it.  He  delivered  his  master's  message  as  coher- 
ently as  he  could.  The  stranger  replied  in  a  careless 
tone : 

"  If  Sir  Robert  will  not  come  down  to  me ;  I  must 
go  up  to  him." 

The  man  returned,  and  to  his  surprise  he  found  his 
master  much  more  composed  in  manner.  He  listened 
to  the  message,  and  though  the  cold  perspiration  rose 
in  drops  upon  his  forehead  faster  than  he  could  wipe 
it  away,  his  manner  had  lost  the  dreadful  agitation 
which  had  marked  it  before.  He  rose  feebly,  and 
casting  a  last  look  of  agony  behind  him,  passed  from 
the  room  to  the  lobby,  where  he  signed  to  his  atten- 
dant not  to  follow  him.  The  man  moved  as  far  as 
the  head  of  the  staircase,  from  whence  he  had  a 
tolerably  distinct  view  of  the  hall,  which  was  im- 
perfectly lighted  by  the  candle  he  had  left  there. 

He  saw  his  master  reel,  rather  than  walk,  down  the 
stairs,  clinging  all  the  way  to  the  banisters.  He 
walked  on,  as  if  about  to  sink  every  moment  from 
weakness.     The  figure  advanced  as  if  to  meet  him, 


1 82    The  Fortunes  of  Sir  Robert  Ardagh, 

and  in  passing  struck  down  the  light.  The  servant 
could  see  no  more ;  but  there  was  a  sound  of  strug- 
gling, renewed  at  intervals  with  silent  but  fearful 
energy.  It  was  evident,  however,  that  the  parties 
were  approaching  the  door,  for  he  heard  the  solid 
oak  sound  twice  or  thrice,  as  the  feet  of  the  com- 
batants, in  shuffling  hither  and  thither  over  the  floor, 
struck  upon  it.  After  a  slight  pause,  he  heard  the 
door  thrown  open  with  such  violence  that  the  leaf 
seemed  to  strike  the  side-wall  of  the  hall,  for  it  was 
so  dark  without  that  this  could  only  be  surmised  by 
the  sound.  The  struggle  was  renewed  with  an  agony 
and  intenseness  of  energy  that  betrayed  itself  in  deep- 
drawn  gasps.  One  desperate  effort,  which  terminated 
in  the  breaking  of  some  part  of  the  door,  producing 
a  sound  as  if  the  door-post  was  wrenched  from  its 
position,  was  followed  by  another  wrestle,  evidently 
upon  the  narrow  ledge  which  ran  outside  the  door, 
overtopping  the  precipice.  This  proved  to  be  the 
final  struggle  ;  it  was  followed  by  a  crashing  sound 
as  if  some  heavy  body  had  fallen  over,  and  was  rush- 
ing down  the  precipice  through  the  light  boughs 
that  crossed  near  the  top.  All  then  became  still  as 
the  grave,  except  when  the  moan  of  the  night-wind 
sighed  up  the  wooded  glen. 

The  old  servant  had  not  nerve  to  return  through 
the  hall,  and  to  him  the  darkness  seemed  all  but  end- 
less ;    but  morning  at  length  came,  and  with   it  the 


The  Fortunes  of  Sir  Robert  Arda<^Ji.    183 

disclosure  of  the  events  of  the  night.    Near  the  door, 
upon  the  ground,  lay 
Sir    Robert's   sword- 
belt,  which  had  given 
way  in  the  scuffle.    A 
huge     splinter     from 
the  massive  door-post 
had    been    wrenched 
off  by  an  almost 
superhuman     ef- 
fort— one    which 


man  could  have 
severed — and  on 
the  rocks  outside 
were      left     the 
marksoftheslip- 
ping  and  sliding 
of  feet. 
At  the  foot  of  the 
precipice,      not      im- 
mediately  under   the 
castle,    but     dragged 
some  way  up  the  glen, 
were    found    the    re- 


AT   THE   FOOT  OF  THF,  PRECIPICE. 


184     The  Forhines  of  Sir  Robert  Ardaq/i. 

mains  of  Sir  Robert,  with  hardly  a  vestige  of  a  limb 
or  feature  left  distinguishable.  The  right  hand,  how- 
ever, was  uninjured,  and  in  its  fingers  were  clutched, 
with  the  fixedness  of  death,  a  long  lock  of  coarse 
sooty  hair — the  only  direct  circumstantial  evidence  of 
the  presence  of  a  second  person. 


^^'""^-'^"'^'^'1^1^ 


DreAjMS  !  What  age, 
or  what  country  of  the 
world,  has  not  felt  and 
acknowledged  the  mystery  of  their  origin  and  end  ? 
I  have  thought  not  a  little  upon  the  subject,  seeing 
it  is  one  which  has  been  often  forced  upon  my 
attention,  and  sometimes  strangely  enough  ;  and 
yet  I  have  never  arrived  at  anything  which  at  all 
appeared  a  satisfactory  conclusion.  It  does  appear 
that  a  mental  phenomenon  so  extraordinary  cannot 
be  wholly  without  its  use.  We  know,  indeed,  that  in 
the  olden  times  it  has  been  made  the  organ  of  com- 
munication between  the  Deity  and  His  creatures  ; 
and  when  a  dream  produces  upon  a  mind,  to  all 
appearance  hopelessly  reprobate,  and  depraved, 
an  effect  so  powerful  and  so  lasting  as  to  break 
down  the  inveterate  habits,  and  to  reform  the 
life  of  an  abandoned  sinner,  we  see  in  the  result,  in 
the  reformation  of  morals  which  appeared  incorrigi- 
ble, in  the  reclamation  of  a  human  soul  which  seemed 


1 86  The  D7^eam. 

to  be  irretrievably  lost,  something  more  than  could 
be  produced  by  a  mere  chimera  of  the  slumbering 
fancy,  something  more  than  could  arise  from  the 
capricious  images  of  a  terrified  imagination.  And 
while  Reason  rejects  as  absurd  the  superstition 
which  will  read  a  prophecy  in  every  dream,  she 
may,  without  violence  to  herself,  recognize,  even 
in  the  wildest  and  most  incongruous  of  the  wan- 
derings of  a  slumbering  intellect,  the  evidences 
and  the  fragments  of  a  language  which  may  be 
spoken,  which  has  been  spoken,  to  terrify,  to  warn 
and  to  command.  We  have  reason  to  believe  too, 
by  the  promptness  of  action  which  in  the  age  of  the 
prophets  followed  all  intimations  of  this  kind,  and  by 
the  strength  of  conviction  and  strange  permanence  of 
the  effects  resulting  from  certain  dreams  in  latter 
times — which  effects  we  ourselves  may  have  witnessed 
— that  when  this  medium  of  communication  has  been 
employed  by  the  Deity,  the  evidences  of  His  presence 
have  been  unequivocal.  My  thoughts  were  directed 
to  this  subject  in  a  manner  to  leave  a  lasting  impres- 
sion upon  my  mind,  by  the  events  which  I  shall  now 
relate,  the  statement  of  which,  however  extraordinary, 
is  nevertheless  accurate. 

About  the  year   ly — ,  having  been  appointed  to 

the  living  of  C h,  I  rented  a  small  house  in  the 

town  which  bears  the  same  name :  one  morning  in 


The  Dream.  187 

the  month  of  November,  I  was  awakened  before  my 
usual  time  by  my  servant,  who  bustled  into  my  bed- 
room for  the  purpose  of  announcing  a  sick  call.  As 
the  Catholic  Church  holds  her  last  rites  to  be  totally 
indispensable  to  the  safety  of  the  departing  sinner,  no 
conscientious  clergyman  can  afford  a  moment's  un- 
necessary delay,  and  in  little  more  than  five  minutes 
I  stood  ready,  cloaked  and  booted  for  the  road,  in  the 
small  front  parlour  in  which  the  messenger,  who  was 
to  act  as  my  guide,  awaited  my  coming.  I  found  a 
poor  little  girl  crying  piteously  near  the  door,  and 
after  some  slight  difficulty  I  ascertained  that  her 
father  was  either  dead  or  just  dying, 

"  And  what  may  be  your  father's  name,  my  poor 
child?"  said  I,  She  held  down  her  head  as  if 
ashamed.  I  repeated  the  question,  and  the  wretched 
little  creature  burst  into  floods  of  tears  still  more 
bitter  than  she  had  shed  before.  At  length,  almost 
angered  by  conduct  which  appeared  to  me  so  un- 
reasonable^  I  began  to  lose  patience,  and  I  said  rather 
harshly, — 

"  If  you  will  not  tell  me  the  name  of  the  person  to 
whom  you  would  lead  me,  your  silence  can  arise  from 
no  good  motive,  and  I  might  be  justified  in  refusing 
to  go  with  you  at  all." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that — don't  say  that  !  "  cried  she. 
''  Oh,  sir,  it  was  that    I  was  afeard   of  when  I  would 


1 88  The  Dream. 

not  tell  you — I  was  afeard,  when  you  heard  his  name, 
you  would  not  come  with  me  ;  but  it  is  no  use  hidin' 
it  now — it's  Pat  Connelly  the  carpenter,  your 
honour." 

She  looked  in  my  face  with  the  most  earnest 
anxiety,  as  if  her  very  existence  depended  upon 
what  she  should  read  there.  I  relieved  the  child  at 
once.  The  name,  indeed,  was  most  unpleasantly 
familiar  to  me ;  but,  however  fruitless  my  visits  and 
advice  might  have  been  at  another  time,  the  present 
was  too  fearful  an  occasion  to  suffer  my  doubts  of 
their  utility,  or  my  reluctance  to  re-attempting  what 
appeared  a  hopeless  task,  to  weigh  even  against  the 
lightest  chance  that  a  consciousness  of  his  imminent 
danger  might  produce  in  him  a  more  docile  and 
tractable  disposition.  Accordingly  I  told  the  child 
to  lead  the  way,  and  followed  her  in  silence.  She 
hurried  rapidly  through  the  long  narrow  street  which 
forms  the  great  thoroughfare  of  the  town.  The  dark- 
ness of  the  hour,  rendered  still  deeper  by  the  close 
approach  of  the  old-fashioned  houses,  which  lowered 
in  tall  obscurity  on  either  side  of  the  w^ay ;  the 
damp,  dreary  chill  which  renders  the  advance  of 
morning  peculiarly  cheerless,  combined  with  the  ob- 
ject of  my  walk — to  visit  the  death-bed  of  a  presump- 
tuous sinner,  to  endeavour,  almost  against  my  own 
conviction,  to  infuse  a  hope  into  the  heart  of  a  dying 
reprobate — a   drunkard    but    too  probably  perishing 


The  Dream.  189 

under  the  consequences  of  some  mad  fit  of  intoxica- 
tion ;  all  these  circumstances  served  to  enhance 
the  gloom  and  solemnity  of  my  feelings,  as  I  silently 
followed  my  little  guide^  who  with  quick  steps 
traversed  the  uneven  pavement  of  the  Main  Street. 
After  a  walk  of  about  five  minutes,  she  turned  off 
into  a  narrow  lane,  of  that  obscure  and  comfortless 
class  which  is  to  be  found  in  almost  all  small  old- 
fashioned  towns,  chill,  without  ventilation,  reeking 
with  all  manner  of  offensive  effluvia;,  and  lined  by 
dingy,  smoky,  sickly  and  pent-up  buildings,  fre- 
quently not  only  in  a  wretched  but  in  a  dangerous 
condition. 

"  Your  father  has  changed  his  abode  since  I  last 
visited  him,  and,  I  am  afraid,  much  for  the  worse," 
said  I. 

"  Indeed  he  has,  sir  ;  but  we  must  not  complain," 
replied  she.  "  We  have  to  thank  God  that  we  have 
lodging  and  food,  though  it's  poor  enough,  it  is,  your 
honour." 

Poor  child  !  thought  I.  How  many  an  older  head 
might  learn  wisdom  from  thee— how  many  a  luxurious 
philosopher,  who  is  skilled  to  preach  but  not  to  suffer, 
might  not  thy  patient  words  put  to  the  blush  !  The 
manner  and  language  of  my  companion  were  alike 
above  her  years  and  station  ;  and,  indeed,  in  all  cases 
in  which  the  cares  and  sorrowsof  life  have  anticipated 
their  usual  date,  and  have  fallen,  as  they  sometimes 


iQO  The  Dream. 

do,  with  melancholy  prematurity  to  the  lot  of  child- 
hood, I  have  observed  the  result  to  have  proved 
uniformly  the  same.  A  young  mind,  to  which  joy 
and  indulgence  have  been  strangers,  and  to  which 
suffering  and  self-denial  have  been  familiarized  from 
the  first,  acquires  a  solidity  and  an  elevation  which  no 
other  discipline  could  have  bestowed,  and  which,  in 
the  present  case^  communicated  a  striking  but  mourn- 
ful peculiarity  to  the  manners,  even  to  the  voice,  of 
the  child.  We  paused  before  a  narrow,  crazy  door, 
which  she  opened  by  means  of  a  latch^  and  we  forth- 
with began  to  ascend  the  steep  and  broken  stairs 
which  led  to  the  sick  man's  room. 

As  we  mounted  flight  after  flight  towards  the 
garret- floor,  I  heard  more  and  more  distinctly  the 
hurried  talking  of  many  voices.  I  could  also  dis- 
tinguish the  low  sobbing  of  a  female.  On  arriving 
upon  the  uppermost  lobby,  these  sounds  became  fully 
audible. 

"This  way, your  honour,"  said  my  little  conductress  ; 
at  the  same  time,  pushing  open  a  door  of  patched 
and  half-rotten  plank,  she  admitted  me  into  the 
squalid  chamber  of  death  and  misery.  But  one 
candle,  held  in  the  fingers  of  a  scared  and  haggard- 
looking  child,  was  burning  in  the  room,  and  that  so 
dim  that  all  was  twilight  or  darkness  except  within 
its  immediate  influence.  The  general  obscurity,  how- 
ever, served  to  throw  into  prominent  and  startling 


The  Dream.  191 

relief  the  death-bed  and  its  occupant.  The  light 
fell  with  horrible  clearness  upon  the  blue  and 
swollen  features  of  the  drunkard.  I  did  not  think 
it  possible  that  a  human  countenance  could  look 
so  terrific.  The  lips  were  black  and- drawn  apart; 
the  teeth  were  firmly  set ;  the  eyes  a  little  unclosed, 
and  nothing  but  the  whites  appearing.  Every 
feature  was  fixed  and  livid,  and  the  whole  face 
wore  a  ghastly  and  rigid  expression  of  despairing 
terror  such  as  I  never  saw  equalled.  His  hands 
were  crossed  upon  his  breast,  and  firmly  clenched ; 
while,  as  if  to  add  to  the  corpse-like  effect  of  the 
whole,  some  white  cloths,  dipped  in  water,  were 
wound  about  the  forehead  and  temples. 

As   soon    as   I  could   remove  my  eyes  from   this 

horrible  spectacle,  I  observed  my  friend  Dr.  D , 

one  of  the  most  humane  of  a  humane  profession, 
standing  by  the  bedside.  He  had  been  attempting, 
but  unsuccessfully,  to  bleed  the  patient,  and  had  now 
applied  his  finger  to  the  pulse. 

"  Is  there  any  hope  .?"  I  inquired  in  a  whisper. 

A  shake  of  the  head  was  the  reply.  There  was  a 
pause,  while  he  continued  to  hold  the  wrist  ;  but  he 
waited  in  vain  for  the  throb  of  life — it  was  not  there  : 
and  when  he  let  go  the  hand,  it  fell  stiffly  back  into 
its  former  position  upon  the  other. 

"  The  man  is  dead,'-"  said  the  physician,  as  he  turned 
from  the  bed  where  the  terrible  figure  lay. 


1 92  *         The  Dream. 

Dead  !  thought  I,  scarcely  venturing  to  look  upon 
the  tremendous  and  revolting  spectacle.  Dead ! 
without  an  hour  for  repentance,  even  a  moment  for  re- 
flection. Dead!  without  the  rites  which  even  the  best 
should  have.  Was  there  a  hope  for  him  ?  The  glaring 
eyeball,  the  grinning  mouth,  the  distorted  brow — 
that  unutterable  look  in  which  a  painter  would  have 
sought  to  embody  the  fixed  despair  of  the  nether- 
most hell — These  were  my  answer. 

The  poor  wife  sat  at  a  little  distance,  crying  as  if 
her  heart  would  break— the  younger  children  clustered 
round  the  bed,  looking  with  wondering  curiosity  upon 
the  form  of  death,  never  seen  before. 

When  the  first  tumult  of  uncontrollable  sorrow  had 
passed  away,  availing  myself  of  the  solemnity  and 
impressiveness  of  the  scene,  I  desired  the  heart- 
stricken  family  to  accompany  me  in  prayer,  and  all 
knelt  down  while  I  solemnly  and  fervently  repeated 
some  of  those  prayers  which  appeared  most  applicable 
to  the  occasion.  I  employed  myself  thus  in  a  manner 
which  I  trusted  was  not  unprofitable,  at  least  to  the 
living,  for  about  ten  minutes;  and  having  accom- 
plished my  task,  I  was  the  first  to  arise. 

I  looked  upon  the  poor,  sobbing,  helpless  creatures 
who  knelt  so  humbly  around  me,  and  my  heart  bled 
for  them.  With  a  natural  transition  I  turned  my 
eyes  from  them  to  the  bed  in  which  the  body  lay ; 
and,  great  God  !  what  was  the  revulsion,  the  horror 


The  Dream.  193 

which  I  experienced  on  seeing  the  corpse-like,  terrific 
thing  seated  half  upright  before  me.  The  white  cloths 
which  had  been  wound  about  the  head  had  now  partly- 
slipped  from  their  position,  and  were  hanging  in 
grotesque  festoons  about  the  face  and  shoulders, 
while  the  distorted  eyes  leered  from  amid  them — 

"A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell." 

I  stood  actually  riveted  to  the  spot.  The  figure 
nodded  its  head  and  lifted  its  arm,  I  thought,  with  a 
menacing  gesture.  A  thousand  confused  and  horrible 
thoughts  at  once  rushed  upon  my  mind.  I  had  often 
read  that  the  body  of  a  presumptuous  sinner,  who, 
during  life,  had  been  the  willing  creature  of  every 
Satanic  impulse,  had  been  known,  after  the  human 
tenant  had  deserted  it,  to  become  the  horrible  sport 
of  demoniac  possession. 

I  was  roused  by  the  piercing  scream  of  the  mother, 
who  novv^,  for  the  first  time,  perceived  the  change 
which  had  taken  place.  She  rushed  towards  the  bed, 
but,  stunned  by  the  shock  and  overcome  by  the  con- 
flict of  violent  emotions,  before  she  reached  it  she  fell 
prostrate  upon  the  floor. 

I  am  perfectly  convinced  that  had  I  not  been 
startled  from  the  torpidity  of  horror  in  which  I  was 
bound  by  some  powerful  and  arousing  stimulant,  I 
should  have  gazed  upon  this  unearthly  apparition 
until  I  had  fairly  lost  my  senses.     As  it  was,   how- 

U 


194  The  Dream. 

ever,  the  spell  was  broken — superstition  gave  way  to 
reason  :  the  man  whom  all  believed  to  have  been 
actually  dead  was  living! 

Dr.  D was  instantly  standing  by  the  bedside, 

and  upon  examination  he  found  that  a  sudden  and 
copious  flow  of  blood  had  taken  place  from  the 
wound  which  the  lancet  had  left  ;  and  this,  no  doubt, 
had  effected  his  sudden  and  almost  preternatural 
restoration  to  an  existence  from  which  all  thought 
he  had  been  for  ever  removed.  The  man  was  still 
speechless,  but  he  seemed  to  understand  the  physician 
when  he  forbade  his  repeating  the  painful  and  fruitless 
attempts  which  he  made  to  articulate,  and  he  at  once 
resigned  himself  quietly  into  his  hands. 

I  left  the  patient  with  leeches  upon  his  temples, 
and  bleeding  freely,  apparently  with  little  of  the 
drowsiness  which  accompanies  apoplexy.    Indeed,  Dr. 

D told  me  that  he  had  never  before  witnessed  a 

seizure  which  seemed  to  combine  the  symptoms  of 
so  many  kinds,  and  yet  which  belonged  to  none  of 
the  recognized  classes  ;  it  certainly  was  not  apoplexy, 
catalepsy,  nor  delirium  tremens,  and  yet  it  seemed, 
in  some  degree,  to  partake  of  the  properties  of  all. 
It  was  strange,  but  stranger  things  are  coming. 

During  two  or  three  days   Dr.  D would  not 

allow  his  patient  to  converse  in  a  manner  which 
could  excite  or  exhaust  him,  with  anyone  ;  he  suffered 
him  merely  as  briefly  as  possible  to  express  his  im- 


The  Dream.  195 

mediate  wants.  And  it  was  not  until  the  fourth  day 
after  my  early  visit,  the  particulars  of  which  I  have 
just  detailed,  that  it  was  thought  expedient  that  I 
should  see  him,  and  then  only  because  it  appeared 
that  his  extreme  importunity  and  impatience  to  meet 
me  were  likely  to  retard  his  recovery  more  than  the 
mere  exhaustion  attendant  upon  a  short  conversation 
could  possibly  do.  Perhaps,  too,  my  friend  enter- 
tained some  hope  that  if  by  holy  confession  his 
patient's  bosom  were  eased  of  the  perilous  stuff  which 
no  doubt  oppressed  it,  his  recovery  would  be  more 
assured  and  rapid.  It  was  then,  as  I  have  said, 
upon  the  fourth  day  after  my  first  professional  call, 
that  I  found  myself  once  more  in  the  dreary  chamber 
of  want  and  sickness. 

The  man  was  in  bed,  and  appeared  low  and  rest- 
less. On  my  entering  the  room  he  raised  himself  in 
the  bed,  and  muttered,  twice  or  thrice, — 

"  Thank  God  !  thank  God  !  " 

I  signed  to  those  of  his  family  who  stood  by  to 
leave  the  room,  and  took  a  chair  beside  the  bed. 
So  soon  as  we  were  alone,  he  said,  rather  doggedly, — 

"  There's  no  use  in  telling  me  of  the  sinfulness  of 
bad  ways — I  know  it  all.  I  know  where  they  lead 
to — I  have  seen  everything  about  it  with  my  own  eye- 
sight, as  plain  as  I  see  you."  He  rolled  himself  in 
the  bed,  as  if  to  hide  his  face  in  the  clothes  ;  and 
then   suddenly  raising   himself,   he  exclaimed    with 

O  3 


ig6  The  Dream. 

startling  vehemence,  "  Look,  sir  !  there  is  no  use  in 
mincing  the  matter :  I'm  blasted  with  the  fires  of 
hell ;  I  have  been  in  hell.  What  do  you  think 
of  that  ?  In  hell — I'm  lost  for  ever — I  have  not 
a  chance.  I  am  damned  already — damned  — 
damned  !  " 

The  end  of  this  sentence  he  actually  shouted. 
His  vehemence  was  perfectly  terrific  ;  he  threw  him- 
self back,  and  laughed,  and  sobbed  hysterically.  I 
poured  some  water  into  a  tea-cup,  and  gave  it  to 
him.  After  he  had  swallowed  it,  I  told  him  if  he 
had  anything  to  communicate,  to  do  so  as  briefly  as 
he  could,  and  in  a  manner  as  little  agitating  to  him- 
self as  possible  ;  threatening  at  the  same  time,  though 
I  had  no  intention  of  doing  so,  to  leave  him  at  once 
in  case  he  again  gave  way  to  such  passionate  ex- 
citement. 

"  It's  only  foolishness,"  he  continued,  "  for  me  to 
try  to  thank  you  for  coming  to  such  a  villain  as 
myself  at  all.  It's  no  use  for  me  to  wish  good  to 
you,  or  to  bless  you  ;  for  such  as  me  has  no  blessings 
to  give." 

I  told  him  that  I  had  but  done  my  duty,  and 
urged  him  to  proceed  to  the  matter  which  weighed 
upon  his  mind.     He  then  spoke  nearly  as  follows  : — 

"  I  came  in  drunk  on  Friday  night  last,  and  got  to 
my  bed  here  ;  I  don't  remember  how.  Sometime  in 
the  night  it  seemed  to  me  I  wakened,  and  feeling 


The  Dream.  197 

unasy  in  myself,  I  j^ot  up  out  of  the  bed.  I  wanted 
the  fresh  air  ;  but  I  would  not  make  a  noise  to  open 
the  window,  for  fear  I'd  waken  the  crathurs.  It  was 
very  dark  and  throublesome  to  find  the  door ;  but  at 
last  I  did  get  it,  and  I  groped  my  way  out,  and  went 
down  as  asy  as  I  could.  I  felt  quite  sober,  and  I 
counted  the  steps  one  after  another,  as  I  was  going 
down,  that  I  might  not  stumble  at  the  bottom. 

"  When  I  came  to  the  first  landing-place — God  be 
about  us  always! — the  floor  of  it  sunk  under  me,  and 
I  went  down — down — down,  till  the  senses  almost 
left  me.  I  do  not  know  how  long  I  was  falling,  but 
it  seemed  to  me  a  great  while.  When  I  came  rightly 
to  myself  at  last,  I  was  sitting  near  the  top  of  a  great 
table  ;  and  I  could  not  see  the  end  of  it,  if  it  had 
any,  it  was  so  far  off.  And  there  was  men  beyond 
reckoning  sitting  down  all  along  by  it,  at  each  side, 
as  far  as  I  could  see  at  all.  I  did  not  know  at  first 
was  it  in  the  open  air ;  but  there  was  a  close 
smothering  feel  in  it  that  was  not  natural.  And 
there  was  a  kind  of  light  that  my  eyesight  never  saw 
before,  red  and  unsteady  ;  and  I  did  not  see  for  a 
long  time  where  it  was  coming  from,  until  I  looked 
straight  up,  and  then  I  seen  that  it  came  from  great 
balls  of  blood-coloured  fire  that  were  rolling  high 
overhead  with  a  sort  of  rushing,  trembling  sound, 
and  I  perceived  that  they  shone  on  the  ribs  of  a  great 
roof  of  rock  that  was  arched  overhead  instead  of  the 


198  The  Dream. 

sky.  When  I  seen  this,  scarce  knowing  what  I  did, 
I  got  up,  and  I  said,  '  I  have  no  right  to  be  here ;  I 
must  go.'  And  the  man  that  was  sitting  at  my  left 
hand  only  smiled,  and  said,  *  Sit  down  again  ;  you 
can  never  leave  this  place/  And  his  voice  was 
weaker  than  any  child's  voice  I  ever  heerd  ;  and 
when  he  was  done  speaking  he  smiled  again. 

"  Then  I  spoke  out  very  loud  and  bold,  and  I  said, 
'  In  the  name  of  God,  let  me  out  of  this  bad  place.' 
And  there  was  a  great  man  that  I  did  not  see  before, 
sitting  at  the  end  of  the  table  that  I  was  near;  and 
he  was  taller  than  twelve  men,  and  his  face  was  very 
proud  and  terrible  to  look  at.  And  he  stood  up  and 
stretched  out  his  hand  before  him  ;  and  when  he 
stood  up,  all  that  was  there,  great  and  small,  bowed 
down  with  a  sighing  sound  ;  and  a  dread  came  on  my 
heart,  and  he  looked  at  me,  and  I  could  not  speak. 
I  felt  I  was  hi.s  own,  to  do  what  he  liked  with,  for  I 
knew  at  once  who  he  was  ;  and  he  said,  '  If  you 
promise  to  return,  you  may  depart  for  a  season ;'  and 
the  voice  he  spoke  with  was  terrible  and  mournful, 
and  the  echoes  of  it  went  rolling  and  swelling  down 
the  endless  cave,  and  mixing  with  the  trembling  of 
the  fire  overhead  ;  so  that  when  he  sat  down  there 
was  a  sound  after  him,  all  through  the  place,  like  the 
roaring  of  a  furnace.  And  I  said,  with  all  the  strength 
I  had,  '  I  promise  to  come  back — in  God's  name  let 
me  go  r 


The  Dream.  199 

"  And  with  that  I  lost  the  sight  and  the  hearing  of 
all  that  was  there,  and  when  my  senses  came  to  me 
again,  I  was  sitting  in  the  bed  with  the  blood  all 
over  me,  and  you  and  the  rest  praying  around  the 
room." 

Here  he  paused,  and  wiped  away  the  chill  drops 
which  hung  upon  his  forehead. 

I  remained  silent  for  some  moments.  The  vision 
which  he  had  just  described  struck  my  imagination 
not  a  little,  for  this  was  long  before  Vathek  and  the 
^'  Hall  of  Eblis  "  had  delighted  the  world  ;  and  the 
description  w^hich  he  gave  had,  as  I  received  it,  all 
the  attractions  of  novelty  beside  the  impressiveness 
which  always  belongs  to  the  narration  of  an  cyc- 
witnesSy  whether  in  the  body  or  in  the  spirit,  of  the 
scenes  which  he  describes.  There  was  something, 
too,  in  the  stern  horror  with  which  the  man  related 
these  things,  and  in  the  incongruity  of  his  descrip- 
tion with  the  vulgarly  received  notions  of  the  great 
place  of  punishment,  and  of  its  presiding  spirit,  which 
struck  my  mind  with  awe,  almost  with  fear.  At 
length  he  said,  with  an  expression  of  horrible,  im- 
ploring earnestness,  which  I  shall  never  forget, — 

"  Well,  sir,  is  there  any  hope;  is  there  any  chance 
at  all  ?  or  is  my  soul  pledged  and  promised  away 
for  ever  ?  is  it  gone  out  of  my  power  ?  must  I  go 
back  to  the  place  ?" 

In  answering  him,  I  had  no  easy  task  to  perform  ; 


2CX)  The  Dream. 

for  however  clear  might  be  my  internal  conviction  of 
the  groundlessness  of  his  fears,  and  however  strong 
my  scepticism  respecting  the  reality  of  what  he  had 
described,  I  nevertheless  felt  that  his  impression  to 
the  contrary,  and  his  humility  and  terror  resulting 
from  it,  might  be  made  available  as  no  mean  engines 
in  the  work  of  his  conversion  from  profligacy,  and 
of  his  restoration  to  decent  habits  and  to  religious 
feeling. 

I  therefore  told  him  that  he  was  to  regard  his 
dream  rather  in  the  light  of  a  warning  than  in  that 
of  a  prophecy  ;  that  our  salvation  depended  not  upon 
the  v/ord  or  deed  of  a  moment,  but  upon  the  habits 
of  a  life  ;  that,  in  fine,  if  he  at  once  discarded  his  idle 
companions  and  evil  habits,  and  firmly  adhered  to  a 
sober,  industrious,  and  religious  course  of  life,  the 
powers  of  darkness  might  claim  his  soul  in  vain,  for 
that  there  were  higher  and  firmer  pledges  than  human 
tongue  could  utter,  which  promised  salvation  to  him 
who  should  repent  and  lead  a  new  life. 

I  left  him  much  comforted,  and  with  a  promise  to 
return  upon  the  next  day.  I  did  so,  and  found  him 
much  more  cheerful,  and  without  any  remains  of  the 
dogged  sullenness  which  I  suppose  had  arisen  from 
his  despair.  His  promises  of  amendment  were  given 
in  that  tone  of  deliberate  earnestness  which  belongs 
to  deep  and  solemn  determination ;  and  it  was  with 


The  Di^eam.  201 

no  small  delight  that  I  observed,  after  repeated  visits, 
that  his  good  resolutions,  so  far  from  failing,  did  but 
gather  strength  by  time;  and  when  I  saw  that  man 
shake  off  the  idle  and  debauched  companions  whose 
society  had  for  years  formed  alike  his  amusement 
and  his  ruin,  and  revive  his  long-discarded  habits  of 
industry  and  sobriety,  I  said  within  myself.  There  is 
something  more  in  all  this  than  the  operation  of  an 
idle  dream. 

One  day,  some  time  after  his  perfect  restoration  to 
health,  I  was  surprised,  on  ascending  the  stairs  for 
the  purpose  of  visiting  this  man,  to  find  him  busily 
employed  in  nailing  down  some  planks  upon  the 
landing-place,  through  which,  at  the  commencement 
of  his  mysterious  vision,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  sunk,  I  perceived  at  once  that  he  was  strength- 
ening the  floor  with  a  view  to  securing  himself 
against  such  a  catastrophe,  and  could  scarcely  forbear 
a  smile  as  I  bid  "  God  bless  his  work." 

He  perceived  my  thoughts,  I  suppose,  for  he  im- 
mediately said  : 

"  I  can  never  pass  over  that  floor  without  trembling. 
I'd  leave  this  house  if  I  could,  but  I  can't  find  another 
lodging  in  the  town  so  cheap,  and  I'll  not  take  a 
better  till  I've  paid  oft'  all  my  debts,  please  God; 
but  I  could  not  be  asy  in  my  mind  till  I  made  it  as 
safe   as    I    could.     You'll    hardly    believe    me,   your 


202  The  Dream. 

honour,  that  while  I'm  working,  maybe  a  mile  away, 
my  heart  is  in  a  flutter  the  whole  way  back,  with  the 
bare  thoughts  of  the  two  little  steps  I  have  to  walk 
upon  this  bit  of  a  floor.  So  it's  no  wonder,  sir,  I'd 
thry  to  make  it  sound  and  firm  with  any  idle  timber 
I  have." 

I  applauded  his  resolution  to  pay  off  his  debts, 
and  the  steadiness  with  which  he  perused  his  plans  of 
conscientious  economy,  and  passed  on. 

Many  months  elapsed,  and  still  there  appeared  no 
alteration  in  his  resolutions  of  amendment.  He  was 
a  good  workman,  and  with  his  better  habits  he 
recovered  his  former  extensive  and  profitable  employ- 
ment. Everything  seemed  to  promise  comfort  and 
respectability.  I  have  little  more  to  add,  and  that 
shall  be  told  quickly.  I  had  one  evening  met  Pat 
Connell,  as  he  returned  from  his  work,  and  as  usual, 
after  a  mutual,  and  on  his  side  respectful  saluta- 
tion, I  spoke  a  few  words  of  encouragement  and 
approval.  I  left  him  industrious,  active,  healthy — 
when  next  I  saw  him,  not  three  days  after,  he  was 
a  corpse. 

The  circumstances  which  marked  the  event  of  his 
death  were  somewhat  strange — I  might  say  fearful. 
The  unfortunate  man  had  accidentally  m.et  an  old 
friend  just  returned,  after  a  long  absence;  and  in  a 
moment  of  excitement,  forgetting  everything  in  the 


The  Drcani.  203 

warmth  of  his  joy,  he  yielded  to  his  urfjcnt  invitation 
to  accompany  him  into  a  pubh'c-house,  which  lay 
close  by  the  spot  where  the  encounter  had  taken 
place.  Conncll,  however,  previously  to  entering  the 
room,  had  announced  his  determination  to  take 
nothing  more  than  the  strictest  temperance  would 
warrant. 

But  oh  !  who  can  describe  the  inveterate  tenacity 
with  which  a  drunkard's  habits  cling  to  him  through 
life  ?  He  may  repent,  he  may  reform,  he  may  look 
with  actual  abhorrence  upon  his  past  profligacy;  but 
amid  all  this  reformation  and  compunction,  who  can 
tell  the  moment  in  which  the  base  and  ruinous  pro- 
pensity may  not  recur,  triumphing  over  resolution, 
remorse,  shame,  everything,  and  prostrating  its  victim 
once  more  in  all  that  is  destructive  and  revolting  in 
that  fatal  vice  ? 

The  wretched  man  left  the  place  in  a  state  of  utter 
intoxication.  He  was  brought  home  nearly  in- 
sensible, and  placed  in  his  bed.  The  younger 
part  of  the  family  retired  to  rest  much  after  their 
usual  hour  ;  but  the  poor  wife  remained  up  sitting 
by  the  fire,  too  much  grieved  and  shocked  at  the 
occurrence  of  what  she  had  so  little  expect'. d,  to 
settle  to  rest.  Fatigue,  however,  at  length  overcame 
her,  and  she  sank  gradually  into  an  uneasy  slumber. 
She  could  not  tell  how  long  she  had  remained  in  this 


204 


The  Dream. 


state  ;  but  when  she  awakened,  and  immediately  on 
opening  her  eyes,  she  perceived  by  the  faint  red  light 
of  the  smouldering  turf  embers,  two  persons,  one 
of  whom  she  recognized  as  her  husband,  noiselessly 
gliding  out  of  the  room. 

"  Pat,  darling,  where  are  you  going  ?  "  said  she. 

There  was  no  answer — the  door  closed  after  them  ; 
but    in    a    moment 
she     was     startled 
and    terrified    by  a 


NOISELESSLY   GLn)ING 
OUT   OF  THE   ROOM, 


loud  and  heavy  crash,  as  if  some  ponderous  body  had 
been  hurled  down  the  stair. 

Much  alarmed,  she  started  up,  and  going  to  the 
head  of  the  staircase^  she  called  repeatedly  upon  her 
husband,  but  in  vain. 


The  Dream.  205 

She  returned  to  the  room,  and  with  the  assistance 
of  her  daug-hter,  whom  I  had  occasion  to  mention 
before,  she  succeeded  in  finding  and  h'g-hting  a 
candle,  with  which  she  hurried  again  to  the  head  of 
the  staircase. 

At  the  bottom  lay  what  seemed  to  be  a  bundle  of 
clothes,  heaped  tog'cther,  motionless,  lifeless — it  was 
her  husband.  In  going  down  the  stairs,  for  what 
purpose  can  never  now  be  known,  he  had  fallen 
helplessly  and  violently  to  the  bottom,  and  coming 
head  foremost,  the  spine  of  the  neck  had  been  dis- 
located by  the  shock,  and  instant  death  must  have 
ensued. 

The  body  lay  upon  that  landing-place  to  which 
his  dream  had  referred. 

It  is  scarcely  worth  endeavouring  to  clear  up  a 
single  point  in  a  narrative  where  all  is  mystery  ; 
yet  I  could  not  help  suspecting  that  the  second 
figure  which  had  been  seen  in  the  room  by  Connell's 
wife  on  the  night  of  his  death  might  have  been  no 
other  than  his  own  shadow. 

I  suggested  this  solution  of  the  difficulty ;  but 
she  told  me  that  the  unknown  person  had  been  con- 
siderably in  advance  of  her  husband,  and  on  reaching 
the  door,  had  turned  back  as  if  to  communicate  some- 
thing to  his  companion. 

It  was,  then,  a  mystery. 


AT   THE     FOOT   OF   THE   STAIRS. 


The  Dream.  207 

Was  the  dream  verified  ? — whither  had  the  dis- 
embodied spirit  sped  ?  who  can  say  ?  We  know  not. 
But  I  left  the  house  of  death  that  day  in  a  state 
of  horror  which  I  could  not  describe.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  I  was  scarce  awake.  I  heard  and  saw  every- 
thing as  if  under  the  spell  of  a  nightmare.  The 
coincidence  was  terrible. 


^>C^  *•  <^  1.0///      rZ       *1^«  i'  \f     rAC 


In  the  following  narrative  I  have  endeavoured  to 
n-ive  as  nearly  a?  possible  the  ipsissima  verba  of  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  could  also  bring 
before  you  her  animated  gesture,  the  expressive 
countenance,  the  solemn  and  thrilling  air  and  accent 
with  which  she  related  the  dark  passages  in  her 
strange  story  ;  and,  above  all,  that  I  could  communi- 
cate the  impressive  consciousness  that  the  narrator 
had  seen  with  her  own  eyes,  and  personally  acted  in 
the  scenes  which  she  described.  These  accompani- 
ments, taken  with  the  additional  circumstance  that 
she  who  told  the  tale  was  one  far  too  deeply  and 
sadly   impressed   with    religious    principle    to    mis- 


A  CJiapter  in  the  History,  &c.         209 

represent  or  fabricate  what  she  repeated  as  fact 
gave  to  the  tale  a  depth  of  interest  which  the  recording 
of  the  events  themselves  could  hardly  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  to  paper  while  it  was  still  fresh  in  my 
mind;  and  should  its  perusal  afford  you  entertain- 
ment for  a  listless  half  hour,  my  labour  shall  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,  the  designation 
of  a  family  of  some  distinction  in  the  county  of 
Tyrone.  I  was  the  younger  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  in- 
volves ;  and  while  I  was  still  a  child,  my  sister  was 
married. 

The  person  upon  whom  she  bestowed  her  hand  was 
a  Mr.  Carew,  a  gentleman  of  property  and  considera- 
tion in  the  north  of  England. 

I  remember  well  the  eventful  day  of  the  wedding  ; 
the  thronging  carriages,  the   noisy  menials,  the  loud 

P 


2 1  o  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

laughter,  the  merry  faces,  and  the  gay  dresses.  Such 
sights  were  then  new  to  me,  and  harmonized  ill  with 
the  sorrowful  feelings  with  which  I  regarded  the 
event  which  was  to  separate  me  from  a  sister  whose 
tenderness  alone  had  hitherto  more  than  supplied 
all  that  I  wanted  in  my  mother's  affection. 

The  day  soon  arrived  which  was  to  remove  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  see  her  soon. 

The  carriage  drove  away,  and  I  gazed  after  it 
until  my  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and,  returning  slowly 
to  my  chamber^  I  wept  more  bitterly  and,  so  to  speak, 
more  desolately,  than  ever  I  had  wept  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  thoroughly  forgave  me  my  unfortunate  sex. 

My  having  come  into  the  world  at  all  as  his  child 
he  regarded  as  a  kind  of  fraudulent  intrusion  ;  and  as 
his  antipathy  to  me  had  its  origin  in  an  imperfection 
of  mine  too  radical  for  removal,  I  never  even  hoped 
to  stand  high  in  his  good  graces. 

My  mother  was,  I  dare  say,  as  fond  of  me  as  she 
was  of  anyone  ;  but  she  was  a  woman  of  a  masculine 
and  a  worldly  cast  of  mind.  She  had  no  tenderness 
or  sympathy  for  the  weaknesses,  or  even  for  the  affec- 
tions, of  woman's  nature,  and  her  demeanour  towards 
me  was  peremptory,  and  often  even  harsh. 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  2 1 1 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  then,  that  I  foun  1  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  my 
sister's  health,  which,  though  not  actually  alarming, 
were  calculated  to  make  us  seriously  uneasy.  The 
symptoms  most  dwelt  upon  were  loss  of  appetite,  and 
a  cough. 

The  letters  concluded  by  intimating  that  he  would 
avail  himself  of  my  father  and  mother's  repeated  in- 
vitation to  spend  some  time  at  Ashtown,  particularly 
as  the  physician  who  had  been  consulted  as  to  my 
sister's  health  had  strongly  advised  a  removal  to  her 
native  air. 

There  were  added  repeated  assurances  that  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  intimate 
consumption. 

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 
their  departure. 

It  was  arranged  that  Mr.  Carew  was,  as  soon  as 
the  day  upon  which  they  were  to  leave  Dublin  was 
definitely  fixed,  to  write  to  my  father,  who  intended 
that  the  two  last  stages  should  be  performed  by  his 

P  2 


212  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

own  horses,  upon  whose  speed  and  safety  far  more 
reh'ance  might  be  placed  than  upon  those  of  the 
ordinary  post-horses,  which  were  at  that  time, 
ahuost  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  on  Monday,  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  been  audible  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  have  wished.  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  and  clearer  ;  it  stopped  for  a  moment. 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  2  1 3 

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  listen- 
ing. On  thundered  the  vehicle  with  the  speed  of  the 
whirlwind  ;  crack  went  the  whip,  and  clatter  went 
the  wheels,  as  it  rattled  over  the  uneven  pavement  of 
the  court.  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,  and  we  all  stepped  forth  to  greet  our  visitors. 

The  court  was  perfectly  empty;  the  moon  was 
shining  broadly  and  brightly  upon  all  around  ; 
nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  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  sus- 
piciously, growling  and  snuffling  about  the  court,  and 
by  totally  and  suddenly  ceasing  their  former  loud 
barking,  expressed  the  predominance  of  fear. 

We  stared  one  upon  another  in  perplexity  and 
dismay,  and  1  think  I  never  beheld  more  pale  faces 


2  14  ^  Chapter  in  the  History 

assembled.  By  my  father's  directions,  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  a  messenger,  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  be 
malignant  fever.  She  became  hourly  worse,  and,  on 
Tuesday  night,  a  little  after  midnight,  she  expired. 

I  mention  this  circumstance,  because  it  was  one 
upon  which  a  thousand  wild  and  fantastical  re- 
ports were  founded,  though  one  would  have  thought 
that  the  truth  scarcely  required  to  be  improved 
upon ;  and  again,  because  it  produced  a  strong 
and  lasting  effect  upon  my  spirits,  and  indeed,  I 
am  inclined  to  think,  upon  my  character. 

I  was,  for  several  years  after  this  occurrence, 
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 
of  indecision,  arising  out  of  a  listless  acquiescence  in 
the  will  of  others,  a  fear  of  encountering  even  the 
slightest  opposition,  and  a  disposition  to  shrink  from 
what  are  commonly  called  amusements,  grew  upon 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  2  i  5 

me  so  strongly,  that  I  have  scarcely  even  yet  alto- 
gether 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  my  elder  sister 
had  died  without  issue,  it  was  evident  thatj  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  things,  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  by  a  host  of  suitors. 
However,  whether  it  was  that  I  was  too  young,  or 
that  none  of  the  aspirants  to  my  hand  stood  suffi- 
ciently high  in  rank  or  wealth,  I  was  suffered  by  both 
parents  to  do  exactly  as  I  pleased  ;  and  well  was  it 
for  me,  as  I  afterwards  found,  that  fortune,  or  rather 
Providence,  had  so  ordained  it,  that  I  had  not  suffered 
my  affections  to  become  in  any  degree  engaged,  for 
my  mother  would  never  have  suffered  any  silly  fancy 
of  mine,  as  she  was  in  the  habit  of  styling  an  attach- 
ment, 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  accom 


2i6  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

pHsh  which  she  would  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  themselves  ;  and,  at  her 
suggestion,  we  moved  to  Dublin  to  sojourn  for  the 
winter,  in  order  that  no  time  might  be  lost  in  dis- 
posing of  me  to  the  best  advantage. 

I  had  been  too  long  accustomed  to  consider  myself 
as  of  no  importance  whatever,  to  believe  for  a  moment 
that  I  was  in  reality  the  cause  of  all  the  bustle  and 
preparation  which  surrounded  me  ;  and  being  thus 
relieved  from  the  pain  which  a  consciousness  of  my 
real  situation  would  have  inflicted,  I  journeyed 
towards  the  capital  with  a  feeling  of  total  indif- 
ference. 

My  father's  wealth  and  connection  had  established 
him  in  the  best  society,  and  consequently,  upon  our 
arrival  in  the  metropolis,  we  commanded  whatever 
enjoyment  or  advantages  its  gaieties  afforded. 

The  tumult  and  novelty  of  the  scenes  in  which  I 
was  involved  did  not  fail  considerably  to  amuse  me, 
and  my  mind  gradually  recovered  its  tone,  which  was 
naturally  cheerful. 

It  was  almost  immediately  known  and  reported 
that  I  was  an  heiress,  and  of  course  my  attractions 
were  pretty  generally  acknowledged. 

Among  the  many  gentlemen  whom  it  was  my  for- 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  217 

tune  to  please,  one,  ere  long,  established  himself  in 
my  mother's  good  graces,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  less 
important  aspirants.  However,  I  had  not  understood 
or  even  remarked  his  attentions,  nor  in  the  slightest 
degree  suspected  his  or  my  mother's  plans  respecting 
me,  when  I  was  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  assistance  of  my  waiting-maid,  cm- 
ployed  in  rapidly  divesting  myself  of  the  rich  orna- 
ments which,  in  profusencss  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  footsteps 
approaching  my  chamber,  and  my  mother  entered. 

"  Fanny,  my  dear,"  said  she,  in  her  softest  tone,  "  I 
wish  to  say  a  word  or  two  with  you  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  scat,  with  the  formal  respect 
so  little  practised  now. 

"Sit  down,  my  dear,"  said  she,  placing  herself 
upon  a  chair  beside  me;  "  I  miust  chat  with  you  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so.     Saunders  "  (to  the  maid), 


2i8  A  Chapte7'  in  the  History 

"  you  may  leave  the  room  ;  do  not  close  the  room 
door,  but  shut  that  of  the  lobby." 

This  precaution  against  curious  ears  having  been 
taken  as  directed,  my  mother  proceeded  : 

"You  have  observed,  I  should  suppose,  my  dearest 
Fanny — indeed,  you  nmst  have  observed  Lord  Glen- 
fallen's  marked  attentions  to  you  ?  " 
'n  assure  you,  madam — "  I  began. 
"  Well,    well,    that    is    all    right,"  interrupted    my 
mother.     "  Of  course,  you  must  be  modest  upon  the 
matter;    but  listen  to   me  for  a  few   moments,  my 
love,  and   I  will  prove  to  your  satisfaction  that  your 
modesty  is  quite  unnecessary  in  this  case.    You  have 
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  mother  kissed  my  forehead. 

"  In  love  with  me  ! "  I  exclaimed  in  unfeigned 
astonishment. 

''Yes,  in  love  with  you,"  repeated  my  mother; 
"  devotedly,  distractedly  in  love  with  you.  Why, 
my  dear,  what  is  there  wonderful  in  it  t  Look  in  the 
glass,  and  look  at  these,"  she  continued,  pointing, 
with  a  smile,  to  the  jewels  which  I  had  just  removed 
from  my  person,  and  which  now  lay  in  a  glittering 
heap  upon  the  table. 

"  May  there  not — "  said  I,  hesitating  between 
confusion    and    real    alarm,  "is  it  not  possible  that 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  219 

some    mistake    may    be    at     the     bottom      of     all 
this  ?  " 

"  Mistake,  dearest  !  none/''  said  my  mother. 
"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,  as  also  upon  the  antiquity 
and  high  reputation  of  our  family,  it  went  on  to 
make  a  formal  proposal  of  marriage,  to  be  communi- 
cated or  not  to  me  at  present,  as  my  mother  should 
deem  expedient ;  and  the  letter  wound  up  by  a 
request  that  the  writer  might  be  permitted,  upon  our 
return  to  Ashtown  House,  which  was  soon  to  take 
place,  as  the  spring  was  now  tolerably  advanced,  to 
visit  us  for  a  few  days,  in  case  his  suit  was  approved. 

''Well,  well,  my  dear,"  said  my  mother,  impa- 
tiently ;  "do  }ou  know  who  Lord  Glenfallen  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  is  neither  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 


2  20  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

eng'aging  the  affections  of  a  nobleman  such  as  Lord 
Glenfallen,  young  and  wealthy,  with  first-rate — yes, 
acknowledged  first-7'ate  abilities,  and  of  a  family 
whose  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  musty 

This  was  uttered  in  no  very  dubious  tone.  I  was  so 
much  astonished  by  the  suddenness  of  the  whole  com- 
munication, 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 — 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  I  awarded  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  compunction  I  would  do 
with  mine.  I  cannot  conceive  anything  more  un- 
reasonable or  intolerable  than  that  the  fortune  and 
the  character  of  a  family  should  be  marred  by  the 
idle  caprices  of  a  girl." 


of  a  Tyrone  Faultily.  221 

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  )ou,  my  dear  Fanny," 
she  continued,  "m\-  views  upon  this  subject;  you 
have  ahvays  known  them  well,  and  I  have  never  yet 
had  reason  to  believe  you  are  likely  to  offend  me 
voluntarily,,  or  to  abuse  or  neglect  any  of  those 
advantages  which  reason  and  duty  tell  you  should  be 
improved.  Come  hither,  my  dear  ;  kiss  me,  and  do 
not  look  so  frightened.  Well,  now,  about  this  letter 
— you  need  not  answer  it  yet;  of  course,  you  must 
be  allowed  time  to  make  up  your  mind.  In  the  mean- 
time, I  will  write  to  his  lordship  to  give  him  my  per- 
mission to  visit  us  at  Ashtown.  Good-night,  my 
love." 

And  thus  ended  one  of  the  most  disagreeable,  not 
to  say  astounding,  conversations  I  h^d  ever  had.  It 
would  not  be  easy  to  describe  exactly  what  were 
my  feelings  towards  Lord  Glenfallen  ; — whatever 
might  have  been  my  mother's  suspicions,  my  heart 
was  perfectly  disengaged — and  hitherto,  although  I 
had  not  been  made  in  the  slightest  degree  acquainted 
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 


2  22  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

had  not  served  to  obliterate  that  frankness  of  manner 
which  belongs  proverbially  to  the  sailor. 

Whether  this  apparent  candour  went  deeper  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  as 
might  have  been  desired  in  a  lover.a  singularly  pleasing 
man  ;  and  whatever  feeling  unfavourable  to  him  had 
found  its  way  into  my  mind,  arose  altogether  from 
the  dread,  not  an  unreasonable  one,  that  constraint 
might  be  practised  upon  my  inclinations.  I  reflected, 
however,  that  Lord  Glenfallen  was  a  wealthy  mau) 
and  one  highly  thought  of ;  and  although  I  could 
never  expect  to  love  him  in  the  romantic  sense  of  the 
terra,  yet  I  had  no  doubt  but  that,  all  things  con- 
sidered, I  might  be  more  happy  with  him  than  I  could 
hope  to  be  at  home. 

When  next  I  met  him  it  was  with  no  small  em- 
barrassment ;  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 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  223 

felt  that  if  the  situation  which  I  occupied  in  relation 
to  him  were  made  publicly  known,  I  should  stand 
committed  in  a  manner  which  would  scarcely  leave 
me  the  power  of  retraction. 

The  period  at  which  Lord  Glenfallen  had  arranged 
to  visit  Ashtown  House  was  now  fast  approaching-, 
and  it  became  my  mother'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,  there- 
fore, I  had  entertained  were  to  be  subdued  ;  whatever 
disposition  to  resistance  I  had  exhibited  or  had  been 
supposed  to  feel,  were  to  be  completely  eradicated 
before  he  made  his  appearance  ;  and  my  mother 
addressed  herself  to  the  task  with  a  decision  and 
energy  against  which  even  the  barriers  her  imagina- 
tion had  created  could  hardly  have  stood. 

If  she  had,  however,  expected  any  determined 
opposition  from  me,  she  was  agreeabl}'  disappointed. 
My  heart  was  perfectly  free,  and  all  my  feelings  of 
liking  and  preference  were  in  favour  of  Lord  Glen- 
fallen ;  and  I  well  knew  that  in  case  I  refused  to  dis- 
pose of  myself  as  I  was  desired,  my  mother  had  alike 
the  power  and  the  will  to  render  my  existence  as 
utterly  miserable  as  even  the  most  ill-assorted 
marriage  could  possibly  have  made  it. 

You  will   remember,  my   good   friend,  that   I  was 


224  ^  Chapter  in  the  History 

very  young  and  very  completely  under  the  control  of 
my  parents,  both  of  whom,  my  mother  particularly, 
were  unscrupulously  determined  in  matters  of  this 
kind,  and  willing,  when  voluntary  obedience  on  the 
part  of  those  within  their  power  was  withheld,  to 
compel  a  forced  acquiescence  by  an  unsparing  use  of 
all  the  engines  of  the  most  stern  and  rigorous  domestic 
discipline. 

All  these  combined,  not  unnaturally  induced  me 
to  resolve  upon  yielding  at  once,  and  without  useless 
opposition,  to  what  appeared  almost  to  be  my  fate. 

The  appointed  time  was  come,  and  my  now 
accepted  suitor  arrived  ;  he  was  in  high  spirits,  and, 
if  possible,  more  entertaining  than  ever. 

I  was  not,  however,  quite  in  the  mood  to  enjoy  his 
sprightliness  ;  but  whatever  I  wanted  in  gaiety  was 
amply  made  up  in  the  triumphant  and  gracious  good- 
humour  of  my  mother,  whose  smiles  of  benevolence 
and  exultation  were  showered  around  as  bountifully 
as  the  summer  sunshine. 

I  will  not  weary  you  with  unnecessary  details. 
Let  it  suffice  to  say,  that  I  was  married  to  Lord 
Glenfallen  with  all  the  attendant  pomp  and  circum- 
stance of  wealth,  rank,  and  grandeur.  According  to 
the  usage  of  the  limes,  now  humanely  reformed,  the 
ceremony  was  made,  until  long  past  midnight,  the 
season  of  wild,  uproarious,  and  promiscuous  feasting 
and  revelry. 


of  a  Tyrone  Family. 


225 


Of  all  this  I  have  a  painfully  vivid  recollection,  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  all  such 
occasions. 

I  was  not  sorry  when,  after  a  few  days,  Lord  Glen- 
fallen's  carriage  appeared  at  the  door   to  convey  us 


THE    SEASON    OF    WILD,   UPROARIOUS,  AND    PRO- 
MISCUOUS   FEASTING   AND    REVELRY. 


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  Caher- 
gillagh,  one  of  the  Glenfallen  estates,  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. 


226  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

I  set  forth  with  my  noble  companion,  followed  by 
the  regrets  of  some,  and  by  the  envy  of  many ;  though 
God  knows  I  little  deserved  the  latter.  The  three 
days  of  travel  were  now  almost  spent,  when  passing 
the  brow  of  a  wild  heathy  hill,  the  domain  of  Caher- 
gillagh  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 
steep  hills,  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  sidesand  on  their 
slopes  and  hollows  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 
spreading  upward  considerably  upon  the  side  of  the 
hills. 

"  There  lies  the  enchanted  castle,"  said  Lord  Glen- 
fallen,  pointing  towards  a  considerable  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  towards  the  centre,  a  mass  of  taller  and 
statelier  forest  trees  stood  darkly  grouped  together, 
and  among  them  stood  an  ancient  square  tower,  with 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  227 

many  buildings  of  a  humbler  character,  forming  to- 
gether 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  seen  as  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  by  the  rich,  dark  ivy  which,  in  a  great 
measure,  covered  the  building.  Other  indications  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  Lord  Glenfallen, 
"  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  bed- 
room, with  well-aired  sheets,  to  the  waving  tapestry, 
mildewed   cushions,   and    all    the   other   interesting 

Q2 


228  A  Chapter  in  tJie  History 

appliances  of  romance.  However,  though  I  cannot 
promise  you  all  the  discomfort  generally  belonging 
to  an  old  castle,  you  will  find  legends  and  ghostly  lore 
enough  to  claim  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,  without  more  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  which  we  had  brought  with  us  for 
immediate  use,  to  the  apartments  which  Lord  Glen- 
fallen  had  selected  for  himself  and  me,  I  went  with 
him  into  a  spacious  sitting-room,  wainscoted  with 
finely-polished  black  oak,  and  hung  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  were  pouring. 
In  the  distance  a  group  of  dairy- maids  were  plying 
their  task,  which  they  accompanied  throughout  with 
snatches  of  Irish  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 


of  a  Tyrtme  Family.  229 

various  kinds.  Farther  in  the  distance,  and  through 
the  cloisters  of  the  arching  wood,  two  or  three  ragged 
urchins  were  employed  in  driving  such  stray  kine  as 
had  wandered  farther  than  the  rest  to  join  their  fellows. 
As  I  looked  upon  the  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  my  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 

Lord  Glcnfallen  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  any  circumstances  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 
depositary  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 
apologizing   for    the    liberty  ;    until    at    length   Lord 


230  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

Glenfallen  put  an  end  to  this  somewhat  fatiguing 
ceremonial  by  requesting  her  to  conduct  me  to  my 
chamber,  if  it  were  prepared  for  my  reception. 

I  followed  Martha  up  an  old-fashioned  oak  stair- 
case into  a  long,  dim  passage,  at  the  end  of  which 
lay  the  door  which  communicated  with  the  apart- 
ments which  had  been  selected  for  our  use  ;  here  the 
old  woman  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 
the  aperture ;  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  backward.  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. 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  231 

"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  a  chair,  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  and  danger  !  " 
muttered  she  at  length. 

"  What  can  have  terrified  you  so  } "  said  I, 
beginning  to  fear  that  she  had  seen  something  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. 
Way  the  great  God  defend  us  from  misfortune  !  " 

"  Martha,"  said  I,  "  something  /uis  frightened  you 
very  much,  and  I  insist  on  knowing  what  it  is ;  your 
keeping  me  in  the  dark  upon  the  subject  will  make 


232  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

me  much  more  uneasy  than  anything  you  could  tell 
me.  I  desire  you,  therefore,  to  let  me  know  what 
agitates  you  ;  I  command  you  to  tell  me." 

"  Your  ladyship  said  you  saw  a  black  curtain 
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,  my  lady,"  said  the 
crone;  "something  terrible  is  coming.  It's  a  sign, 
my  lady — a  sign  that  never  fails," 

"  Explain,  explain  what  you  mean,  my  good 
woman,"  said  I,  in  spite  of  myself,  catching  more 
than  I  could  account  for,  of  her  superstitious  terror. 

"  Whenever  something — something  had  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's  room  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  into  the  bed,  there  she  was  lying  cold  and 


of  a  Ty7'one  Family.  233 

dead,  God  be  merciful  to  me !  So,  my  lady,  there  is 
small  blame  to  me  to  be  daunted  when  any  one  of 
the  family  sees  it ;  for  it's  many  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  my  companion  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,  how- 
ever^ time  flowed  on  in  an  unruffled  course.  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,  Lord  Glenfallen  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  time 
silent  and  moody,  a  state  so  unusual  with  him  as 
considerably  to  excite  my  surprise. 

I  endeavoured  by  observations  and  questions  to 
arouse  him — but  in  vain.  At  length,  as  we  ap- 
proached the  house,  he  said,  as  it  speaking  to  him- 
self,— 

"  'Twere  madness — madness — madness,"  repeating 
the  words  bitterly;  "sure  and  speedy  ruin." 

There  was   here   a    long   pause ;    and    at  length, 


234  ^  Chapter  in  the  History 

turning  sharply  towards  me,  in  a  tone  very  unlike 
that  in  which  he  had  hitherto  addressed  me,  he 
said, — 

"  Do  you  think  it  possible  that  a  woman  can  keep 
a  secret  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  I,  "  that  women  are  very  much 
belied  upon  the  score  of  talkativeness,  and  that 'I 
may  answer  your  question  with  the  same  directness 
with  which  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  unwonted  abruptness — I  had  almost 
said  rudeness. 

After  a  considerable  pause  he  seemed  to  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  solemn  earnest.  What 
I  desire  is  intimately,  inseparably  connected  with 
your  happiness  and  honour  as  well  as  my  own  ;  and 
your  compliance  with  my  request  will  not  be 
difficult.     It   will   impose  upon  you    a   very  trifling 


of  a  Tyrone  Faviily.  235 

restraint  during  your  sojourn  here,  which  certain 
events  which  have  occurred  since  our  arrival  have 
determined  me  shall  not  be  a  long  one.  You  must 
promise  me,  upon  your  sacred  honour,  that  you  will 
visit  07ily  that  part  of  the  castle  which  can  be  reached 
from  the  front  entrance,  leaving  the  back  entrance 
and  the  part  of  the  building  commanded  immediately 
by  it  to  the  menials,  as  also  the  small  garden  whose 
high  wall  you  see  yonder ;  and  never  at  any  time 
seek  to  pry  or  peep  into  them,  nor  to  open  the  door 
which  communicates  from  the  front  part  of  the  house 
through  the  corridor  with  the  back.  I  do  not  urge 
this  in  jest  or  in  caprice,  but  from  a  solemn 
conviction  that  danger  and  misery  will  be  the  certain 
consequences  of  your  not  observing  what  I  prescribe. 
I  cannot  explain  myself  further  at  present.  Promise 
me,  then,  these  things,  as  you  hope  for  peace  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  the  recollection  of  the  strange 
scene  which  I  have  just  described  dwelt  painfully  upon 
my  mind. 

More  than  a  month  passed  away  without  any 
occurrence  worth  recording  ;  but  I  was  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 


236  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

to  procure  my  hat  and  cloak.  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 


UPON   ENTERING   THE   CHAMBER,    I   WAS   SURPRISED   AND   SOME- 
WHAT  STARTLED   TO   FIND   IT   OCCUPIED. 


elbow-chair,  was  placed  the  figure  of  a  lady.  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  upon  her 


of  a  Tyro7ie  Family.  237 

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  hand- 
some, and  upon  the  whole  pleasing,  the  pupil  of  each 
eye  was  dimmed  with  the  whiteness  of  cataract,  and 
she  was  evidently  stone-blind.  I  was  for  some 
seconds  so  surprised  at  this  unaccountable  apparition, 
that  I  could  not  find  words  to  address  her. 

"  Madam,"  said  I,  ''  there  must  be  some  mistake 
here — this  is  my  bedchamber." 

"  Marry  come  up,"  said  the  lady,  sharply  ;  '^ your 
chamber !     Where  is  Lord  Glenfallen  ?  " 

"  He  is  below,  madam,"  replied  I  ;  "and  I  am  con- 
vinced he  will  be  not  a  little  surprised  to  find  you  here." 

"I  do  not  think  he  will,"  said  she,  "with  your 
good  leave  ;  talk  of  what  you  know  something  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  superiorit}- 
which,  when  I  considered  our  relative  situations,  was 
not  a  little  irritating. 

"  Do  you  know,  madam,  to  whom  you  speak  .?  " 
said  I. 

"  I  neither  know  nor  care,"  said  she  ;  "  but  I  pre- 
sume 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," 


238  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

"  I  must  tell  you,  madam,"  said  I,  "  that  I  am 
Lady  Glen  fallen." 

"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  the  same  time,  springing 
forward,  she  seized  me  in  her  grasp,  and  shook  me 
violently,  repeating,  "  It's  a  lie — it's  a  lie  I  "  with  a 
rapidity  and  vehemence  which  swelled  every  vein  of 
her  face.  The  violence  of  her  action,  and  the  fury 
which  convulsed  her  face,  effectually  terrified  me,  and 
disengaging  myself  from  her  grasp,  I  screamed  as 
loud  as  I  could  for  help.  The  blind  woman  con- 
tinued to  pour  out  a  torrent  of  abuse  upon  me,  foam- 
ing at  the  mouth  with  rage,  and  impotently  shaking 
her  clenched  first  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  that  dem.on  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  passed  within  I  know  not  ;  but  I 
heard  the  voices  of  the  two  speakers  raised  in  loud 
and  angry  altercation. 

I  thought  I  heard  the  shrill  accents  of  the  woman 


of  a  Tyrone  Fa7nily.  239 

repeat  the  words,  "  Let  her  look  to  herself ;"  but  I 
could  not  be  quite  sure.  This  short  sentence,  how- 
ever, was,  to  my  alarmed  imagination,  pregnant  with 
fearful  meaning. 

The  storm  at  length  subsided,  though  not  until 
after  a  conference  of  more  than  two  long  hours. 
Lord  Glenfallen  then  returned,  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  inter- 
ruption 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  unpleasant,  so 
involved  in  mystery,  and  giving  rise  to  so  many  pain- 
ful surmises,  afforded  me  no  very  agreeable  food  for 
rumination. 

All  attempts  on  my  part  to  arrive  at  the  truth  were 
baffled  ;  Lord  Glenfallen  evaded  all  my  inquiries,  and 
at  length  peremptorily  forbade  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. 


240  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

Lord  Glcnfallen's  temper  and  spirits  gradually 
underwent  a  complete  and  most  painful  change  ;  he 
became  silent  and  abstracted,  his  manner  to  me  was 
abrupt  and  often  harsh,  some  grievous  anxiety  seemed 
ever  present  to  his  mind ;  and  under  its  influence  his 
spirits  sank  and  his  temper  became  soured. 

I  soon  perceived  that  his  gaiety  was  rather  that 
which  the  stir  and  excitement  of  society  produce, 
than  the  result  of  a  healthy  habit  of  mind  ;  every 
day  confirmed  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  and  surprise,  the  gay,  kind,  open-hearted 
nobleman  who  had  for  months  followed  and  flattered 
me,  was  rapidly  assuming  the  form  of  a  gloomy, 
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  my  husband  no 
longer  loved  me,  and  that  he  was  at  little  pains  to 
conceal  the  alteration  in  his  sentiments. 

One  morning  after  breakfast.  Lord  Glenfallen  had 
been  for  some  time  walking  silently  up  and  down  the 
room,  buried  in  his  moody  reflections,  when  pausing 
suddenly,  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  more  effectual  expedient. 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  24.1 

Lady  Glenfallen,  I  have  become  involved  in  heavy 
embarrassments.  A  wife,  you  know,  must  share  the 
fortunes  of  her  husband,  for  better  for  worse ;  but  I 
will  waive  my  right  if  you  prefer  remaining  here — 
here  at  Cahergillagh.  For  I  would  not  have  you 
seen  elsewhere  without  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." 

He  left  the  room,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  saw  him 
ride  past  the  window,  followed  by  a  mounted  servant. 
He  had  directed  a  domestic  to  inform  me  that  he 
should  not  be  back  until  the  next  day. 

I  was  in  very  great  doubt  as  to  what  course  of 
conduct  I  should  pursue  as  to  accompanying  him  in 
the  continental  tour  so  suddenly  determined  upon.  I 
felt  that  it  would  be  a  hazard  too  great  to  encounter  ; 
for  at  Cahergillagh  I  had  always  the  consciousness  to 
sustain  me,  that  if  his  temper  at  any  time  led  him 
into  violent  or  unwarrantable  treatment  of  me,  I  had 
a  remedy  within  reach,  in  the  protection  and  support 
of  my  own  family,  from  all  useful  and  effective  com- 
munication with  whom,  if  once  in  France,  I  should 
be  entirely  debarred. 

As  to  remaining  at  Cahergillagh  in  solitude,  and, 
for   aught   I    knew,   exposed    to  hidden  dangers,   it 

R 


242  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

appeared  to  me  scarcely  less  objectionable  than  the 
former  proposition  ;  and  yet  I  feared  that  with  one 
or  other  I  must  comply,  unless  I  was  prepared  to 
come  to  an  actual  breach  with  Lord  Glenfallen.  Full 
of  these  unpleasing  doubts  and  perplexities,  I  retired 
to  rest. 

I  was  wakened,  after  having  slept  uneasily  for 
some  hours,  by  some  person  shaking  me  rudely  by 
the  shoulder  ;  a  small  lamp  burned  in  my  room,  and 
by  its  light,  to  my  horror  and  amazement,  I  dis- 
covered that  my  visitant  was  the  self-same  blind 
old  lady  who  had  so  terrified  me  a  few  weeks 
before. 

I  started  up  in  the  bed,  with  a  view  to  ring  the 
bell,  and  alarm  the  domestics  ;  but  she  instantly 
anticipated  me  by  saying : 

"  Do  not  be  frightened,  silly  girl  !  If  I  had  wished 
to  harm  you,  I  could  have  done  it  while  you  were 
sleeping;  I  need  not  have  wakened  you.  Listen  to 
me,  now,  attentively  and  fearlessly,  for  what  I  have 
to  say  interests  you  to  the  full  as  much  as  it  does  me. 
Tell  me  here,  in  the  presence  of  God,  did  Lord  Glen- 
fallen marry  you — actually  marry  you  ?  Speak  the 
truth,  woman." 

"  As  surely  as  I  live  and  speak,"  I  replied,  "  did 
Lord  Glenfallen  marry  mc,  in  presence  of  more  than 
a  hundred  witnesses." 

"  Well,"  continued   she,  "  he  should  have  told  you 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  243 

then,  before  you  married  him,  that  he  had  a  wife 
living, — that  I  am  his  wife.  I  feel  you  tremble — tush  ! 
do  not  be  frightened.  I  do  not  mean  to  harm  you. 
Mark  me  now — you  are  not  his  wife.  When  I  make 
my  story  known  you  will  be  so  neither  in  the  eye  of 
God  nor  of  man.  You  must  leave  this  house  upon 
to-morrow.  Let  the  world  knovV  that  your  husband 
has  another  wife  living ;  go  you  into  retirement,  and 
leave  him  to  justice,  which  will  surely  overtake  him. 
If  you  remain  in  this  house  after  to-morrow,  you 
will  reap  the  bitter  fruits  of  your  sin." 

So  saying,  she  quitted  the  room,  leaving  me  very 
little  disposed  to  sleep. 

Here  was  food  for  my  very  worst  and  most  terrible 
suspicions  ;  still  there  was  not  enough  to  remove  all 
doubt.  I  had  no  proof  of  the  truth  of  this  woman's 
statement. 

Taken  by  itself,  there  was  nothing  to  induce  me 
to  attach  weight  to  it ;  but  when  I  viewed  it  in  con- 
nection with  the  extraordinary  mystery  of  some  ot 
Lord  Glenfallen's  proceedings,  his  strange  anxiety  to 
exclude  me  from  certain  portions  of  the  mansion, 
doubtless  lest  I  should  encounter  this  person — the 
strong  influence,  nay,  command  which  she  possessed 
over  him,  a  circumstance  clearly  established  by  the 
very  fact  of  her  residing  in  the  very  place  where,  of 
all  others,  he  should  least  have  desired  to  find  her — 
her  thus  acting,  and  continuing  to  act  in  direct  con- 

R  2 


244  -^  Chapter  in  the  History 

tradiction  to  his  wishes  ;  when,  I  say,  I  viewed  her 
disclosure  in  connection  with  all  these  circumstances, 
I  could  not  help  feeling  that  there  was  at  least  a  fear- 
ful verisimilitude  in  the  allegations  which  she  had 
made. 

Still  I  was  not  satisfied,  nor  nearly  so.  Young 
minds  have  a  reluctance  almost  insurmountable  to 
believing,  upon  anything  short  of  unquestionable 
proof,  the  existence  of  premeditated  guilt  in  anyone 
whom  they  have  ever  trusted  ;  and  in  support  of  this 
feeling  I  was  assured  that  if  the  assertion  of  Lord 
Glenfallen,  which  nothing  in  this  woman's  manner 
had  led  me  to  disbelieve^  were  true,  namely  that  her 
mind  was  unsound,  the  whole  fabric  of  my  doubts 
and  fears  must  fall  to  the  ground. 

I  determined  to  state  to  Lord  Glenfallen  freely  and 
accurately  the  substance  of  the  communication  which 
I  had  just  heard,  and  in  his  words  and  looks  to 
seek  for  its  proof  or  refutation.  Full  of  these 
thoughts,  I  remained  wakeful  and  excited  all  night, 
every  moment  fancying  that  I  heard  the  step  or  saw 
the  figure  of  my  recent  visitor,  towards  whom  I  felt 
a  species  of  horror  and  dread  which  I  can  hardly 
describe. 

There  was  something  in  her  face,  though  her 
features  had  evidently  been  handsome,  and  were  not, 
at  first  sight,  unpleasing,  which,  upon  a  nearer  inspec- 
tion, seemed  to  indicate  the  habitual  prevalence  and 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  245 

indulgence  of  evil  passions,  and  a  power  of  express- 
ing mere  animal  anger  with  an  intenseness  that  I 
have  seldom'  seen  equalled,  and  to  which  an  almost 
unearthly  effect  was  given  by  the  convulsive  quivering 
of  the  sightless  eyes. 

You  may  easily  suppose  that  it  was  no  very 
pleasing  reflection  to  me  to  consider  that,  whenever 
caprice  might  induce  her  to  return,  I  was  within  the 
reach  of  this  violent  and,  for  aught  I  knew,  insane 
woman,  who  had,  upon  that  very  night,  spoken  to 
me  in  a  tone  of  menace,  of  which  her  mere  words, 
divested  of  the  manner  and  look  with  which  she 
uttered  them,  can  convey  but  a  faint  idea. 

Will  you  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  was 
actually  afraid  to  leave  my  bed  in  order  to  secure  the 
door,  lest  I  should  again  encounter  the  dreadful 
object  lurking  in  some  corner  or  peeping  from 
behind  the  window- curtains,  so  very  a  child  was  I  in 
my  fears  ? 

The  morning  came,  and  with  it  Lord  Glenfallen. 
I  knew  not,  and  indeed  I  cared  not,  where  he  might 
have  been  ;  my  thoughts  were  wholly  engrossed  by 
the  terrible  fears  and  suspicions  which  my  last 
night's  conference  had  suggested  to  me.  He  was,  as 
usual,  gloomy  and  abstracted,  and  I  feared  in  no 
very  fitting  mood  to  hear  what  I  had  to  say  with 
patience,  whether  the  charges  were  true  or  false. 

I   was,   however,    determined    not    to   suffer    the 


246  A  Chapter'  in  the  History 

opportunity  to  pass,  or  Lord  Glenfallen  to  leave  the 
room,  until,  at  all  hazards,  I  had  unburdened  my 
mind. 

"  My  lord,*'  said  I,  after  a  long  silence,  summoning 
up  all  my  firmness,  '^  my  lord,  I  wish  to  say  a  few 
words  to  you  upon  a  matter  of  very  great  import- 
ance, of  very  deep  concernment  to  you  and  to  me." 

I  fixed  my  eyes  upon  him  to  discern,  if  possible, 
whether  the  announcement  caused  him  any  uneasi- 
ness ;  but  no  symptom  of  any  such  feeling  was 
perceptible. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "  this  is  no  doubt  a  very 
grave  preface,  and  portends,  I  have  no  doubt,  some- 
thing extraordinary.  Pray  let  us  have  it  without 
more  ado." 

He  took  a  chair,  and  seated  himself  nearly  opposite 
to  me. 

"  My  lord,"  said  I,  "  I  have  seen  the  person  who 
alarmed  me  so  much  a  short  time  since,  the  blind 
lady,  again,  upon  last  night."  His  face,  upon  which 
my  eyes  were  fixed,  turned  pale  ;  he  hesitated  for  a 
moment,  and  then  said  : 

*'  And  did  you,  pray,  madam,  so  totally  forget  or 
spurn  my  express  command,  as  to  enter  that  portion 
of  the  house  from  which  your  promise,  I  might  say 
your  oath,  excluded  you  ?  Answer  me  that  !  "  he 
added  fiercely. 

"My  lord,"  said  I,  "I  have  neither  forgotten  your 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  ?47 

commands ,  since  such  they  were,  nor  disobeyed  them. 
I  was,  last  night,  wakened  from  my  sleep,  as  I  lay  in 
my  own  chamber,  and  accosted  by  the  person  whom 
I  have  mentioned.  How  she  found  access  to  the 
room  I  cannot  pretend  to  say." 

"Ha!  this  must  be  looked  to,"  said  he,  half  re- 
flectively. '^  And  pray,"  added  he  quickly,  while  in 
turn  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  me,  "  what  did  this  person 
say  ?  since  some  comment  upon  her  communication 
forms,  no  doubt,  the  sequel  to  your  preface." 

"  Your  lordship  is  not  mistaken,"  said  I  ;  "  her 
statement  was  so  extraordinary  that  I  could  not 
think  of  v/ithholding  it  from  you.  She  told  me,  my 
lord,  that  you  had  a  wife  living  at  the  time  you 
married  me,  and  that  she  was  that  wife." 

Lord  Glenfallen  became  ashy  pale,  almost  livid  ;  he 
made  two  or  three  efforts  to  clear  his  voice  to  speak, 
but  in  vain,  and  turning  suddenly  from  me,  he 
walked  to  the  window.  The  horror  and  dismay 
which,  in  the  olden  time,  overwhelmed  the  woman  of 
Endor  when  her  spells  unexpectedly  conjured  the 
dead  into  her  presence,  were  but  types  of  what  I  felt 
when  thus  presented  with  what  appeared  to  be  almost 
unequivocal  evidence  of  the  guilt  whose  existence  I 
had  before  so  strongly  doubted. 

There  was  a  silence  of  some  moments,  during 
which  it  were  hard  to  conjecture  whether  I  or  my 
companion  suffered  most. 


248  A  Chapte}'  in  the  History 

Lord  Glenfallen  soon  recovered  his  self-com- 
mand ;  he  returned  to  the  table,  again  sat  down,  and 
said  : 

"  What  you  have  told  me  has  so  astonished  me^ 
has  unfolded  such  a  tissue  of  motiveless  guilt,  and  in 
a  quarter  from  which  I  had  so  little  reason  to  look 
for  ingratitude  or  treachery,  that  your  announcement 
almost  deprived  me  of  speech  ;  the  person  in  question, 
however,  has  one  excuse,  her  mind  is,  as  I  told  you 
before,  unsettled.  You  should  have  remembered 
that,  and  hesitated  to  receive  as  unexceptionable 
evidence  against  the  honour  of  your  husband,  the 
ravings  of  a  lunatic.  I  now  tell  you  that  this  is  the 
last  time  I  shall  speak  to  you  upon  this  subject,  and, 
in  the  presence  of  the  God  who  is  to  judge  mc,  and 
as  I  hope  for  mercy  in  the  day  of  judgment,  I  swear 
that  the  charge  thus  brought  against  me  is  utterly 
false,  unfounded,  and  ridiculous.  I  defy  the  world  in 
any  point  to  taint  my  honour  ;  and,  as  I  have  never 
taken  the  opinion  of  madmen  touching  your  charac- 
ter or  morals,  I  think  it  but  fair  to  require  that  you 
will  evince  a  like  tenderness  for  me;  and  now,  once 
for  all,  never  again  dare  to  repeat  to  me  your  insult- 
ing suspicions,  or  the  clumsy  and  infamous  calumnies 
of  fools.  I  shall  instantly  let  the  worthy  lady  who 
contrived  this  somewhat  original  device  understand 
fully  my  opinion  upon  the  matter.  Good  morning." 
And  with  these  words  he  left  me  again  in  doubt. 


of  a  Tyrone  Pojmly.  249 

and  involved  in  all  the  horrors  of  the  most  agonizinj;^ 
suspense. 

I  had  reason  to  think  that  Lord  Glenfallen  wreaked 
his  vengeance  upon  the  author  of  the  strange  story 
which  I  had  heard,  with  a  violence  which  was  not 
satisfied  with  mere  words,  for  old  Martha,  with  whom 
I  was  a  great  favourite,  while  attending  me  in  my 
room,  told  me  that  she  feared  her  master  had  ill- 
used  the  poor  blind  Dutchwoman,  for  that  she  had 
heard  her  scream  as  if  the  very  life  were  leaving  her, 
but  added  a  request  that  I  should  not  speak  of  what 
she  had  told  me  to  any  one,  particularly  to  the  master. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  she  is  a  Dutchwoman  I  " 
inquired  I,  anxious  to  learn  anything  whatever  that 
might  throw  a  light  upon  the  history  of  this  person, 
who  seemed  to  have  resolved  to  mix  herself  up  in  my 
fortunes. 

"  Why,  my  lady,"  answered  Martha,  "  the  master 
often  calls  her  the  Dutch  hag,  and  other  names  you 
would  not  like  to  hear,  and  I  am  sure  she  is  neither 
English  nor  Irish  ;  for,  whenever  they  talk  together, 
they  speak  some  queer  foreign  lingo,  and  fast  enough, 
I'll  be  bound.  But  I  ought  not  to  talk  about  her  at 
all  ;  it  might  be  as  much  as  my  place  is  worth  to 
mention  her,  only  you  saw  her  first  yourself,  so  there 
can  be  no  great  harm  in  speaking  of  her  now." 

"How  long  has  this  lady  been  here?"  con- 
tinued I. 


250  A  Chapter  in  the  Histoiy 

"  She  came  early  on  the  morning  after  your  lady- 
ship's arrival,"  answered  she;  "but  do  not  ask  me 
any  more,  for  the  master  would  think  nothing  of 
turning  me  out  of  doors  for  daring  to  speak  of  her  at 
all,  much  less  \.o  you,  my  lady." 

I  did  not  like  to  press  the  poor  woman  further,  for 
her  reluctance  to  speak  on  this  topic  was  evident  and 
strong. 

You  will  readily  believe  that  upon  the  very  slight 
grounds  which  my  information  afforded,  contradicted 
as  it  was  by  the  solemn  oath  of  my  husband,  and 
derived  from  what  was,  at  best,  a  very  questionable 
source,  I  could  not  take  any  very  decisive  measures 
whatever ;  and  as  to  the  menace  of  the  strange 
woman  who  had  thus  unaccountably  twice  intruded 
herself  into  my  chamber,  although,  at  the  moment, 
it  occasioned  me  some  uneasiness,  it  was  not,  even  in 
my  eyes,  sufficiently  formidable  to  induce  my  depar- 
ture from  Cahergillagh. 

A  {q.\v  nights  after  the  scene  which  I  have  just 
mentioned,  Lord  Glenfallen  having,  as  usual,  retired 
early  to  his  study,  I  was  left  alone  in  the  parlour 
to  amuse  myself  as  best  I  might. 

It  was  not  strange  that  my  thoughts  should  often 
recur  to  the  agitating  scenes  in  which  I  had  recently 
taken  a  part. 

The  subject  of  my  reflections,  the  solitude,  the 
silence,   and   the   lateness  of  the    hour,  as  also  the 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  251 

depression  of  spirits  to  which  I  had  of  late  been  a 
constant  prey,  tended  to  produce  that  nervous  ex- 
citement which  places  us  wholly  at  the  mercy  of  the 
imagination. 

In  order  to  calm  my  spirits  I  was  endeavouring  to 
direct  my  thoughts  into  some  more  pleasing  channel, 
when  I  heard,  or  thought  I  heard,  uttered  within  a 
few  yards  of  me,  in  an  odd,  half-sneering  tone,  the 
words, — • 

"  There  is  blood  upon  your  ladyship's  throat." 

So  vivid  was  the  impression  that  I  started  to  my 
feet,  and  involuntarily  placed  my  hand  upon  my 
neck. 

I  looked  around  the  room  for  the  speaker,  but  in 
vain. 

I  vvent  then  to  the  room-door,  which  I  opened,  and 
peered  into  the  passage,  nearly  faint  with  horror  lest 
some  leering,  shapeless  thing  should  greet  me  upon 
the  threshold. 

When  I  had  gazed  long  enough  to  assure  myself 
that  no  strange  object  was  within  sight, 

"  I  have  been  too  much  of  a  rake  lately  ;  I  am 
racking  out  my  nerves,"  said  I,  speaking  aloud,  with 
a  view  to  reassure  myself. 

I  rang  the  bell,  and,  attended  by  old  Martha,  I 
retired  to  settle  for  the  night. 

While  the  servant  was — as  was  her  custom — 
arranging  the  lamp  which  I  have  already  stated  always 


252 


A  Chapter  in  the  Histoiy 


burned  during  the  night  in  my  chamber,  I  was  em- 
ployed in  undressing,  and,  in  doing  so,  I  had  recourse 
to  a  large  looking-glass  which  occupied  a  considerable 
portion  of  the  wall  in  which  it  was  fixed,  rising  from 
the  ground  to  a  height  of  about  six  feet  ;  this  mirror 


SOMETHING    LIKE    A    BLACK    PALL    WAS    SLOWLY    WAVED.  ; 

filled  the  space  of  a  large  panel  in  the  wainscoting 
opposite  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

I  had  hardly  been  before  it  for  the  lapse  of  a 
minute  when  something  like  a  black  pall  was  slowly 
waved  between  me  and  it. 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  253 

"  Oh,  God  !  there  it  is,"  I  exclaimed,  wildly.  "  I 
have  seen  it  again,  Martha — the  black  cloth." 

''  God  be  merciful  to  us,  then  ! "  answered  she, 
tremulously  crossing  herself,  "  Some  misfortune  is 
over  us." 

"  No,  no,  IMartha,"  said  I,  almost  instantly  recover- 
ing my  collectedness  ;  for,  although  of  a  nervous 
temperament,  I  had  never  been  superstitious.  "  I  do 
not  believe  in  omens.  You  know  I  saw,  or  fancied  I 
saw,  this  thing  before,  and  nothing  followed." 

"The  Dutch  lady  came  the  next  morning,"  replied 
she. 

"But  surely  her  coming  sc arccly  deserved  such  a 
dreadful  warning,"  I  replied. 

"  She  is  a  strange  woman,  my  lady,"  said  Martha  ; 
"and  she  is  viot gotie  yet — mark  my  words." 

"  Well,  well,  Martha,"  said  I,  "  I  have  not  wit 
enough  to  change  your  opinions,  nor  inclination  to 
alter  mine  ;  so  I  will  talk  no  more  of  the  matter. 
Good-night,"  and  so  I  was  left  to  my  reflections. 

After  lying  for  about  an  hour  awake,  I  at  length 
fell  into  a  kind  of  doze  ;  but  my  imagination  was 
very  busy,  for  I  was  startled  from  this  unrefreshing 
sleep  by  fancying  that  I  heard  a  voice  close  to  my 
face  exclaim  as  before, — 

"  There  is  blood  upon  your  ladyship's  throat." 

The  words  were  instantly  followed  by  a  loud  burst 
of  laughter. 


254  ^  Chapter  in  the  History 

Quaking  with  horror,  I  awakened,  and  heard  my 
husband  enter  the  room.     Even  this  was  a  relief. 

Scared  as  I  was,  however,  by  the  tricks  which  my 
imagination  had  played  me,  I  preferred  remaining 
silent,  and  pretending  to  sleep,  to  attempting  to  en- 
gage my  husband  in  conversation,  for  I  well  knew 
that  his  mood  was  such,  that  his  words  would  not,  in 
all  probability,  convey  anything  that  had  not  better 
be  unsaid  and  unheard. 

Lord  Glenfallen  went  into  his  dressing-room,  which 
lay  upon  the  right-hand  side  of  the  bed.  The  door 
lying  open,  I  could  see  him  by  himself,  at  full  length 
upon  a  sofa,  and,  in  about  half  an  hour,  I  became 
aware,  by  his  deep  and  regularly  drawn  respiration, 
that  he  was  fast  asleep. 

When  slumber  refuses  to  visit  one,  there  is  some- 
thing peculiarly  irritating,  not  to  the  temper,  but  to 
the  nerves,  in  the  consciousness  that  some  one  is  in 
your  immediate  presence,  actually  enjoying  the  boon 
which  you  are  seeking  in  vain;  at  least,  I  have 
always  found  it  so,  and  never  more  than  upon  the 
present  occasion. 

A  thousand  annoying  imaginations  harassed  and 
excited  me ;  every  object  which  I  looked  upon, 
though  ever  so  familiar,  seemed  to  have  acquired  a 
strange  phantom-like  character,  the  varying  shadows 
thrown  by  the  flickering  of  the  lamplight  seemed 
shaping   themselves    into    grotesque    and    unearthly 


of  a  Tyrone  Fajiiily.  255 

forms,  and  whenever  my  eyes  wandered  to  the  sleeping 
figure  of  my  husband,  his  features  appeared  to  under- 
go the  strangest  and  most  demoniacal  contortions. 

Hour  after  hour  was  told  by  the  old  clock,  and 
each  succeeding  one  found  me,  if  possible,  less  inclined 
to  sleep  than  its  predecessor. 

It  was  now  considerably  past  three  ;  my  eyes,  in 
their  involuntary  wanderings,  happened  to  alight 
upon  the  large  mirror  which  was,  as  I  have  said, 
fixed  in  the  wall  opposite  the  foot  of  the  bed.  A 
view  of  it  was  commanded  from  where  I  lay,  through 
the  curtains.  As  I  gazed  fixedly  upon  it,  I  thought 
I  perceived  the  broad  sheet  of  glass  shifting  its  posi- 
tion in  relation  to  the  bed  ;  I  riveted  my  eyes  upon 
it  with  intense  scrutiny  ;  it  was  no  deception,  the 
mirror,  as  if  acting  of  its  own  impulse,  moved  slov^dy 
aside,  and  disclosed  a  dark  aperture  in  the  wall, 
nearly  as  large  as  an  ordinary  door  ;  a  figure  evidently 
stood  in  this,  but  the  light  was  too  dim  to  define  it 
accurately. 

It  stepped  cautiously  into  the  chamber,  and  with 
so  little  noise,  that  had  I  not  actually  seen  it,  I  do 
not  think  I  should  have  been  aware  of  its  presence. 
It  was  arrayed  in  a  kind  of  woollen  night-dress,  and 
a  white  handkerchief  or  cloth  was  bound  tightly  about 
the  head  ;  I  had  no  difficulty,  spite  of  the  strangeness 
of  the  attire,  in  recognizing  the  blind  woman  whom 
I  so  much  dreaded. 


256  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

She  stooped  down,  bringing  her  head  nearly 
to  the  ground,  and  in  that  attitude  she  remained 
motionless  for  some  moments,  no  doubt  in  order 
to  ascertain  if  any  suspicious  sounds  were  stirring. 

She  was  apparently  satisfied  by  her  observations, 
for  she  immediately  recommenced  her  silent  progress 
towards  a  ponderous  mahogany  dressing-table  of  my 
husband's.  When  she  had  reached  it,  she  paused 
again,  and  appeared  to  listen  attentively  for  some 
minutes;  she  then  noiselessly  opened  one  of  the 
drawers,  from  which,  having  groped  for  some  time, 
she  took  something,  which  I  soon  perceived  to  be  a 
case  of  razors.  She  opened  it,  and  tried  the  edge  of 
each  of  the  two  instruments  upon  the  skin  of  her 
hand  ;  she  quickly  selected  one,  which  she  fixed 
firmly  in  her  grasp.  She  now  stooped  down  as  be- 
fore, and  having  listened  for  a  time,  she,  with  the 
hand  that  was  disengaged,  groped  her  way  into 
the  dressing-room  where  Lord  Glenfallen  lay  fast 
asleep. 

I  was  fixed  as  if  in  the  tremendous  spell  of  a  night- 
mare. I  could  not  stir  even  a  finger;  I  could  not 
lift  my  voice ;  I  could  not  even  breathe  ;  and  though 
I  expected  every  moment  to  see  the  sleeping  man 
murdered,  I  could  not  even  close  my  eyes  to  shut  out 
the  horrible  spectacle  which  I  had  not  the  power  to 
avert. 

I  saw  the  woman  approach  the  sleeping  figure,  she 


of  a  Tyrone  Faniily.  257 

laid  the  unoccupied  hand  lightly  along  his  clothes, 
and  having  thus  ascertained  his  identity,  she,  after  a 
brief  interval,  turned  back  and  again  entered  my 
chamber ;    here  she  bent  down  again  to  listen. 

I  had  now  not  a  doubt  but  that  the  razor  was  in- 
tended for  my  throat ;  yet  the  terrific  fascination 
which  had  locked  all  my  powers  so  long,  still  con- 
inued  to  bind  me  fast. 

I  felt  that  my  life  depended  upon  the  slightest 
ordinary  exertion,  and  yet  I  could  not  stir  one  joint 
from  the  position  in  which  I  lay,  nor  even  make  noise 
enough  to  waken  Lord  Glenfallen. 

The  murderous  woman  now,  with  long,  silent  steps, 
approached  the  bed  ;  my  very  heart  seemed  turning 
to  ice  ;  her  left  hand,  that  which  was  disengaged, 
was  upon  the  pillow  ;  she  gradually  slid  it  forward 
towards  my  head,  and  in  an  instant,  with  the  speed 
of  lightning,  it  was  clutched  in  my  hair,  while,  with 
the  other  hand,  she  dashed  the  razor  at  my  throat. 

A  slight  inaccuracy  saved  me  from  instant  death ; 
the  blow  fell  short,  the  point  of  the  razor  grazing 
my  throat.  In  a  moment,  I  know  not  how,  I  found 
myself  at  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  uttering  shriek 
after  shriek  ;  the  wretch  was  however  determined,  if 
possible,  to  murder  me. 

Scrambling  along  by  the  curtains,  she  rushed  round 
the  bed  towards  me  ;  I  seized  the  handle  of  the  door 
to  make  my  escape.     It  was,  however,  fastened.     At 


258  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

all  events,  I  could  not  open  it.  From  the  mere  in- 
stinct of  recoiling  terror,  I  shrunk  back  into  a  corner. 
She  was  now  within  a  yard  of  me.  Her  hand  was 
upon  my  face. 

I  closed  my  eyes  fast,  expecting  never  to  open 
them  again,  when  a  blow,  inflicted  from  behind  by  a 
strong  arm,  stretched  the  monster  senseless  at  my 
feet.  At  the  same  moment  the  door  opened,  and 
several  domestics,  alarmed  by  my  cries,  entered  the 
apartment. 

I  do  not  recollect  what  followed,  for  I  fainted. 
One  swoon  succeeded  another,  so  long  and  death- 
like, that  my  life  was  considered  very  doubtful. 

At  about  ten  o'clock,  however,  I  sank  into  a  deep 
and  refreshing  sleep,  from  which  I  was  awakened  at 
about  two,  that  I  might  swear  my  deposition  before 
a  magistrate,  who  attended  for  that  purpose. 

I  accordingly  did  so,  as  did  also  Lord  Glenfallen, 
and  the  woman  was  fully  committed  to  stand  her 
trial  at  the  ensuing  assizes. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  scene  which  the  examina- 
tion of  the  blind  woman  and  of  the  other  parties 
afforded. 

She  was  brought  into  the  room  in  the  custody  of 
two  servants.  She  wore  a  kind  of  flannel  wrapper, 
which  had  not  been  changed  since  the  night  before. 
It  was  torn  and  soiled,  and  here  and  there  smeared 
with  blood,  which    had   flowed    in    large    quantities 


I 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  259 

from  a  wound  in  her  head.  The  white  handkerchief 
had  fallen  off  in  the  scuffle,  and  her  grizzled  hair  fell 
in  masses  about  her  wild  and  deadly  pale  countenance. 
She  appeared  perfectly  composed,  however,  and 
the  only  regret  she  expressed  throughout,  was  at  not 
having  succeeded  in  her  attempt,  the  object  of  which 
she  did  not  pretend  to  conceal. 

On  being  asked  her  name,  she  called  herself  the 
Countess  Glenfallen,  and  refused  to  give  any  other 
title. 

"The  woman's  name  is  Flora  Van-Kemp,"  said 
Lord  Glenfallen. 

"  It  %vas,  it  was,  you  perjured  traitor  and  cheat!  " 
screamed  the  woman  ;  and  then  there  followed  a 
volley  of  words  in  some  foreign  language.  "  Is  there 
a  magistrate  here .? "  she  resumed  ;  "  I  am  Lord 
Glenfallen's  wife— Fll  prove  it— write  down  my 
words.  I  am  willing  to  be  hanged  or  burned,  so  he 
meets  his  deserts.  I  did  try  to  kill  that  doll  of  his ; 
but  it  was  he  who  put  it  into  my  head  to  do  it — two 
wives  were  too  many  ;  I  was  to  murder  her,  or  she 
was  to  hang  me :  listen  to  all  I  have  to  say."' 
Here  Lord  Glenfallen  interrupted. 
"  I  think,  sir,"  said  he,  addressing  the  magistrate 
"  that  we  had  better  proceed  to  business  ;  this  un- 
happy woman's  furious  recriminations  but  waste  our 
time.  If  she  refuses  to  answer  your  questions,  you 
had  better,  I  presume,  take  my  depositions." 

S  2 


26o  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

"  And  are  you  going  to  swear  away  my  life,  you 
black-perjured  murderer?"  shrieked  the  woman. 
"  Sir,  sir,  sir,  you  must  hear  me,"  she  continued, 
addressing  the  magistrate  ;  "  I  can  convict  him — he 
bid  me  murder  that  girl,  and  then,  when  I  failed,  he 
came  behind  me,  and  struck  me  down,  and  now  he 
wants  to  swear  away  my  life.  Take  down  all 
I  say." 

"  If  it  is  your  intention,"  said  the  magistrate,  "to 
confess  the  crime  with  which  you  stand  charged,  you 
may,  upon  producing  sufficient  evidence,  criminate 
whom  you  please." 

"  Evidence  ! — I  have  no  evidence  but  myself,"  said 
the  woman.  "  I  will  swear  it  all — write  down  my 
testimony — write  it  down,  I  say — we  shall  hang  side 
by  side,  my  brave  lord — all  your  own  handy-work, 
my  gentle  husband  !  " 

This  was  followed  by  a  low,  insolent,  and  sneering 
laugh,  which,  from  one  in  her  situation,  was  suffi- 
ciently horrible. 

"  I  will  not  at  present  hear  anything,"  replied  he, 
"  but  distinct  answers  to  the  questions  which  I  shall 
put  to  you  upon  this  matter." 

"  Then  you  shall  hear  nothing,"  replied  she  sullenly, 
and  no  inducement  or  intimidation  could  bring  her  to 
speak  again. 

Lord  Glenfallen's  deposition  and  mine  were  then 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  261 

given,  as  also  those  of  the  servants  who  had  entered 
the  room  at  the  moment  of  my  rescue. 

The  magistrate  then  intimated  that  she  was  com- 
mitted, and  must  proceed  directly  to  gaol,  whither 
she  was  brought  in  a  carriage  of  Lord  Glcnfallen's, 
for  his  lordship  was  naturally  by  no  means  indifferent 
to  the  effect  which  her  vehement  accusations  against 
himself  might  produce,  if  uttered  before  every  chance 
hearer  whom  she  might  meet  with  between  Caher- 
gillagh  and  the  place  of  confinement  whither  she  was 
despatched. 

During  the  time  which  intervened  between  the 
committal  and  the  trial  of  the  prisoner.  Lord  Glen- 
fallen  seemed  to  suffer  agonies  of  mind  which  baffled 
all  description  ;  he  hardly  ever  slept,  and  when  he 
did,  his  slumbers  seemed  but  the  instruments  of  new 
tortures,  and  his  waking  hours  were,  if  possible,  ex- 
ceeded in  intensity  of  terror  by  the  dreams  which 
disturbed  his  sleep. 

Lord  Glenfallen  rested,  if  to  lie  in  the  mere  attitude 
of  repose  were  to  do  so,  in  his  dressing-room,  and 
thus  I  had  an  opportunity  of  witnessing,  far  oftener 
than  I  wished  it,  the  fearful  workings  of  his  mind. 
His  agony  often  broke  out  into  such  fearful 
paroxysms  that  delirium  and  total  loss  of  reason 
appeared  to  be  impending.  He  frequently  spoke 
of    flying     from    the    country,   and    bringing   with 


262  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

him  all  the  witnesses  of  the  appalling  scene  upon 
which  the  prosecution  was  founded  ;  then,  again,  he 
would  fiercely  lament  that  the  blow  which  he  had 
inflicted  had  not  ended  all. 

The  assizes  arrived,  however,  and  upon  the  day 
appointed  Lord  Glenfallen  and  I  attended  in  order 
to  give  our  evidence. 

The  cause  was  called  on,  and  the  prisoner  appeared 
at  the  bar. 

Great  curiosity  and  interest  were  felt  respecting 
the  trial,  so  that  the  court  was  crowded  to  excess. 

The  prisoner,  however,  without  appearing  to  take 
the  trouble  of  listening  to  the  indictment,  pleaded 
guilty,  and  no  representations  on  the  part  of  the 
court  availed  to  induce  her  to  retract  her  plea. 

After  much  time  had  been  wasted  in  a  fruitless 
attempt  to  prevail  upon  her  to  reconsider  her  words, 
the  court  proceeded,  according  to  the  usual  form,  to 
pass  sentence. 

This  having  been  done,  the  prisoner  was  about  to 
be  removed,  when  she  said,  in  a  low,  distinct  voice : 

"A  word — a  word,  my  lord  !  — Is  Lord  Glenfallen 
here  in  the  court  ? " 

On  being  told  that  he  was,  she  raised  her  voice  to 
a  tone  of  loud  menace,  and  continued  : 

"  Hardress,  Earl  of  Glenfallen,  I  accuse  you  here 
in  this  court  of  justice  of  two  crimes, — first,  that  you 


of  a  Tyrone  Fauiily.  26 


a 


married  a  second  wife  while  the  first  was  living  ; 
and  again,  that  you  prompted  me  to  the  murder,  for 
attempting  which  I  am  to  die.  Secure  him — chain 
him — bring  him  here  !  " 

There  was  a  laugh  through  the  court  at  these 
words,  which  were  naturally  treated  by  the  judge  as 
a  violent  extemporary  recrimination,  and  the  woman 
was  desired  to  be  silent. 

"  You  won't  take  him,  then  ?  "  she  said ;  "  you 
won't  try  him  .''     You'll  let  him  go  free  }  " 

It  was  intimated  by  the  court  that  he  would 
certainly  be  allowed  "  to  go  free,"  and  she  was 
ordered  again  to  be  removed. 

Before,  however,  the  mandate  was  executed,  she 
threw  her  arms  wildly  into  the  air,  and  uttered  one 
piercing  shriek  so  full  of  preternatural  rage  and 
despair,  that  it  might  fitly  have  ushered  a  soul  into 
those  realms  where  hope  can  come  no  more. 

The  sound  still  rang  in  my  ears,  months  after  the 
voice  that  had  uttered  it  was  for  ever  silent. 

The  wretched  woman  was  executed  in  accordance 
with  the  sentence  which  had  been  pronounced. 

For  some  time  after  this  event,  Lord  Glenfallen 
appeared,  if  possible,  to  suffer  more  than  he  had 
done  before,  and  altogether  his  language,  which  often 
amounted  to  half  confessions  of  the  guilt  imputed  to 
him,  and  all  the  circumstances  connected  with  the 


264  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

late  occurrences,  formed  a  mass  of  evidence  so  con- 
vincing that  I  wrote  to  my  father,  detailing  the 
grounds  of  my  fears,  and  imploring  him  to  come  to 
Cahergillagh  without  delay,  in  order  to  remove  me 
from  my  husband's  control,  previously  to  taking  legal 
steps  for  a  final  separation. 

Circumstanced  as  I  was,  my  existence  was  little 
short  of  intolerable,  for,  besides  the  fearful  suspicions 
which  attached  to  my  husband,  I  plainly  perceived 
that  if  Lord  Glenfallen  were  not  relieved,  and  that 
speedily,  insanity  must  supervene.  I  therefore  ex- 
pected my  father's  arrival,  or  at  least  a  letter  to 
announce  it,  with  indescribable  impatience. 

About  a  week  after  the  execution  had  taken  place, 
Lord  Glenfallen  one  morning  met  me  with  an  un- 
usually sprightly  air. 

"  Fanny,"  said  he,  "  I  have  it  now  for  the  first  time 
in  my  power  to  explain  to  your  satisfaction  every- 
thing which  has  hitherto  appeared  suspicious  or 
mysterious  in  my  conduct.  After  breakfast  come 
with  me  to  my  study,  and  I  shall,  I  hope,  make  all 
things  clear." 

This  invitation  afforded  me  more  real  pleasure 
than  I  had  experienced  for  months.  Something  had 
certainly  occurred  to  tranquillize  my  husband's  mind 
in  no  ordinary  degree,  and  I  thought  it  by  no  means 
impossible  that  he  would,  in  the  proposed  interview, 
prove  himself  the  most  injured  and  innocent  of  men. 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  265 

Full  of  this  hope,  I  repaired  to  his  study  at  the 
appointed  hour.  He  was  writing  busily  when  I 
entered  the  room,  and  just  raising  his  eyes,  he  re- 
quested me  to  be  seated. 

I  took  a  chair  as  he  desired,  and  remained  silently 
awaiting  his  leisure,  while  he  finished,  folded,  directed, 
and  sealed  his  letter.  Laying  it  then  upon  the  table 
with  the  address  downward,  he  said, — 

"My  dearest  Fanny,  I  know  I  must  have  appeared 
very  strange  to  you  and  very  unkind — often  even 
cruel.  Before  the  end  of  this  week  I  will  show  you 
the  necessity  of  my  conduct — how  impossible  it  was 
that  I  should  have  seemed  otherwise.  I  am  conscious 
that  many  acts  of  mine  must  have  inevitably  given 
rise  to  painful  suspicions — suspicions  which,  indeed, 
upon  one  occasion,  you  very  properly  communicated 
to  me.  I  have  got  two  letters  from  a  quarter  which 
commands  respect,  containing  information  as  to  the 
course  by  which  I  may  be  enabled  to  prove  the 
negative  of  all  the  crimes  which  even  the  most 
credulous  suspicion  could  lay  to  my  charge.  I 
expected  a  third  by  this  morning's  post,  containing 
documents  which  will  set  the  matter  for  ever  at  rest, 
but  owing,  no  doubt,  to  some  neglect,  or  perhaps  to 
some  difficulty  in  collecting  the  papers,  some  in- 
evitable delay,  it  has  not  come  to  hand  this  morning, 
according  to  my  expectation.  I  was  finishing  one 
to  the  very  same  quarter  when  you  came  in,  and  if  a 


266  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

sound  rousing  be  worth  anything,  I  think  I  shall 
have  a  special  messenger  before  two  days  have 
passed.  I  have  been  anxiously  considering  with 
myself,  as  to  whether  I  had  better  imperfectly  clear 
up  your  doubts  by  submitting  to  your  inspection  the 
two  letters  which  I  have  already  received,  or  wait 
till  I  can  triumphantly  vindicate  myself  by  the  pro- 
duction of  the  documents  which  I  have  already  men- 
tioned, and  I  have,  T  think,  not  unnaturally  decided 
upon  the  latter  course.  However,  there  is  a  person 
in  the  next  room  whose  testimony  is  not  without  its 
value — excuse  me  for  one  moment." 

So  saying,  he  arose  and  went  to  the  door  of  a 
closet  which  opened  from  the  study  ;  this  he  un- 
locked, and  half  opening  the  door,  he  said,  "  It  is 
only  I,"  and  then  slipped  into  the  room,  and  carefully 
closed  and  locked  the  door  behind  him. 

I  immediately  heard  his  voice  in  animated  con- 
versation. My  curiosity  upon  the  subject  of  the 
letter  was  naturally  great,  so,  smothering  any  little 
scruples  which  I  might  have  felt,  I  resolved  to  look 
at  the  address  of  the  letter  which  lay,  as  my  husband 
had  left  it,  with  its  face  upon  the  table.  I  accord- 
ingly drew  it  over  to  me,  and  turned  up  the  direc- 
tion. 

For  two  or  three  moments  I   could  scarce  believe 

my  eyes,  but  there  could  be   no   mistake — in  large 


i 


of  a  Tyj'one  Family.  267 

characters  were  traced  the  words,  "  To  the  Archangel 
Gabriel  in  Heaven." 

I  had  scarcely  returned  the  letter  to  its  original 
position,  and  in  some  degree  recovered  the  shock 
which  this  unequivocal  proof  of  insanity  produced, 
when  the  closet  door  was  unlocked,  and  Lord  Glen- 
fallen  re-entered  the  study,  carefully  closing  and 
locking  the  door  again  upon  the  outside. 

"  Whom  have  you  there  ?"  inquired  I,  making  a 
strong  effort  to  appear  calm. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  he,  musinglj',  "  you  might  have 
some  objection  to  seeing  her,  at  least  for  a  time." 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  repeated  I. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  I  see  no  use  in  hiding  it — the 
blind  Dutchwoman.  I  have  been  with  her  the  whole 
morning.  She  is  very  anxious  to  get  out  of  that 
closet ;  but  you  know  she  is  odd,  she  is  scarcely  to 
be  trusted." 

A  heavy  gust  of  wind  shook  the  door  at  this 
moment  with  a  sound  as  if  something  more  substantial 
were  pushing  against  it. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! — do  you  hear  her  ? "  said  he,  with 
an  obstreperous  burst  of  laughter. 

The  wind  died  away  in  a  long  howl,  and  Lord 
Glenfallen,  suddenly  checkinghis  merriment,  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  muttered  : 

"  Poor  devil,  she  has  been  hardly  used." 


268  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

"We  had  better  not  tease  her  at  present  with 
questions,"  said  I,  in  as  unconcerned  a  tone  as  I  could 
assume,  although  I  felt  every  moment  as  if  I  should 
faint. 

"  Humph  !  may  be  so,"  said  he.  "Well, come  back 
in  an  hour  or  two,  or  when  you  please,  and  you  will 
find  us  here." 

He  again  unlocked  the  door,  and  entered  with  the 
same  precautions  which  he  had  adopted  before,  lock- 
ing the  door  upon  the  inside ;  and  as  I  hurried  from 
the  room,  I  heard  his  voice  again  exerted  as  if  in 
eager  parley. 

I  can  hardly  describe  my  emotions  ;  my  hopes 
had  been  raised  to  the  highest,  and  now,  in  an 
instant,  all  was  gone  :  the  dreadful  consummation 
was  accomplished — the  fearful  retribution  had  fallen 
upon  the  guilty  man — the  mind  was  destroyed,  the 
power  to  repent  was  gone. 

The  agony  of  the  hours  which  followed  what  I 
would  still  call  my  awful  interview  with  Lord  Glen- 
fallen,  I  cannot  describe ;  my  solitude  was,  however, 
broken  in  upon  by  Martha,  who  came  to  inform  me 
of  the  arrival  of  a  gentleman,  who  expected  me  in 
the  parlour. 

I  accordingly  descended,  and,  to  my  great  joy, 
found  my  father  seated  by  the  fire. 

This  expedition  upon  his  part  was  easily  accounted 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  269 

for :  my  communications  had  touched  the  honour 
of  the  family.  I  speedily  informed  him  of  the 
dreadful  malady  which  had  fallen  upon  the  wretched 
man. 

My  father  suggested  the  necessity  of  placing  some 
person  to  watch  him,  to  prevent  his  injuring  himself 
or  others. 

I  rang  the  bell,  and  desired  that  one  Edward 
Cooke,  an  attached  servant  of  the  family,  should  be 
sent  to  me, 

I  told  him  distinctly  and  briefly  the  nature  of  the 
service  required  of  him,  and,  attended  by  him,  my 
father  and  I  proceeded  at  once  to  the  study.  The 
door  of  the  inner  room  was  still  closed,  and  every- 
thing in  the  outer  chamber  remained  in  the  same 
order  in  which  I  had  left  it. 

We  then  advanced  to  the  closet-door,  at  which  we 
knocked,  but  without  receiving  any  answer. 

We  next  tried  to  open  the  door,  but  in  vain ;  it 
was  locked  upon  the  inside.  We  knocked  more  loudly, 
but  in  vain. 

Seriously  alarmed,  I  desir&d  the  servant  to  force 
the  door,  which  was,  after  several  violent  efforts, 
accomplished,  and  we  entered  the  closet. 

Lord  Glenfallen  was  lying  on  his  face  upon  a  sofa. 
"  Hush  !  "  said  I  ;  "  he  is  asleep."     We  paused  for 
a  moment. 


270  A  Chapter  in  the  History 

"  He  is  too  still  for  that,"  said  my  father. 

We  all  of  us  felt  a  strong  reluctance  to  approach 
the  figure. 

''  Edward,"  said  I,  "  try  whether  your  master 
sleeps." 

The  servant  approached  the  sofa  where  Lord 
Glenfallen  lay.  He  leant  his  ear  towards  the  head 
of  the  recumbent  figure,  to  ascertain  whether  the 
sound  of  breathing  was  audible.  He  turned  towards 
us,  and  said  : 

"  My  lady,  you  had  better  not  wait  here ;  I  am 
sure  he  is  dead  !  " 

"Let  me  see  the  face,"  said  I,  terribly  agitated  ; 
"  you  May  be  mistaken." 

The  man  then,  in  obedience  to  my  command, 
turned  the  body  round,  and,  gracious  God  !  what 
a  sight  met  my  view. 

The  whole  breast  of  the  shirt,  with  its  lace  frill, 
was  drenched  with  his  blood,  as  was  the  couch  under- 
neath the  spot  where  he  lay. 

The  head  hung  back,  as  it  seemed,  almost  severed 
from  the  body  by  a  frightful  gash,  which  yawned 
across  the  throat.  The  razor  which  had  inflicted 
the  wound  was  found  under  his  body. 

All,  then,  was  over  ;  I  was  never  to  learn  the 
history  in  whose  termination  I  had  been  so  deeply 
and  so  tragically  involved. 

The  severe  discipline  which   my  mind  had  under- 


of  a  Tyrone  Family.  271 

gone  was  not  bestowed  in  vain.  I  directed  my 
thoughts  and  my  hopes  to  that  place  where  there  is 
no  more  sin,  nor  danger,  nor  sorrow. 

Thus  ends  a  brief  tale  whose  prominent  incidents 
many  will  recognize  as  having  marked  the  history  of 
a  distinguished  family ;  and  though  it  refers  to  a 
somewhat  distant  date,  we  shall  be  found  not  to  have 
taken,  upon  that  account,  any  liberties  with  the  facts. 


THE   END. 


LONDON ; 

PRINTED     BY     GILBERT    AND     RIVINGTON,     LD., 

ST.   JOHN'S   HOUSE,   CLERKENWELL,    EX. 


BY    THE    AUTHOR    OF    "  BALLYBEG   JUNCTION." 

THE 

MERCHANT   OF    KILLOGUE 

H  /iDunster  XTale 

Br 
F.    M.    ALLEN 

AUTHOR      OF     "through     GREEN      GLASSES,"       "A     HOUSE     OF     TFARS," 
"  IN      ONE     TOWN,"      ETC.,      ETC. 

In  Three  Volumes. 


THE  WORLD. 


"  An  inside  and  intimate  picture  of  Irish  life  and  character,  in 
phases  and  circumstances  which  have  not,  so  far  as  we  know,  been 
approached  by  any  other  novelist  or  satirist.  The  work  is  not 
describable,  it  is  not  to  be  indicated  by  comparison  ;  the  very  touch 
of  occasional  caricature  in  the  election  scenes,  and  in  the  '  brigand ' 
of  the  story,  O'Ruark,  which  throws  out  the  sheer  clear  actuality  of 
the  people,  the  places,  the  'ways';  the  extraordinary  humour  of  the 
talk  ;  the  jarring  of  small  interests  and  petty  ambitions  in  the  town 
that  is  all  the  world  to  its  inhabitants ;  the  swift  stroke  of  fate  and 
sudden  investment  of  the  scene  with  tragic  interest — are  Mr. 
Downey's  own.  Mick  Moloney's  last  '  few  words  with  the  master ' 
is  an  incident  worthy  to  be  placed  beside  the  famous  death  scene  in 
the  mountain-pass  in  '  Tom  Burke,'  " 


THE  DAILY  TELEGRAPH. 

"  Vivid  and  convincing  sketches  of  Irish  provincial  life  abound  in 
'  The  Merchant  of  Killogue.'  .  .  .  The  story  is  admirably  worked 
np  to  a  surprising  and  startling  denouement." 

WESTMINSTER   GAZETTE. 

"  The  only  fault  we  have  to  find  with  '  The  Merchant  of  Killogue  ' 
is  that  it  is  too  conscientious.  ...  In  depicting  his  characters  he 
shows  rare  skill  and  knowledge  as  well  as  a  very  considerable  gift 
of  humour.  They  are  all  vivid,  distinct,  and  lifelike.  .  .  .  The 
workmanship  is  of  quite  unusual  merit." 

DAILY  CHRONICLE. 

"Mr.  Downey's  Celts  are  human  beings,  motived  by  the  ordinary 
motives,  and  talking  like  rational  men  and  women.  His  central 
figure,  John  O'Reilly,  is  an  artistic  creation." 

LITERARY  WORLD. 

"  Natural,  strong  in  local  characterisation  and  colouring,  with 
many  touches  of  quaint  humour  peculiarly  Irish  and  racy,  and  bright 
and  readable  from  cover  to  cover." 

SATURDAY  REVIEW. 

"  There  is  no  questioning  the  ability  of  Mr.  Edmund  Downey's 
Munster  tale.  It  is  long  since  a  writer  has  inti'oduced  us  to  a  set 
of  characters  so  fresh,  so  unlike  the  usual  creations  of  the  novelist." 

VANITY  FAIR. 

"  Every  character  in  the  book  is  put  down  in  words  so  subtle  and 
strong  that  for  yourself  you  know  the  people.  There  is  nothing  of 
the  new  woman  in  it,  and  not  a  line  concerning  the  analyses  of  soul 
and  body.  It  is  just  a  picture  of  Irish  life  which  might  have  been 
written  in  shorthand  as  it  happened,  and  wi'itten  out  afterwards  in 
longhand,  so  clear  and  sharp  and  vital  is  it.  It  is  an  exciting  story, 
with  a  thi-illiug  winding  up." 


ST.  JAMES'S  GAZETTE. 

"  When  we  say  that  Mr.  Downey  reminds  us  not  a  little  of  his 
great  precursor,  Lever,  we  are  paying  him  no  idle  compliment." 

GUARDIAN. 

"  One  of  the  best  descriptions  of  Irish  life  that  we  have  read 
since  Lever." 

SPECTATOR. 

"  A  very  bright  and  vivacious  book.  .  .  .  The  merchant  is  a 
very  carefully  painted  portrait,  and  he  is  really  made  to  live." 

THE   SUN. 

"  Before  you  are  half-way  through  the  first  chapter  of  this  enter- 
taining book  you  realize  that  you  are  here  face  to  face  with  Ireland 
drawn  from  the  life,  that  this  is  fiction  not  of  stale  convention  but 
of  first-hand  observation,  and  that  the  story  demands  more  than 
ordinary  attention." 

ATHEN-ffiUM. 

"  It  is  pleasant  for  a  reviewer  to  be  able  to  congratulate  him  on 
the  good  account  to  which  he  has  now  turned  his  extensive  acquaint- 
ance with  Irish  provincial  life." 

ST.    PAUL'S. 

"  The  humour  is  neither  farcical  nor  conventional,  it  is  the  humour 
of  situation  and  character.  .  .  .  The  dialogue  is  animated,  easy, 
and  natural  throughout." 

LLOYDS'. 

"  The  rich  racy  humour  of  Irish  life  bubbles  up  in  many  fantastic 
forms  and  shapes  throughout  Mr.  Downey's  novel." 

MORNING  POST. 

"  Excellent  portraits  abound  in  this  tale  of  Munster." 


4 

STANDARD. 

"  The  plot  acts  mainly  as  a  peg  on  which  the  author  hangs  his 
sketches  of  Irish  character,  and  these  are  excellently  done.  The 
merchant  himself  ...  is  a  remarkable  study.  .  .  .  O'Enark  is,  in 
his  way,  quite  a  creation,  and  his  perennial  flow  of  Irish  wit  is  one 
of  the  pleasantest  things  in  the  three  volumes." 

TRUTH. 

"  The  characters  and  the  scenes  are  excellently  dra-\vn." 

LIVERPOOL   MERCURY. 

"  A  story  that  holds  the  attention  of  the  reader  down  to  the  last 
page." 

FREEMAN'S  JOURNAL. 

"  The  book  has  all  the  interest  of  a  story  that  we  feel  derives  its 
life  from  experience." 

IRISH   WEEKLY   INDEPENDENT. 

" '  The  Merchant  of  Killogue '  is  a  book  in  which  high  spirits 
predominate.  It  is  no  mean  compliment  to  say  that  two  or  three 
chapters  read  like  chapters  of  '  Charles  O'Malley '  or  '  Harry 
Lorrequer.' " 

BOSTON  (U.S.A.)  LITERARY  WORLD. 

"  A  remarkable  novel  of  Irish  life  is  '  The  Merchant  of  Killogue.' 
I  do  not  know  any  novel  which  paints  the  life  so  realistically.  .  .  . 
As  a  portrait  of  the  time  and  the  people  the  book  ought  to  live." 


W.    H  E  I N"  E  M  A  N  N,     Publisher, 
Bedford  Street,  Strand,  London 


G.   W.   APPLETON'S  NOVELS. 


A    TERRIBLE    LEGACY: 

A  Tale  of  the  South  Downs. 

"  One  of  the  most  amusing  novels  we  bave  ever  read.  The  author 
revels  in  a  good  character,  and  so  the  book  is  filled  with  grotesque 
oddities,  at  which  we  laugh  consuniedly.  ...  A  novelist  who  pos- 
sesses the  rare  gift  of  humour.  We  are  grateful  for  an  afternoon  of 
hearty  laughter.  Could  we  say  as  much  of  nine  books  out  of  ten  ?  " 
World. 

"  One  of  the  most  amusing  novels  we  have  ever  read.  Mr. 
Appleton  has  done  for  the  South  Downs  what  Mr.  Blackmore  has 
done  for  Exmoor." — St.  Stephen's  Review, 

"  It  is  not  in  respect  of  this  rare  gift  of  humour  that  I  alone  value 
the  author.  This  story  is  a  tale  of  the  South  Downs,  and  Mr. 
Appleton  has  the  power  of  depicting  in  words  the  changing  aspects 
of  nature  with  an  absolute  fidelity  to  truth.  Counties  differ,  as 
human  faces  diffei",  only  more  so.  Mr.  Appleton  has  made  the  South 
Downs  his  own  literary  property." — Vanity  Fair. 

"  The  reader  will  not  be  long  in  discovering  that  the  book  is  ihe 
work  of  a  good  and  clever  writer  of  no  mean  dramatic  powers — 
whether  in  point  of  conception  or  of  execution — with  much  drollery 
and  quaintness  at  command,  and  a  well-developed  faculty  of  dealing 
with  the  mysterious,  and  other  admirable  gifts." — Illustrated  London 
News. 

"  Laughter-moving  from  first  to  last.  Mr.  Appleton  has  written 
nothing  better  than  this." — Scotsman. 

"  The  readers  of  this  strange  romance  will  be  bound  to  confess 
that  the  author  has  held  them  captive."— Dai?'!/  Neivs. 

"  From  first  to  last  absorbs  the  attention  of  the  reader." — Morning 
Post. 

"  The  novel  is  a  novel  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  and  whoever 
reads  it  must  feel  refreshed  at  finding  he  is  perusing  altogether  a 
new  style  of  book." — Observer. 

"  The  novel  is  a  piece  of  sound  workmanship,  and  distinctly 
marked  off  from  the  ordinary  run.  It  is  worthy  of  its  author's  high 
reputation." — Weekly  Dispatch. 

"He  has  created  types  that  deserve  to  survive  and  acquire  as 
much  popularity  as  has  fallen  to  the  share  of  some  of  those  of  our 
most  famous  humorists." — Echo. 

"  One  of  the  most  original  works  of  fiction  we  have  met  with  for 
a  long  time,  as  different  from  the  usual  feeble  imitations  of  '  Ouida ' 
and  '  George  Eliot '  as  a  breezy  common  or  a  bright  spring  day  is 
from  the  faint,  perfume-laden  atmosphere  of  an  aristocratic  drawing- 
room." — London  Journal. 

"  Mr.  Appleton's  genius  seems  freer,  brighter,  and  more  effective 


2 
in  the  lighter  moods,  and  he  is  able  to  display  a  varied  cultivation 
without  the  s^lightest  obtrusion  of  learning." — Sunday  Times. 

"  '  A  Terrible  Legacy '  is  a  book  of  great  ability  and  power.  It  is 
a  curious  tribute  to  the  vast  vitality  of  Dickens'  genius  that  a  com- 
paratively new  and  an  able  writer  should  openly  take  him  for  a 
model.  Mr.  Appleton  is  not  a  mere  imitator  :  he  does  not  follow  in 
Dickens'  footsteps  by  appropriating  his  materials,  but  by  adopting 
his  point  of  view.  He  has  chosen  his  master  wisely,  for  his  own 
talent  is  similar  in  kind." — Neiv  York  Daily  Grapldc. 


FROZEN    HEARTS: 

A  Romance. 

"  There  is  so  much  power  and  pathos  in  the  narrative  as  to  give  it 
an  impress  of  I'ealism,  and  it  is,  on  the  whole,  one  that  most  people 
can  read  with  hearty  relish." — Scotsman. 

"  '  Frozen  Hearts  '  makes  high  pretensions,  and  justifies  them." — 
Westminster  Review. 

"  Good  melodrama,  such  as  this  is,  is  a  sure  panacea  against 
dulness,  and  implies  the  possession  of  that  vigour  and  elan  which 
every  novelist  should  have  about  him.  In  some  portions,  as  in  the 
exciting  description  of  the  barricade  fighting,  and  in  the  interview 
between  the  unjustly  slandered  heroine  and  the  mother  who  is 
breaking  her  own  heart  with  her  own  cruelty,  the  author  rises  to 
real  power." — Glohe. 

"  It  is  full  of  all  kinds  of  excitement,  and  in  some  places  reveals 
evidence  of  strong  dramatic  power." — Academy. 

"  The  story  is  new  and  striking.  .  .  .  Some  of  the  less  important 
characters  are  amusing,  and  the  light  comedy  scenes  are  above  the 
average.  .  .  .  Mr.  Appleton  possesses  the  knack,  so  useful  to  a 
novelist,  of  getting  to  his  point  without  any  superfluous  matter,  and 
is  always  original  and  generally  correct." — Sunday  Times. 

Victor  Hugo  writes  :  "  Je  trouve  grand  plaisir  a  la  lectui'e  de  ce 
livre.     Le  chapitre  snr  les  troubles  a  Paris  m'a  vivement  intei'esse." 


CATCHING    A    TARTAR: 

A  Novel. 

"  Mr.  Ajjpletou's  new  novel  is  in  every  way  the  equal,  if  it  be  not 
positively  the  superior  of  '  Frozen  Hearts,'  the  work  which  esta- 
blished his  just  claims  to  popularity.  It  is  a  capital  story,  Avritten 
in  a  most  natural  and  graceful  style.  The  plot  is  interesting,  and 
all  the  characters  are  distinct  and  realistic  creations  ;  some,  indeed, 
are  likely  to  'live,'  and  become  by  reason  of  their  quaint  sayings 
and  doings,  popular,  as  were  in  days  of  yore  some  of  Dickens'  and 
Thackeray's  personages.  Notably  is  this  the  case  with  John,  a  most 
original  and  amusing  character,  whose  pithy  sayings  provoke  many 
a  hearty  laugh.  The  intrigue  of  the  story  is  lively  and  intricate, 
but  so  skilfully  contrived  that  the  '  situations '  never  appear  forced 
or  unnatural.  '  Catching  a  Tartar '  is  worthy  of  much  praise,  and  is 
decidedly  one  of  the  cleverest  novels  we  have  read  or  reviewed  for 


a  long  time.  Mr.  Appleton  possesses  exceptional  talent  as  a  novelist, 
and,  above  all,  the  rare  quality  of  getting  to  his  point  \vithout  en- 
cumbering his  narrative  with  superfluous  matter.  He  is  always 
original,  and  never  doll  or  commonplace.  His  next  venture  in  the 
shape  of  a  novel  will  be  looked  forward  to  with  much  interest." — 
Morning  Post. 

"  Many  able  men  have  come  short  of  being  successful  novel 
writers,  simply  because  they  lacked  brightness  or  lightness  or 
smoothness  of  composition.  Mr.  Appleton  displays  these  qualities; 
his  book  is  therefore  easy  to  read.  ...  A  vein  of  humour  through- 
out, the  effect  of  which  is  heightened  by  many  a  touch  of  genuine 
pathos.  So  marked  an  advance  in  the  course  of  a  single  year  is 
desei'ving  of  note." — Athenxum. 

"  Mr.  Appleton  has  here  achieved  a  very  decided  success  in  the 
way  of  a  novel  of  mystery.  We  must,  if  we  ai-e  honest,  admit  that 
our  attention  has  been  ii-resistibly  enchained  throughout  the  three 
volumes.  The  book  is  one,  altogether,  to  be  read,  and  we  may  safely 
predict  that  no  one  who  masters  the  first  fifty  pages  will  be  the 
least  likely  to  leave  it  unfinished." — Graphic. 

"  The  story  is  contrived  with  great  ingenuity,  and  told  with  great 
skill  and  spirit.  .  .  .  Characters  firmly  and  sharply  drawn,  with  a 
good  deal  of  quiet  fun  and  humour." — Guardian. 

"  The  narrative  moves  on  briskly,  and  never  lets  the  attention  flag." 
— Spectator. 


JACK    ALLYN'S    FRIENDS: 

A  Novel. 

"  Mr.  Appleton  knows  how  to  write  novels  of  absorbing  and  un- 
flagging interest  and  of  remarkable  cleverness,  and  his  latest  effort, 
'  Jack  Allyn's  Friends,'  unmistakably  possesses  these  qualities. 
Much  of  the  peculiar  interest  of  the  story  is  derived  from  the 
subtlety  with  which  the  catastrophe  is  brought  about.  But  there  is 
also  a  brisk,  almost  boisterous  vitality  about  the  book — a  sort  of 
vigorous  simplicity,  resembling  that  of  Messrs.  Besant  and  Kice — 
with  abundant  humour  and  some  cleverly-managed  love-makino- 
under  difficulties.  With  all  these  characteristics,  '  Jack  Allvn's 
Friends '  is  a  novel  which  even  those  who  may  pronounce  its  con- 
demnation from  the  serene  heights  of  restheticism  will  read  and 
enjoy." — Scotsman. 

"  Mr.  Appleton  has  succeeded  in  writing  a  novel  which  combines 
the  merits  of  Miss  Braddon  with  those  of  Bret  Harte.  The  plot  is 
carefully  prepared,  and  the  interest  sustained  until  the  very  close 
of  the  third  volume.  The  stout  old  American,  Bill  Hooker,  reminds 
US  of  one  of  Bret  Harte's  Eocky  Mountain  heroes,  whose  hearts  are 
of  the  same  sterling  metal  as  the  ore  from  their  mines." — Graphic. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  about  the  interest  of  this  novel.  The  plot  is 
certainly  contrived  with  no  little  art.  The  secret  is  ingeniously 
kept.  Suspicion  is  skilfully  directed,  first  in  one  direction,  then  in 
another,  and  the  denouement  will  probably  be  unsuspected.  A 
decidedly  readable  novel." — Spectator. 


^^ 


\ 


% 


^ 


% 


1 


RETURN     CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT  11597 
TO— ^^      202  Main  Library 


LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

Renewals  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 

Books  may  be  Renewed  by  calling     642-3405. 


DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 

JAN  221992 

AUTO,  DISC. 

MAR  1  9  1992 

CiRpni  ATtL.1 

v^lO^^wtr^  f  'V-*! 

FORM  NO.  DD6 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


®s 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


BDQD3ba72b