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The Evil Eye; Or, The Black Spector

by William Carleton · English · Gutenberg #16004 · 812,222 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Evil Eye; Or, The Black Spector

Author: William Carleton

Illustrator: M. L. Flanery


        
Release date: June 7, 2005 [eBook #16004]
                Most recently updated: March 1, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/16004

Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EVIL EYE; OR, THE BLACK SPECTOR ***




Produced by David Widger





THE EVIL EYE;

OR, THE BLACK SPECTOR


By William Carleton





PREFACE.

There is very little to be said about this book in the shape of a
preface. The superstition of the Evil Eye is, and has been, one of the
most general that ever existed among men. It may puzzle philosophers to
ask why it prevails wherever mankind exists. There is not a country on
the face of the earth where a belief in the influence of the Evil Eye
does not prevail. In my own young days it was a settled dogma of belief.
I have reason to know, however, that, like other superstitions, it is
fast fading out of the public mind. Education and knowledge will soon
banish those idle and senseless superstitions: indeed, it is a very
difficult thing to account for their existence at all. I think some of
them have come down to us from the times of the Druids,--a class of men
whom, excepting what is called their human sacrifices, I respect. My
own opinion is, that what we term human sacrifices was nothing but their
habitual mode of executing criminals. Toland has written on the subject
and left us very little the wiser. Who could, after all, give us
information upon a subject which to us is only like a dream?

What first suggested the story of the Evil Eye to me was this: A man
named Case, who lives within a distance of about three or four hundred
yards of my residence, keeps a large dairy; he is the possessor of five
or six and twenty of the finest cows I ever saw, and he told me that
a man who was an enemy of his killed three of them by his overlooking
them,--that is to say, by the influence of the Evil Eye.

The opinion in Ireland of the Evil Eye is this: that a man or woman
possessing it may hold it harmless, unless there is some selfish design
or some spirit of vengeance to call it into operation. I was aware of
this, and I accordingly constructed my story upon that principle. I have
nothing further to add: the story itself will detail the rest.




CHAPTER I. Short and Preliminary.


In a certain part of Ireland, inside the borders of the county of
Waterford, lived two respectable families, named Lindsay and Goodwin,
the former being of Scotch descent. Their respective residences were not
more than three miles distant; and the intimacy that subsisted between
them was founded, for many years, upon mutual good-will and esteem,
with two exceptions only in one of the families, which the reader will
understand in the course of our narrative. Each ranked in the class
known as that of the middle gentry. These two neighbors--one of whom,
Mr. Lindsay, was a magistrate--were contented with their lot in life,
which was sufficiently respectable and independent to secure to them
that true happiness which is most frequently annexed to the middle
station. Lindsay was a man of a kind and liberal heart, easy and passive
in his nature, but with a good deal of sarcastic humor, yet neither
severe nor prejudiced, and, consequently, a popular magistrate as
well as a popular man. Goodwin might be said to possess a similar
disposition; but he was of a more quiet and unobtrusive character than
his cheerful neighbor. His mood of mind was placid and serene, and his
heart as tender and affectionate as ever beat in a human bosom. His
principal enjoyment lay in domestic life--in the society, in fact, of
his wife and one beautiful daughter, his only child, a girl of nineteen
when our tale opens. Lindsay's family consisted of one son and two
daughters; but his wife, who was a widow when he married her, had
another son by her first husband, who had been abroad almost since his
childhood, with a grand-uncle, whose intention was to provide for him,
being a man of great wealth and a bachelor.

We have already said that the two families were upon the most intimate
and friendly terms; but to this there was one exception in the person of
Mrs. Lindsay, whose natural disposition was impetuous, implacable, and
overbearing; equally destitute of domestic tenderness and good temper.
She was, in fact, a woman whom not even her own children, gifted as they
were with the best and most affectionate dispositions, could love as
children ought to love a parent. Utterly devoid of charity, she was
never known to bestow a kind act upon the poor or distressed, or a
kind word upon the absent. Vituperation and calumny were her constant
weapons; and one would imagine, by the frequency and bitterness with
which she wielded them, that she was in a state of perpetual warfare
with society. Such, indeed, was the case; but the evils which resulted
from her wanton and indefensible aggressions upon private character
almost uniformly recoiled upon her own head; for, as far as her name
was known, she was not only unpopular, but odious. Her husband was a man
naturally fond of peace and quietness in his own house and family and,
rather than occasion anything in the shape of domestic disturbance,
he continued to treat her intemperate authority sometimes with
indifference, sometimes with some sarcastic observation or other, and
occasionally with open and undisguised contempt. In some instances,
however, he departed from this apathetic line of conduct, and turned
upon her with a degree of asperity and violence that was as impetuous as
it was decisive. His reproaches were then general, broad, fearful; but
these were seldom resorted to unless when her temper had gone beyond
all reasonable limits of endurance, or in defence of the absent or
inoffensive. It mattered not, however, what the reason may have been,
they never failed to gain their object at the time; for the woman,
though mischievous and wicked, ultimately quailed, yet not without
resistance, before the exasperated resentment of her husband. Those
occasional victories, however, which he gained over her with reluctance,
never prevented her from treating him, in the ordinary business of life,
with a systematic exhibition of abuse and scorn. Much of this he bore,
as we have said; but whenever he chose to retort upon her with her own
weapons in their common and minor skirmishes, she found his sarcasm too
cool and biting for a temper so violent as hers, and the consequence
was, that nothing enraged her more than to see him amuse himself at her
expense.

This woman had a brother, who also lived in the same neighborhood, and
who, although so closely related to her by blood, was, nevertheless, as
different from her in both character and temper as good could be from
evil. He was wealthy and generous, free from everything like a worldly
spirit, and a warm but unostentatious benefactor to the poor, and
to such individuals as upon inquiry he found to be entitled to his
beneficence. His wife had, some years before, died of decline, which,
it seems, was hereditary in her family. He felt her death as a calamity
which depressed his heart to the uttermost depths of affliction, and
from which, indeed, he never recovered. All that remained to him after
her demise was a beautiful little girl, around whom his affections
gathered with a degree of tenderness that was rendered almost painful
by the apprehension of her loss. Agnes, from her eighth or ninth year,
began to manifest slight symptoms of the same fatal malady which had
carried away her mother. These attacks filled his heart with those
fearful forebodings, which, whilst they threw him into a state of terror
and alarm, at the same time rendered the love he bore her such as may
be imagined, but cannot be expressed. It is only when we feel the
probability of losing a beloved object that the heart awakens to a more
exquisite perception of its affections for it, and wonders, when the
painful symptoms of disease appear, why it was heretofore unconscious
of the full extent of its love. Such was the nature of Mr. Hamilton's
feelings for his daughter, whenever the short cough or hectic cheek
happened to make their appearance from time to time, and foreshadow,
as it were, the certainty of an early death; and then he should be
childless--a lonely man in the world, possessing a heart overflowing
with affection, and yet without an object on which he could lavish it,
as now, with happiness and delight. He looked, therefore, upon decline
as upon an approaching foe, and the father's heart became sentinel
for the welfare of his child, and watched every symptom of the dreaded
disease that threatened her, with a vigilance that never slept. Under
such circumstances we need not again assure our readers that his
parental tenderness for this beautiful girl--now his “only one,” as
he used to call her--was such as is rare even in the most affectionate
families; but in this case the slight and doubtful tenure which his
apprehensions told him he had of her existence raised his love of her
almost to idolatry. Still she improved in person, grace, and intellect;
and although an occasional shadow, as transient as that which passes
over and makes dim the flowery fields of May or April, darkened her
father's heart for a time, yet it passed away, and she danced on in the
light of youthful happiness, without a single trace of anxiety or care.
Her father's affection for her was not, however, confined to herself;
on the contrary, it passed to and embraced every object that was dear
to her--her favorite books, her favorite playthings, and her favorite
companions. Among the latter, without a single rival, stood her young
friend, Alice Goodwin, who was then about her own age. Never was the
love of sisters greater or more beautiful than that which knit the
innocent hearts of those two girls together. Their affections, in short,
were so dependent upon each other that separation and absence became a
source of anxiety and uneasiness to each. Neither of them had a sister,
and in the fervor of their attachment, they entered into a solemn
engagement that each of them should consider herself the sister of the
other. This innocent experiment of the heart--for such we must consider
it in these two sisterless girls--was at least rewarded by complete
success. A new affinity was superadded to friendship, and the force of
imagination completed what the heart begun.

Next to Agnes was Alice Goodwin awarded a place in Mr. Hamilton's
heart. 'Tis true he had nieces; but in consequence of the bitter and
exasperating temper of their mother, who was neither more nor less than
an incendiary among her relations, he had not spoken to her for
years; and this fast occasioned a comparative estrangement between
the families. Sometimes, however, her nieces and she visited, and were
always upon good terms; but Agnes's heart had been preoccupied; and even
if it had not, the heartless predictions of her aunt, who entertained
her with the cheering and consoling information that “she had death in
her face,” and that “she knew from the high color of her cheek that
she would soon follow her mother,” would have naturally estranged
the families. Now, of this apprehension, above all others, it was the
father's wish that Agnes should remain ignorant; and when she repeated
to him, with tears in her eyes, the merciless purport of her aunt's
observations, he replied, with a degree of calm resentment which was
unusual to him, “Agnes, my love, let not anything your aunt may say
alarm you in the least; she is no prophetess, my dear child. Your life,
as is that of all his creatures, is in the hands of God who gave it. I
know her avaricious and acrimonious disposition--her love of wealth, and
her anxiety to aggrandize her family. As it is, she will live to regret
the day she ever uttered those cruel words to you, my child. You shall
visit at your uncle's no more. Whenever the other members of her
family may please to come here, we shall receive them with kindness and
affection; but I will not suffer you to run the risk of listening to
such unfeeling prognostications in future.”

In the meantime her health continued in a state sufficiently
satisfactory to her father. It is true an occasional alarm was felt from
time to time, as a slight cold, accompanied with its hard and unusual
cough, happened to supervene; but in general it soon disappeared, and
in a brief space she became perfectly recovered, and free from every
symptom of the dreadful malady.

In this way the tenor of her pure and innocent life went on, until she
reached her sixteenth year. Never did a happier young creature enjoy
existence--never lived a being more worthy of happiness. Her inseparable
and bosom friend was Alice Goodwin, now her sister according to their
artless compact of love. They spent weeks and months alternately with
each other; but her father never permitted a day to pass without
seeing her, and every visit filled his happy spirit with more hopeful
anticipations.

At this period it occurred to him to have their portraits drawn, and
on hearing him mention this intention, their young hearts were ecstatic
with delight.

“But, papa,” said Agnes, “if you do I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Granted, Agnes, if it be possible.”

“O, quite possible, papa; it is to get both our portraits painted in
the same frame, for, do you know, I don't think I could feel happy if
Alice's portrait was separated from mine.”

“It shall be done, darling--it shall be done.”

And it was done, accordingly; for what father could refuse a request
founded upon an affection so tender and beautiful as theirs?

Agnes has now entered her seventeenth year--but how is this? Why does
her cheek begin to get alternately pale and red? And why does the
horizon of the father's heart begin to darken? Alas! it is so--the
spoiler is upon her at last. Appetite is gone--her spirits are gone,
unless in these occasional ebullitions of vivacity which resemble the
lightnings which flash from the cloud that is gathering over her. It
would be painful to dwell minutely upon the history of her illness--upon
her angelic patience and submission to the will of God, and upon the
affection, now consecrated by approaching death into something sacred,
which she exhibited to her father and Alice. The latter was never from
her during the progress of that mournful decline. The poor dying girl
found all the tenderest offices of love and friendship anticipated.
Except heaven she had scarcely anything to wish for. But who can even
imagine the hopeless agony of her father's soul? She had been the single
remaining plank which bore him through a troubled ocean to a calm and
delightful harbor; but now she is going down, leaving him to struggle,
weak and exhausted for a little, and then the same dark waves will cover
them both.

At length the dreadful hour arrived--the last slight spasm of death was
over, and her spotless soul passed into heaven from the bereaved arms
of her hopeless and distracted father, who was reduced by the depth and
wildness of despair to a state of agony which might wring compassion
from a demon.

On the morning of her interment, Alice, completely prostrated by excess
of grief and watching, was assisted to bed, being unable to accomplish
even the short distance to her father's house, and for nearly a
fortnight serious doubts were entertained of her recovery. Her
constitution, however, though not naturally strong, enabled her to
rally, and in three weeks' time she was barely able to go home to her
family. On the day following Mr. Hamilton called to see her--a task to
which, under the dreadful weight of his sorrow, he was scarcely equal.
He said he considered it, however, his duty, and he accordingly went.
His visit, too, was very short, nor had he much to say, and it was
well he had not; for he could by no exertion have summoned sufficient
fortitude for a lengthened conversation on a subject arising from the
loss of a child so deeply beloved.

“Alice,” said he, “I know the arrangement entered into between
you--and--and--”

Here he was overcome, and could not for a few minutes maintain
sufficient calmness to proceed, and poor Alice was almost as deeply
affected as himself. At last he strove to go on.

“You know,” he resumed, “the agreement I allude to. You were to be
sisters, and you were sisters. Well, my dear Alice, for her sake, as
well as for your own, and as she looked upon you in that affectionate
light, the contract between you, as far as it now can be done, shall be
maintained. Henceforth you are my daughter. I adopt you. All that
she was to have shall be yours, reverting, however, should you
die without-issue, to my nephew, Henry Woodward; and should he die
childless, to his brother, Charles Lindsay; and should he die without
offspring, then to my niece Maria. I have arranged it so, and have to
say that, except the hope of meeting my child in death, it is now the
only consolation left me. I am, I know, fulfilling her wishes; and, my
dear Alice, you will relieve my heart--my broken heart--by accepting
it.”

“O, would to God,” replied Alice, sobbing bitterly, “that I could give a
thousand times as much to have our beloved Agnes back again! I have now
no sister! Alas! alas! I have now no sister!”

“Ah, my child,” he replied, “for now I will call you so, your grief,
though deep and poignant, will pass away in time, but mine will abide
with me whilst I stay here. That period, however, will not be long; the
prop of my existence, the source of my happiness, is gone; and I will
never know what happiness is until I rejoin her and her blessed mother.
Good-by, my daughter; I will have neither reply nor remonstrance, nor
will I be moved by any argument from this my resolution.”

He then passed out of the house, entered his carriage with some
difficulty, and proceeded home with a heart considerably relieved by
what he had done.

It was in vain that Alice and her father did subsequently remonstrate
with him upon the subject. He refused to listen to them, and said, his
determination was immovable.

“But,” he added, “if it be any satisfaction to you to know it, I have
not forgotten my relations, to whom I have left the legacies originally
intended for them. I would have left it directly to Henry Woodward, were
it not that his grasping mother sent him to another relation, from whom
she calculated that he might have larger expectations; and I hope he
may realize them. At all events, my relatives will find themselves in
exactly the same position as if our beloved Agnes had lived.”

Mr. Hamilton, then advanced in years--for Agnes might be termed the
child of his old age--did not survive her death twelve months. That
afflicting event fairly broke him down. Death, however, to him had no
terrors, because he had nothing to detain him here. On the contrary,
he looked to it only as a release from sorrow; an event that would soon
wipe away all tears from his eyes, draw the sting of affliction from
his heart, and restore him once more to his beloved Agnes and her dear
mother. He looked forward only to close his eyes against the world and
sleep with them--and so he did.

When his will was opened, the astonishment and dismay of his
relations may be! easily imagined, as well as the bitterness of
their disappointment. The bequeathal of the bulk of his property to
a stranger, who I could urge no claim of consanguinity upon him,
absolutely astonished them; and their resentment at his caprice--or
rather what they termed his dotage--was not only deep, but loud. To say
the truth, such an unexpected demise of property was strongly calculated
to try their temper. After the death of Agnes--an event which filled the
unfeeling and worldly heart of her aunt with delight--they made many a
domestic calculation, and held many a family council as to the mode in
which their uncle's property might be distributed among them, and many
anticipations were the result, because there was none in the usual
descent of property to inherit it but themselves. Now, in all this, they
acted very naturally--just, perhaps, as you or I, gentle reader, would
act if placed in similar circumstances, and sustained by the same
expectations.

In the meantime matters were not likely to rest in quiet. Murmurs went
abroad, hints were given, and broader assertions advanced, that the old
man had not been capable of making a will, and that his mind had been so
completely disordered and prostrated by excessive grief for the loss of
his daughter, that he became the dupe and victim of undue influence in
the person of a selfish and artful girl--that artful girl being no other
than Alice Goodwin, aided and abetted by her family. Every circumstance,
no matter how trivial, that could be raked up and collected, was now
brought together, and stamped with a character of significance, in order
to establish his dotage and their fraud. It is not necessary to dwell
upon this. In due time the matter came to a trial, for the will had
been disputed, and, after a patient hearing, its validity was completely
established, and all the hopes and expectations of the Lindsays blown
into air.

In the meantime, and while the suit was pending, the conduct of Alice
was both generous and disinterested. She pressed her parents to allow
her, under the peculiar circumstances of the case, to renounce the
bequest, inasmuch as she thought that Mr. Hamilton's relatives had a
stronger and prior claim. This, however, they peremptorily refused to
do.

“I care not for money,” said her father, “nor have I much to spare;
but you must consider, my dear Alice, that the act upon the part of Mr.
Hamilton was a spontaneous demise of his own property, as a reward to
you on behalf of his daughter, for the affection which you bore her, and
which subsisted between you. You were her nurse, her friend, her sister;
you tended her night and day during her long illness, even to the injury
of your health, and almost at the risk of your very life. Suppose,
for instance, that Mr. Hamilton had had male heirs; in that case, the
Lindsays would have been just as they are, perhaps not so well; for he
might not have left them even a legacy. Then, they unjustly tax us with
fraud, circumvention, and the practice of undue influence; and, indeed,
have endeavored to stamp an indelible stain upon your character and
honor. Every man, my dear, as the proverb has it, is at liberty to
do what he pleases with his own, according to his free will, and a
reasonable disposition. Let me hear no more of this, then, but enjoy
with gratitude that which God and your kind friend have bestowed upon
you.”

We need not assure our readers that the Lindsays henceforth were
influenced by an unfriendly feeling toward the Goodwins, and that
all intercourse between the families terminated. On the part of Mrs.
Lindsay, this degenerated into a spirit of the most intense hatred and
malignity. To this enmity, however, there were exceptions in the family,
and strong ones, too, as the reader will perceive in the course of the
story.

Old Lindsay himself, although he mentioned the Goodwins with moderation,
could not help feeling strongly and bitterly the loss of property which
his children had sustained, owing to this unexpected disposition of it
by their uncle. Here, then, were two families who had lived in mutual
good-will and intimacy, now placed fronting each other in a spirit of
hostility. The Goodwins felt indignant that their motives should
be misinterpreted by what they considered deliberate falsehood and
misrepresentation; and the Lindsays could not look in silence upon
the property which they thought ought to be theirs, transferred to the
possession of strangers, who had wheedled a dotard to make a will
in their favor. Such, however, in thousands of instances, are the
consequences of the

     _“Opes irritamenta malorum.”_

The above facts, in connection with these two families, and the future
incidents of our narrative, we have deemed it necessary, for I the
better understanding of what follows, to place in a preliminary sketch
before our readers.




CHAPTER II. A Murderer's Wake and the Arrival of a Stranger


It is the month of June, and the sun has gone down amidst a mass of
those red and angry clouds which prognosticate a night of storm and
tempest. The air is felt to be oppressive and sultry, and the whole
sky is overshadowed with gloom. On such a night the spirit sinks,
cheerfulness abandons the heart, and an indefinable anxiety depresses
it. This impression is not peculiar to man, who, on such occasions,
is only subject to the same instinctive apprehension which is known
to influence the irrational animals. The clouds are gathering in black
masses; but there is, nevertheless, no opening between them through
which the sky is visible. The gloom is unbroken, and so is the silence;
and a person might imagine that the great operations of Nature had been
suspended and stood still. The outlying cattle betake them to shelter,
and the very dogs, with a subdued and timid bark, seek the hearth, and,
with ears and tail hanging in terror, lay themselves down upon it as if
to ask protection from man. On such a night as this we will request the
reader to follow us toward a district that trenches upon the foot of
a dark mountain, from whose precipitous sides masses of gray rock,
apparently embedded in heath and fern, protrude themselves in uncouth
and gigantic shapes. 'Tis true they were not then visible; but we wish
the reader to understand the character of the whole scenery through
which we pass. We diverge from the highway into a mountain road, which
resembles the body of a serpent when in motion, going literally up one
elevation, and down another. To the right, deep glens, gullies, and
ravines; but the darkness with which they are now filled is thick and
impervious to the eye, and nothing breaks the silence about us but the
rush of the mountain torrent over some jutting precipice below us. To
the left all is gloom, as it would be even were there light to guide the
sight, because on that side spreads a black, interminable moor. As it is
we can see nothing; yet as we get along we find that we are not alone.
Voices reach our ears; but they are not, as usual, the voices of mirth
and laughter. These which we hear--and they are not far from us--are
grave and serious; the utterance thick and low, as if those from whom
they proceed were expressing a sense of sympathy or horror. We have now
advanced up this rugged path about half a mile from the highway we
have mentioned, and discovered a light which will guide us to our
destination. As we approach the house the people are increasing in point
of numbers; but still their conversation is marked by the same strange
and peculiar character. Perhaps the solemn depth of their voices gains
something by the ominous aspect of the sky; but, be this as it may, the
feeling which it occasions fills one with a different and distinct sense
of discomfort.

We ourselves feel it, and it is not surprising; for, along this wild and
rugged path of darkness, we are conducting the reader to the wake of a
murderer. We have now arrived within fifty yards of the house, which,
however, we cannot see, for nothing but a solitary light is visible.
But, lo! a flash of lightning! and there for a moment is the whole
rugged and savage scenery revealed. The huge, pointed mountains, the
dreary wastes, the wild, still glens, the naked hills of granite, and
the tremendous piles of rocks, ready, one would think, to crash down
from the positions where they seem to hang, if only assailed by a strong
gale of wind--these objects, we say, were fearful and startling in
themselves; but the sensations which they produced were nothing in
comparison with the sight of an unpainted deal coffin which stood
near the door, against the side wall of the house. The appearance of a
coffin, but especially at night, is one that casts a deep shadow over
the spirits, because it is associated with death, of which it is the
melancholy and depressing exponent; but to look upon it by such an awful
though transient light as that which proceeds from the angry fires of
heaven, and to reflect upon the terrible associations of blood and
crime which mingle themselves with that of a murderer, is a dreadful but
wholesome homily to the heart. We now enter the house of death, where
the reader must suppose himself to be present, and shall go on to
describe the scene which presents itself.

On entering, we found the house nearly crowded; but we could observe
that there were very few of the young and light-hearted present, and
scarcely any females, unless those who were related to the family of the
deceased, or to himself. The house was low and long, and the kitchen
in which they had laid him out was spacious, but badly furnished.
Altogether its destitution was calculated to deepen the sense of awe
which impressed those who had come to spend the night with the miserable
widow and wailing orphans of the murderer.

The unfortunate man had been executed that morning after having
acknowledged his crime, and, as the laws of that period with respect to
the interment of the convicted dead were not so strict as they are at
present, the body was restored to his friends, in order that they might
bury it when and where they wished. The crime of the unhappy man was
deep, and so was that which occasioned it. His daughter, a young and
beautiful girl, had been seduced by a gentleman in the neighborhood who
was unmarried; and that act of guilt and weakness on her part was the
first act that ever brought shame upon the family. All the terrible
passions of the father's heart leaped into action at the rain of his
child, and the disgrace which it entailed upon his name. The fury of
domestic affection stimulated his heart, and blazed in his brain even
to madness. His daughter was obliged to fly with her infant and
conceal herself from his vengeance, though the unhappy girl, until the
occurrence of that woful calamity, had been the solace and the sunshine
of his life. The guilty seducer, however, was not doomed to escape the
penalty of his crime. Morrissey--for that was the poor man's name--cared
not for law; whether it was to recompense him for the degradation of
his daughter, or to punish him for inflicting the vengeance of outraged
nature upon the author of her ruin. What compensation could satisfy his
heart for the infamy entailed upon her and him? what paltry damages from
a jury could efface her shame or restore her innocence? Then, the man
was poor, and to the poor, under such circumstances, there exists no
law, and, consequently, no redress. He strove to picture to himself his
beautiful and innocent child; but he could not bear to bring the image
of her early and guiltless life near him. The injury was irreparable,
and could only be atoned for by the blood of the destroyer. He could
have seen her borne shameless and unpolluted to the grave, with the
deep, but natural, sorrow of a father; he could have lived with her in
destitution and misery; he could have begged with her through a hard and
harsh world; he could have seen her pine in want; moan upon the bed of
sickness; nay, more, he could have seen her spirit pass, as it were,
to the God who gave it, so long as that spirit was guiltless, and her
humble name without spot or stain; yes, he could have witnessed and
borne all this, and the blessed memory of her virtues would have
consoled him in his bereavement and his sorrow. But to reflect that she
was trampled down into guilt and infamy by the foot of the licentious
libertine, was an event that cried for blood; and blood he had, for he
murdered the seducer, and that with an insatiable rapacity of revenge
that was terrible. He literally battered the head of his victim out of
all shape, and left him a dead and worthless mass of inanimate matter.
The crime, though desperate, was openly committed, and there were
sufficient witnesses at his trial to make it a short one. On that
morning, neither arrest, nor friar, nor chaplain, nor jailer, nor
sheriff could wring from him one single expression of regret or
repentance for what he had done. The only reply he made them was
this--“Don't trouble me; I knew what my fate was to be, and will die
with satisfaction.”

After cutting him down, his body, as we have said, was delivered to his
friends, who, having wrapped it in a quilt, conveyed it on a common car
to his own house, where he received the usual ablutions and offices of
death, and was composed upon his own bed into that attitude of the grave
which will never change.

The house was nearly filled with grave and aged people, whose
conversation was low, and impressed with solemnity, that originated from
the painful and melancholy spirit of the event that had that morning
taken place. A deal table was set lengthwise on the floor; on this were
candles, pipes, and plates of cut tobacco. In the usual cases of death
among the poor, the bed on which the corpse is stretched is festooned
with white sheets, borrowed for the occasion from the wealthier
neighbors. Here, however, there was nothing of the kind. The
associations connected with murder were too appalling and terrible
to place the rites required, either for the wake or funeral of the
murderer, within the ordinary claims of humanity for these offices
of civility to which we have alluded. In this instance none of the
neighbors would lend sheets for what they considered an unholy purpose;
the bed, therefore, on which the body lay had nothing to ornament it. A
plain drugget quilt was his only covering, but he did not feel the want
of a better.

It was not the first time I had ever seen a corpse, but it was the
first time I had ever seen that of a murderer. I looked upon it with an
impression which it is difficult, if not impossible, to describe. I felt
my nerves tingle, and my heart palpitate. To a young man, fresh, and
filled with the light-hearted humanity of youth, approximation to such
an object as then lay before me is a singular trial of feeling, and a
painful test of moral courage. The sight, however, and the reflections
connected with it, rendered a long contemplation of it impossible, and,
besides, I had other objects to engage my attention. I now began to
observe the friends and immediate connections of the deceased. In all,
there were only seven or eight women, including his wife. There were
four boys and no daughters; for, alas! I forgot to inform the reader
that his fallen daughter was his only one; a fact which, notwithstanding
his guilt, must surely stir up the elements of our humanity in
mitigation of his madness.

This house of mourning was, indeed, a strange, a solemn, and a peculiar
one. The women sat near the bed upon stools, and such other seats as
they had prepared. The wife and his two sisters were rocking themselves
to and fro, as is the custom when manifesting profound sorrow in
Irish wake-houses; the other women talked to each other in a low tone,
amounting almost to a whisper. Their conduct was marked, in fact, by a
grave and mysterious monotony; but after a little reflection, it soon
became painfully intelligible. Here was shame, as well as guilt and
sorrow--here was shame endeavoring to restrain sorrow; and hence the
silence, and the struggle between them which it occasioned. The wife
from time to time turned her heavy eyes upon the countenance of the
corpse; and after the first sensations of awe had departed from me, I
ventured to look upon it with a purpose of discovering in its features
the lineaments of guilt. Owing to the nature of his death, that collapse
which causes the flesh to shrink almost immediately after the spirit has
departed was not visible here. The face was rather full and livid, but
the expression was not such as penitence or a conviction of crime
could be supposed to have left behind it. On the contrary, the whole
countenance had somewhat of a placid look, and the general contour was
unquestionably that of affection and benevolence.

It was easy, however, to perceive that this agonizing restraint upon
the feelings of that loving wife could not last long, and that the task
which the poor woman was endeavoring to perform in deference to the
conventional opinions of society was beyond her strength. Hers, indeed,
was not a common nor an undivided sorrow; for, alas, she had not only
the loss of her kind husband and his ignominious death to distract her,
but the shame and degradation of their only daughter which occasioned
it; and what a trial was that for a single heart! From time to time a
deep back-drawing sob would proceed from her lips, and the eye was again
fixed upon the still and unconscious features of her husband. At length
the chord was touched, and the heart of the wife and mother could
restrain itself no longer. The children had been for some time
whispering together, evidently endeavoring to keep the youngest of them
still; but they found it impossible--he must go to awaken his daddy.
This was too much for them, and the poor things burst out into an
uncontrollable wail of sorrow. The conversation among the spectators was
immediately hushed; but the mother started to her feet, and turning to
the bed, bent over it, and raised a cry of agony such as I never heard
nor hope ever to hear again. She clapped her hands, and rocking herself
up and down over him, gave vent to her accumulated grief, which now
rushed like a torrent that had been dammed up and overcome its barriers,
from her heart.

“O Harry,” said she in Irish--but we translate it--“O Harry, the husband
of the kind heart, the loving father, and the good man! O Harry, Harry,
and is it come to this with you and me and our childre! They may say
what they will, but you're not a murderer. It was your love for our
unfortunate Nannie that made you do what you did. O, what was the world
to you without her! Wasn't she the light of your eyes, and the sweet
pulse of your loving heart! And did ever a girl love a father as she
loved you, till the destroyer came across her--ay, the destroyer that
left us as we now are, sunk in sorrow and misery that will never end in
this world more! And now, what is she, and what has the destroyer made
her? O, when I think of how you sought after her you loved as you did,
to take her life, and when I think of how she that loved you as she
did was forced to fly from the hand that would pluck out your own heart
sooner than injure a hair of her head--so long as she was innocent--O,
when I think of all this, and look upon you lying there now, and all for
the love you bore her, how can my heart bear it, and how can I live. O,
the destroyer, the villain! the devil! what has he wrought upon us!
But, thank God, he is punished--the father's love punished him. They are
liars! you are no murderer. The mother's heart within me tells me that
you did what was right--you acted like a man, my husband. God bless
you, and make your soul happy for its love to Nannie. I'll kiss you,
Harry--I'll kiss you, my heart's treasure, for your noble deed--but O
Harry, you don't know the lips of sorrow that kiss! you now. Sure they
are the lips of your own Rose, that gave her young heart to you, and was
happy for it. Don't feel ashamed, Harry; it's a good man's case to die
the death you did, and be at rest, as I hope you are, for you are not a
murderer; and if you are, it is only in the eye of the law, and it was
your love for Nannie that did it.”

This woeful dirge of the mother's heart, and the wife's sorrow, had
almost every eye in tears; and, indeed, it was impossible that the
sympathy for her should not be deep and general. They all knew the
excellence and mildness of her husband's character, and that every word
she uttered concerning him was truth.

In Irish wakehouses, it is to be observed, the door is never closed. The
heat of the house, and the crowding of the neighbors to it, render it
necessary that it should be open; but independently of this, we believe
it a general custom, as it is also to keep it so during meals. This last
arises from the spirit of hospitality peculiar to the Irish people.

When his wife had uttered the words “you are no murderer,” a young and
beautiful girl entered the house in sufficient time to have heard them
distinctly. She was tall, her shape was of the finest symmetry, her
features, in spite of the distraction which, at first glance, was
legible in them, were absolutely fascinating. They all knew her well;
but the moment she made her appearance, the conversation, and those
expressions of sympathy which were passing from one to another, were
instantly checked; and nothing now was felt but compassion for the
terrible ordeal that they knew was before her mother. She rushed up to
where her mother had sat down, her eyes flashing, and her long brown
hair floating about her white shoulders, which were but scantily
covered.

“You talk of a murderer, mother,” she exclaimed. “You talk of a
murderer, do you? But if murder has been committed, as it has, I am the
murderer. Keep back now, let me look upon my innocent father--upon that
father that I have murdered.”

She approached the bed on which he lay, her eyes still flashing, and her
bosom panting, and there she stood gazing upon his features for about
two minutes.

The silence of the corpse before them was not deeper than that which her
unexpected presence occasioned. There she stood gazing on the dead body
of her father, evidently torn by the pangs of agony and remorse, her
hands clenching and opening by turns, her wild and unwinking eyes
riveted upon those moveless features, which his love for her had so
often lit up with happiness and pride. Her mother, who was alarmed,
shocked, stunned, gazed upon her, but could not speak. At length she
herself broke the silence.

“Mother,” said she, “I came to see my father, for I know he won't strike
me now, and he never did. O, no, because I ran away from him and from
all of you, but not till after I had deserved it; before that I was
safe. Mother, didn't my father love me once better than his own life?
I think he did. O, yes, and I returned it by murdering him--by sending
him--that father there that loved me so well--by--by sending him to the
hangman--to a death of disgrace and shame. That's what his own Nannie,
as he used to call me, did for him. But no shame---no guilt to you,
father; the shame and the guilt are your own Nannie's, and that's the
only comfort I have; for you're happy, what I will never be, either in
this world or the next. You are now in heaven; but you will never see
your own Nannie there.”

The recollections caused by her appearance, and the heart-rending
language she used, touched her mother's heart, now softened by her
sufferings into pity for her affliction, if not into a portion of the
former affection which she bore her.

“O Nannie, Nannie!” said she, now weeping bitterly upon a fresh sorrow,
“don't talk that way--don't, don't; you have repentance to turn to; and
for what you've done, God will yet forgive you, and so will your mother.
It was a great crime in you; but God can forgive the greatest, if his
own creatures will turn to him with sorrow for what they've done.”

She never once turned her eyes upon her mother, nor raised them for a
moment from her father's face. In fact, she did not seem to have heard
a single syllable she said, and this was evident from the wild but
affecting abstractedness of her manner.

“Mother!” she exclaimed, “that man they say is a murderer, and yet I am
not worthy to touch him. Ah! I'm alone now--altogether alone, and he--he
that loved me, too, was taken away from me by a cruel death--ay, a cruel
death; for it was barbarous to kill him as if he was a wild beast--ay,
and without one moment's notice, with all his sins upon his head. He
is gone--he is gone; and there lies the man that murdered him--there
he lies, the sinner; curse upon his hand of blood that took him I loved
from me! O, my heart's breakin' and my brain is boilin'! What will I do?
Where will I go? Am I mad? Father, my curse upon you for your deed of
blood! I never thought I'd live to curse you; but you don't hear me,
nor know what I suffer. Shame! disgrace--ay, and I'd bear it all for his
sake that you plunged, like a murderer, as you were, into eternity. How
does any of you know what it is to love as I did? or what it is to lose
the man you love by a death so cruel? And this hair that he praised so
much, who will praise it or admire it now, when he is gone? Let it go,
too, then. I'll not keep it on me--I'll tear it off--off!”

Her paroxysm had now risen to a degree of fury that fell little, if
anything, short of insanity--temporary insanity it certainly was.
She tore her beautiful hair from her head in handfuls, and would have
proceeded to still greater lengths, when she was seized by some of those
present, in order to restrain her violence. On finding that she was held
fast, she looked at them with blazing eyes, and struggled to set herself
free; but on finding her efforts vain, she panted deeply three or four
times, threw back her head, and fell into a fit that, from its violence,
resembled epilepsy. After a lapse of ten minutes or so, the spasmodic
action, having probably wasted her physical strength, ceased, and she
lay in a quiet trance; so quiet, indeed, that it might have passed for
death, were it not for the deep expression of pain and suffering which
lay upon her face, and betrayed the fury of the moral tempest which
swept through her heart and brain. All the mother's grief now was
hushed--all the faculties of her soul were now concentrated on her
daughter, and absorbed by the intense anxiety she felt for her recovery.
She sat behind the poor girl, and drew her body back so that her head
rested on her bosom, to which she pressed her, kissing her passive lips
with streaming eyes.

“O, darling Nannie!” she exclaimed, “strive and rouse yourself; it is
your loving mother that asks you. Waken up, poor misled and heart-broken
girl, waken up; I forgive you all your errors. O, avillish machree
(sweetness of my heart), don't you hear that it is your mother's voice
that's spakin' to you!”

She was still, however, insensible; and her little brothers were all in
tears about her.

“O mother!” said the oldest, sobbing, “is Nannie dead too? When she went
away from us you bid us not to cry, that she would soon come back; and
now she has only come back to die. Nannie, I'm your own little Frank;
won't you hear me I Nannie, will you never wash my face of a Sunday
morning more? will you never comb down my hair, put the pin in my shirt
collar, and kiss me, as you used to do before we went to Mass together?”

The poor mother was so much overcome by this artless allusion to her
innocent life, involving, as it did, such a manifestation of affection,
that she wept until fairly exhausted, after which she turned her eyes up
to heaven and exclaimed, whilst her daughter's inanimate body still lay
in her arms,

“O Lord of mercy, will you not look down with pity and compassion on me
this night!”

In the course of about ten minutes after this her daughter's eyes began
to fill with those involuntary tears which betoken in females recovery
from a fit; they streamed quietly, but in torrents, down her cheek.
She gave a deep sigh, opened her eyes, looked around her, first with
astonishment, and then toward the bed with a start of horror.

“Where am I?” said she.

“You are with me, darlin',” replied the mother, kissing her lips, and
whispering, “Nannie, I forgive you--I forgive you; and whisper, your
father did before he went to death.”

She smiled faintly and sorrowfully in her mother's face, and said,
“Mother, I didn't know that.” After which she got up, and proceeding to
the bed, she fell upon his body, kissed his lips, and indulged in a wild
and heart-breaking wail of grief. This evidently afforded her relief,
for she now became more calm and collected.

“Mother,” said she, “I must go.”

“Why, sure you won't leave us, Nannie?” replied the other with
affectionate alarm.

“O, I must go,” she repeated; “bring me the children till I see them
once--Frank first.”

The mother accordingly brought them to her, one by one, when she stooped
down and kissed them in turn, not without bitter tears, whilst they,
poor things, were all in an uproar of sorrow. She then approached her
mother, threw herself in her arms, and again wept wildly for a time, as
did that afflicted mother along with her.

“Mother, farewell,” said she at length--“farewell; think of me when I am
far away--think of your unfortunate Nannie, and let every one that hears
of my misfortune think of all the misery and all the crime that may come
from one false and unguarded step.”

“O, Nannie darling,” replied her mother, “don't desert us now; sure you
wouldn't desert your mother now, Nannie?”

“If my life could make you easy or happy, mother, I could give it for
your sake, worthless now and unhappy as it is; but I am going to a far
country, where my shame and the misfortunes I have caused will never
be known. I must go, for if I lived here, my disgrace would always be
before you and myself; then I would soon die, and I am not yet fit for
death.”

With these words the unhappy girl passed out of the house, and was
never after that night seen or heard of, but once, in that part of the
country.

In the meantime that most pitiable mother, whose afflicted heart could
only alternate from one piercing sorrow to another, sat down once more,
and poured forth a torrent of grief for her unhappy daughter, whom she
feared, she would never see again.

Those who were present, now that the distressing scene which we have
attempted to describe was over, began to chat together with more
freedom.

“Tom Kennedy,” said one of them, accosting a good-natured young fellow,
with a clear, pleasant eye, “how are all your family at Beech Grove?
Ould Goodwin and his pretty daughter ought to feel themselves in good
spirits after gaining the lawsuit in the case of Mr. Hamilton's will.
They bate the Lindsays all to sticks.”

“And why not,” replied Kennedy; “who had a betther right to dispose of
his property than the man that owned it? and, indeed, if any one livin'
desarved it from another, Miss Alice did from him. She nearly brought
herself to death's door, in attending upon and nursing her sister, as
she called poor Miss Agnes; and, as for her grief at her death, I never
saw anything like it, except “--he added, looking at the unfortunate
widow--“where there was blood relationship.”

“Well, upon my sowl,” observed another, “I can't blame the Lindsays for
feeling so bittherly about it as they do. May I never see yestherday, if
a brother of mine had property, and left it to a stranger instead of to
his own--that is to say, my childre--I'd take it for granted that he was
fizzen down stairs for the same. It was a shame for the ould sinner to
scorn his own relations for a stranger.”

“Well,” said another, “one thing is clear--that since he did blink them
about the property, it couldn't get into betther hands. Your master,
Tom, is the crame of a good landlord, as far as his property goes, and
much good may it do him and his! I'll go bail that, as far as Miss Alice
herself is consarned, many a hungry mouth, will be filled many a naked
back covered, and many a heavy heart made light through the manes of
it.”

“Faith,” said a third spokesman, “and that wouldn't be the case if that
skinflint barge of Lindsay's had got it in her clutches. At any rate,
it's a shame for her and them to abuse the Goodwins as they do. If ould
Hamilton left it to them surely it wasn't their fault.”

“Never mind,” said another, “I'll lay a wager that Mrs. Lindsay's son--I
mane the step-son that's now abroad with the uncle---will be sent for,
and a marriage will follow between him and Miss Goodwin.”

“It maybe so,” replied Tom, “but it's not very probable. I know the man
that's likely to walk into the property, and well worthy he is of it.”

“Come, Tom, let us hear who is the lucky youth?”

“Family saicrets,” replied Tom, “is not to be rovaled. All I can say is,
that he is a true gentleman. Give me another blast o' the pipe, for I
must go home.”

Tom, who was servant to Mr. Goodwin, having now taken his “blast,”
 wished them good-night; but before he went he took the sorrowing widow's
cold and passive hand in his, and said, whilst the tears stood in his
eyes,

“May God in heaven pity you and support your heart, for you are the
sorely tried woman this miserable night!”

He then bent his steps to Beech Grove, his master's residence, the hour
being between twelve and one o'clock.

The night, as we have already said, had been calm, but gloomy and
oppressive. Now, however, the wind had sprung up, and, by the time
Kennedy commenced his journey home, it was not only tempestuous but
increasing in strength and fury every moment. This, however, was not
all;--the rain came down in torrents, and was battered against his
person with such force that in a few moments he was drenched to the
skin. So far, it was wind and rain--dreadful and tempestuous as they
were. The storm, however, was only half opened. Distant flashes of
lightning and sullen growls of thunder proceeded from the cloud masses
to the right, but it was obvious that the thunderings above them were
only commencing their deep and terrible pealings. In a short time they
increased in violence and fury, and resembled, in fact, a West Indian
hurricane more than those storms which are peculiar to our milder
climates. The tempest-voice of the wind was now in dreadful accordance!
with its power. Poor Kennedy, who fortunately knew every step of the
rugged road along which he struggled and staggered, was frequently
obliged to crouch himself and hold by the projecting crags about him,
lest the strength of the blast might hurl him over the rocky precipices
by the edges of which the road went. With great difficulty, however, and
not less danger, he succeeded in getting into the open highway below,
and into a thickly inhabited country. Here a new scene of terror and
confusion awaited him. The whole neighborhood around him were up and in
alarm. The shoutings of men, the screams of women and children, all in
a state of the utmost dread and consternation, pierced his ears, even
through the united rage and roaring of the wind and thunder. The
people had left their houses, as they usually do in such cases, from an
apprehension that if they remained in them they might be buried in their
ruins. Some had got ladders, and attempted, at the risk of their lives,
to secure the thatch upon the roofs by placing flat stones, sods, and
such other materials, as by their weight, might keep it from being borne
off like dust upon the wings of the tempest. Their voices, and! screams,
and lamentations, in accordance, as they were, with the uproar of the
elements, added a new feature of terror to this dreadful tumult. The
lightnings now became more vivid and frequent, and the pealing of the
thunder so loud and near, that he felt his very ears stunned by it.
Every cloud, as the lightnings flashed from it, seemed to open, and to
disclose, as it were, a furnace of blazing fire within its black
and awful shroud. The whole country around, with all its terrified
population running about in confusion and dismay, were for the moment
made as clear and distinct to the eye as if it were noonday, with this
difference, that the scene borrowed from the red and sheeted flashes a
wild and spectral character which the light of day never gives. In fact,
the human figures, as they ran hurriedly to and fro, resembled those
images which present themselves to the imagination in some frightful
dream. Nay, the very cattle in the fields could be seen, in those
flashing glimpses, huddled up together in some sheltered corner, and
cowering with terror at this awful uproar of the elements. It is a very
strange, but still a well-known fact, that neither man nor beast wishes
to be alone during a thunder-storm. Contiguity to one's fellow creatures
seems, by some unaccountable instinct, to lessen the apprehension of
danger to one individual when it is likely to be shared by many,
a feeling which makes the coward in the field of battle fight as
courageously as the man who is naturally brave.

The tempest had not yet diminished any of its power; so far from that,
it seemed as if a night-battle of artillery was going on, and raging
still with more violence in the clouds. Thatch, doors of houses, glass,
and almost everything light that the winds could seize upon, were flying
in different directions through the air; and as Kennedy now staggered
along the main road, he had to pass through a grove of oaks, beeches,
and immense ash trees that stretched on each side for a considerable
distance. The noises here were new to him, and on that account the more
frightful. The groanings of the huge trees, and the shrieking of their
huge branches as they were crushed against each other, sounded in
his ears like the supernatural voices of demons, exulting at their
participation in the terrors of the storm. His impression now was that
some guilty sorcerer had raised the author of evil, and being unable to
lay him, the latter was careering in vengeance over the earth until he
should be appeased by the life of some devoted victim--for such, when a
storm more than usually destructive and powerful arises, is the general
superstition of the people--at least it was so among the ignorant in our
early youth.

In all thunder-storms there appears to be a regular gradation--a
beginning, a middle, and an end. They commence first with a noise
resembling the crackling of a file of musketry where the fire runs along
the line, man after man; then they increase, and go on deepening their
terrors until one stunning and tremendous burst takes place, which is
the acme of the tempest. After this its power gradually diminishes
in the same way as it increased--the peals become less loud and less
frequent, the lightning feebler and less brilliant, until at length it
seems to take another course, and after a few exhausted volleys it dies
away with a hoarse grumble in the distance.

Still it thundered and thundered terribly; nor had the sweep of
the wind-tempest yet lost any of its fury. At this moment Kennedy
discovered, by a succession of those flashes that were lighting the
country around him, a tall young female without cloak or bonnet, her
long hair sometimes streaming in the wind, and sometimes blown up in
confusion over her head. She was proceeding at a tottering but eager
pace, evidently under the influence of wildness and distraction, or
rather as if she felt there was something either mortal or spectral in
pursuit of her. He hailed her by her name as she passed him, for he knew
her, but received no reply. To Tom, who had, as the reader knows, been
a witness of the scene we have described, this fearful glimpse of Nannie
Morrissey's desolation and misery, under the pelting of the pitiless
storm and the angry roar of the I elements, was distressing in the
highest degree, and filled his honest heart with compassion for her
sufferings.

He was now making his way home at his utmost speed, when he heard the
trampling of a horse's feet coming on at a rapid pace behind him, and on
looking back he saw a horseman making his way in the same direction
with himself. As he advanced, the repeated flashes made them distinctly
visible to each other.

“I say,” shouted the horseman at the top of his lungs, “can you direct
me to any kind of a habitation, where I may take shelter?”

“Speak louder,” shouted Tom; “I can't hear you for the wind.”

The other, in a voice still more elevated, repeated the question, “I
want to get under the roof of some human habitation, if there be one
left standing. I feel that I have gone astray, and this is no night to
be out in.”

“Faith, sir,” again shouted Tom, “it's pure gospel you're spakin', at
any rate. A habitation! Why, upon my credibility, they'd not deserve a
habitation that 'ud refuse to open the door for a dog on such a night
as this, much less to a human creature with a sowl to be saved. A
habitation! Well, I think I can, and one where you'll be well treated. I
suppose, sir, you're a gentleman?”

“Speak out,” shouted the traveller in his turn; “I can't hear you.”

Tom shaded his mouth with his hand, and shouted again, “I suppose, sir,
you're a gentleman?”

“Why, I suppose I am,” replied the stranger, rather haughtily.

“Becaise,” shouted Tom, “devil a traneen it 'ud signify to them I'm
bringing you to whether you are or not. The poorest man in the parish
would be sheltered as well as you, or maybe a betther man.”

“Are we near the house?” said the other.

“It's just at hand, sir,” replied Tom, “and thanks be to God for it; for
if ever the devil was abroad on mischief, he is this night, and may the
Lord save us! It's a night for a man to tell his grandchildre about, and
he may call it the 'night o' the big storm.'”

A lull had now taken place, and Tom heard a laugh from the stranger
which he did not much relish; it was contemptuous and sarcastic, and
gave him no very good opinion of his companion. They had now arrived
at the entrance-gate, which had been blown open by the violence of the
tempest. On proceeding toward the house, they found that their way was
seriously obstructed by the fall of several trees that had been blown
down across it. With some difficulty, however, they succeeded in
reaching the house, where, although the hour was late, they found the
whole family up, and greatly alarmed by the violence of the hurricane.
Tom went in and found Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin in the parlor, to both of
whom he stated that a gentleman on horseback, who had lost his way,
requested shelter for the night.

“Certainly, Kennedy, certainly; why did you not bring the gentleman in?
Go and desire Tom Stinton to take his horse to the stable, and let him
be rubbed down and fed. In the meantime, bring the gentleman in.”

“Sir,” said Tom, going to the bottom of the hall door-steps, “will
you have the goodness to walk in; the masther and misthress are in the
parlor; for who could sleep on such a night as this?”

On entering he was received with the warmest and most cordial
hospitality.

“Sir,” said Mr. Goodwin, “I speak in the name of myself and my wife
when I bid you heartily welcome to whatever my roof can afford you,
especially on such an awful night as this. Take a seat, sir; you must
want refreshments before you put off those wet clothes and betake
yourself to bed, after the dreadful severity of such a tempest.”

“I have to apologize, sir, for this trouble,” replied the stranger, “and
to thank you most sincerely for the kindness of the reception you and
your lady have given to an utter stranger.”

“Do not mention it, sir,” said Mr. Goodwin; “come, put on a dry coat and
waistcoat, and, in the meantime, refreshments will be on the table in a
few minutes. The servants are all up and will attend at once.”

The stranger refused, however, to change his clothes, but in a few
minutes an abundant cold supper, with wine and spirits, were placed upon
the table, to all of which he did such ample justice that it would seem
as if he had not dined that day. The table having been cleared, Mr.
Goodwin joined him in a glass of hot brandy and water, and succeeded
in pressing him to take a couple more, whilst his wife, he said, was
getting a bed and room prepared for him. Their! chat for the next
half hour consisted in a discussion of the storm, which, although much
abated, was not yet over. At length, after an intimation that his room
was ready for him, he withdrew, accompanied by a servant, got into an
admirable bed, and in a few minutes was fast asleep.




CHAPTER III. Breakfast next morning.

--Woodward, on his way Home, meets a Stranger.--Their Conversation.


The next morning he joined the family in the breakfast parlor, where he
was received with much kindness and attention. The stranger was a young
man, probably about twenty-seven, well made, and with features that must
be pronounced good; but, from whatever cause it proceeded, they were
felt to be by no means agreeable. It was impossible to quarrel with, or
find fault with them; their symmetry was perfect; the lip well defined,
but hard and evidently unfeeling; his brows, which joined each other,
were black, and, what was very peculiar, were heaviest where they
met--a circumstance which, notwithstanding the regularity of his other
features, gave him, unless when he smiled, a frowning if not a sinister
aspect. That, however, which was most remarkable in his features was
the extraordinary fact that his eyes were each of a different color, one
being black and piercing in its gleam, and the other gray; from which
circumstance he was known from his childhood by the name of _Harry na
Suil Gloir_--Suil Gloir being an epithet always bestowed by the Irish
upon persons who possessed eyes of that unnatural character. This
circumstance, however, was not observed on that occasion by any of the
family. His general manners, though courteous, were cold, and by no
means such as were calculated either to bestow or inspire confidence.
His language, too, was easy enough when he spoke, but a cold habit of
reserve seemed to permeate his whole being, and to throw a chill upon
the feelings of those to whom he addressed himself. So much was this the
case that when ever he assumed an air of familiarity a dark, strange,
and undefinable spirit, which was strongly felt, seemed not only to
contradict his apparent urbanity, but to impress his auditors with a
sense of uneasiness sometimes amounting to pain--an impression, however,
for which they could not at all account.

“Sir,” said Mr. Goodwin, “I hope you slept well after what you suffered
under the tempest of last night?”

“I assure you, sir, I never enjoyed a rounder night's sleep in my life,”
 replied their guest; “and were it not for the seasonable shelter of
your hospitable roof I know not what would have become of me. I am
unacquainted with the country, and having lost my way, I knew not where
to seek shelter, for the night was so dreadfully dark that unless by the
flashes of the lightning nothing could be seen.”

“It was certainly an awful--a terrible night,” observed his host;
“but come, its severity is now past; let me see you do justice to your
fare;--a little more ham?”

“Thank you, sir,” replied the other; “if you please. Indeed, I cannot
complain of my appetite, which is at all times excellent”--and he
certainly corroborated the truth of his statement by a sharp and
vigorous attack upon the good things before him.

“Sir,” said Mrs. Goodwin, “we feel happy to have had the satisfaction
of opening our doors to you last night; and there is only one other
circumstance which could complete our gratification.”

“The gratification, madam,” he replied, “as well as the gratitude, ought
to be all on my side, although I have no doubt, and can have none,
that the consciousness of your kindness and hospitality are equally
gratifying on yours. But may I ask to what you allude, madam?”

“You are evidently a gentleman, sir, and a stranger, and we would feel
obliged by knowing--”

“O, I beg your pardon, madam,” he replied, interrupting her; “I presume
that you are good enough to flatter me by a wish to know the name of
the individual whom your kindness and hospitality have placed under such
agreeable obligations. For my part I have reason to bless the tempest I
which, I may say, brought me under your roof. 'It is an ill wind,' says
the proverb, 'that blows nobody good;' and it is a clear case, my very
kind hostess, that at this moment we are mutually ignorant of each
other. I assure you, then, madam, that I am not a knight-errant
travelling in disguise and in quest of adventure, but a plain gentleman,
by name Woodward, step-son to a neighbor of yours, Mr. Lindsay, of
Rathfillan House. I need scarcely say that I am Mrs. Lindsay's son by
her first husband. And now, madam, may I beg to know the name of the
family to whom I am indebted for so much kindness.”

Mrs. Goodwin and her husband exchanged glances, and something like a
slight cloud appeared to overshadow for a moment the expression of their
countenances. At length Mr. Goodwin spoke.

“My name, sir,” he proceeded, “is Goodwin; and until a recent melancholy
event, your family and mine were upon the best and most cordial terms;
but, unfortunately, I must say that we are not so now--a circumstance
which I and mine deeply regret. You must not imagine, however, that
the knowledge of your name and connections could make the slightest
difference in our conduct toward you on that account. Your family, Mr.
Woodward, threw off our friendship and disclaimed all intimacy with us;
but I presume you are not ignorant of the cause of it.”

“I should be uncandid if I were to say so, sir. I am entirely aware of
the cause of it; but I cannot see that there is any blame whatsoever
to be attached to either you or yours for the act of my poor uncle. I
assure you, sir, I am sorry that my family failed to consider it in its
proper light; and you will permit me to request that you we not identify
my conduct with theirs. So far as I am least am concerned, my uncle's
disposition of his property shall make no breach nor occasion any
coolness between us. On the contrary, I shall feel honored by being
permitted to pay my respects to you all, and to make myself worthy of
your good opinions.”

“That is generously spoken, Mr. Woodward,” replied the old man; “and it
will afford us sincere pleasure to reciprocate the sentiments you have
just expressed.”

“You make me quite happy, sir,” replied Woodward, bowing very
courteously. “This, I presume, is the young lady to whom my cousin Agnes
was so much attached?”

“She is, sir,” replied her father.

“Might I hope for the honor of being presented to her, Mr. Goodwin?”

“With pleasure, sir. Alice, my dear, although you already know who this
gentleman is, yet allow me, nevertheless, to present him to you.”

The formal introduction accordingly took place, after which Woodward,
turning to Mrs. Goodwin, said,

“I am not surprised, madam, at the predilection which my cousin
entertained for Miss Goodwin, even from what I see; but I feel that I am
restrained by her presence from expressing myself at further length. I
have only to say that I wish her every happiness, long life, and health
to enjoy that of which she seems, and I am certain is, so worthy.”

He accompanied those words with a low bow and a very gracious smile,
after which, his horse having been brought to the door, he took his
leave with a great deal of politeness, and rode, according to the
directions received from Mr. Goodwin, toward his father's house.

After his departure the family began to discuss his character somewhat
to the following effect:

“That is a fine young man,” said Mr. Goodwin, “liberal-minded and
generous, or I am much mistaken. What do you think, Martha,” he added,
addressing his wife.

“Upon my word,” replied that lady, “I am much of your opinion--yet I
don't know either; although polite and courteous, there is something
rather disagreeable about him.”

“Why,” inquired her husband, “what is there disagreeable about him? I
could perceive nothing of the sort; and when we consider that his uncle,
who left this property to Alice, was his mother's brother, and that he
was nephew by blood as well as by law, and that it was the old man's
original intention that the property should go directly to him, or in
default of issue, to his brother--I think when we consider this, Martha,
that we cannot but entertain a favorable impression of him, considering
what he has lost by the unexpected turn given to his prospects in
consequence of his uncle's will. Alice, my dear, what is your opinion of
him?”

“Indeed, papa,” she replied, “I have had--as we all have had--but a very
slight opportunity to form any opinion of him. As for me, I can judge
only by the impressions which his conversation and person have left upon
me.”

“Well, anything favorable or otherwise?”

“Anything at all but favorable, papa--I experienced something like pain
during breakfast, and felt a strong sense of relief the moment he left
the room.”

“Poor child, impressions are nothing. I have met men of whom first
impressions were uniformly unfavorable, who, notwithstanding their rough
outsides, were persons of sterling worth and character.”

“Yes, papa, and men of great plausibility and ease of manner, who, on
the contrary, were deep, hypocritical and selfish when discovered and
their hearts laid open. As regards Mr. Woodward, however, heaven forbid
that I should place the impressions of an ignorant girl like myself
against the knowledge and experience of a man who has had such
opportunities of knowing the world as you. All I can say is, that
whilst he seemed to breathe a very generous spirit, my impressions
were completely at variance with every sentiment he uttered. Perhaps,
however, I do him injustice--and I should regret that very much. I will
then, in deference to your opinion, papa, endeavor to control those
impressions and think as well of him as I can.”

“You are right, Alice, and I thank you. We should never, if possible,
suffer ourselves to be prematurely ungenerous in our estimate of
strangers, especially when we know that this world is filled with the
most absurd and ridiculous prejudices. How do you know, my dear child,
that yours is not one of them?”

“Alice, love,” said her mother, “I think, upon reflection, your father
is right, as he always is; let us not be less generous than this young
man, and you know it would be ungenerous to prejudge him; and this comes
the more strange from you, my love, inasmuch as I never yet heard you
express a prejudice almost against any person.”

“Because I don't remember, mamma, that I ever felt such an
impression--prejudice--call it what you will--against any individual as
I do against this man. I absolutely fear him without knowing why.”

“Precisely so, my dear Alice,” replied her father, “precisely so; and,
as you say, with-out knowing why. In that one phrase, my child, you have
defined prejudice to the letter. Fie, Alice; have more sense, my dear;
have more sense. Dismiss this foolish prejudice against a young man,
who, from what he said at breakfast, is entitled to better feelings at
your hands.”

“As I said, papa, I shall certainly strive to do so.”

Alice Goodwin's person and character must, at this stage of our
narrative, be made known to our readers. As to her person, it is only
sufficient to say that she was a tall, beautiful girl, of exceeding
grace and wonderful proportions. There was, however, a softness about
her appearance of constitutional delicacy that seemed to be incompatible
with a strong mind, or perhaps we should rather say that was identical
with an excess of feeling. This was exhibited in the tenderness of
her attachment to Agnes Hamilton, and in the agonizing grief which she
experienced at her death--a grief which had well-nigh become fatal to a
girl of her fragile organization. The predominant trait, however, in her
character was timidity and a terror of a hundred trifles, which, in the
generality of her sex, would occasion only indifference or laughter. On
that very morning, for instance, she had not recovered from her painful
apprehensions of the thunder-storm which had occurred on the preceding
night. Of thunder, but especially of lightning, she was afraid even to
pusillanimity; indeed so much so, that on such occurrences she would
bind her eyes, fly down stairs, and take refuge in the cellar until the
I hurly-burly in the clouds was over. This, however, was not so much
to be wondered at by those who live in our present and more enlightened
days; as our readers will admit when they are told that the period of
our narrative is in the reign of that truly religious monarch, Charles
the Second, who, conscious of his inward and invisible grace, was known
to exhaust himself so liberally of his virtue, when touching for the
Evil, that there was very little of it left to regulate that of his own
private life. In those days Ireland was a mass of social superstitions,
and a vast number of cures in a variety of diseases were said to be
performed by witches, wizards, fairy-men, fairy-women, and a thousand
other impostors, who, supported by the gross ignorance of the people,
carried that which was first commenced in fraud and cunning into a
self-delusion, which, in process of time, led them to become dupes to
their own impostures. It is not to be wondered at, then, that Alice
Goodwin, a young creature of a warm imagination and extraordinary
constitutional timidity, should feel the full force of the superstitions
which swarmed around her, and impregnated her fancy so strongly that
it teemed with an unhealthy creation, which frequently rendered her
existence painful by a morbid apprehension of wicked and supernatural
influences. In other respects she was artlessness itself, could never
understand what falsehood meant, and, as to truth, her unspotted
mind was transparent as a sunbeam. Our readers are not to understand,
however, that though apparently flexible and ductile, she possessed
no power of moral resistance. So very far from that, her disposition,
wherever she thought herself right, was not only firm and unbending,
but sometimes rose almost to obstinacy. This, however, never appeared,
unless she considered herself as standing upon the basis of truth. In
cases where her judgment was at fault, or when she could not see her
way, she was a perfect child, and, like a child, should be taken by the
hand and supported. It was, however, when mingling in society that her
timidity and bashfulness were most observable; these, however, were
accompanied with so much natural grace, and unaffected innocence of
manner, that the general charm of her whole character was fascinating
and irresistible; nay, her very weaknesses created an atmosphere of love
and sympathy around her that nobody could breathe without feeling her
influence. Her fear of ghosts and fairies, her dread of wizards and
witches, of wise women and strolling conjurers, with the superstitious
accounts of whom the country then abounded, were, in the eyes of
her more strong-minded friends, only a source of that caressing and
indulgent affection which made its artless and innocent object more dear
to them. Every one knows with what natural affection and tenderness we
love the object which clings to us for support under the apprehension
of danger, even when we ourselves are satisfied that the apprehension
is groundless. So was it with Alice Goodwin, whose harmless foibles
and weaknesses, associated as they were with so much truth and purity,
rendered her the darling of all who knew her.

Woodward had not proceeded far on his way when he was overtaken by
an equestrian, who came up to him at a smart pace, which, however, he
checked on getting beside him.

“A fine morning, sir, after an awful night,” observed the stranger.

“It is, sir,” replied Woodward, “and a most awful night it assuredly
was. Have you heard whether there has been destruction to life or
property to any extent?”

“Not so much to life,” replied his companion, “but seriously, I
understand, to property. If you had ridden far you must have observed
the number of dwelling-houses and out-offices that have been unroofed,
and some of them altogether blown down.”

“I have not ridden far,” said Woodward; “I was obliged to take shelter
in the house of a country gentleman named Goodwin, who lives over in the
trees.”

“You were fortunate in finding shelter anywhere,” replied the stranger,
“during such a tempest. I remember nothing like it.”

As they proceeded along, indulging in similar chat, they observed that
five or six countrymen, who had been walking at a smart pace, about a
couple of hundred yards before them, came suddenly to a stand-still,
and, after appearing to consult together, they darted off the road
and laid themselves down, as if with a view of concealment, behind the
grassy ditch which ran along it.

“What can these persons mean?” asked Woodward; “they seem to be
concealing themselves.”

“Unquestionably they do,” replied the stranger; “and yet there appears
to be no pursuit after them. I certainly can give no guess as to their
object.”

While attempting, as they went along, to account for the conduct of the
peasants, they were met by a female with a head of hair that was nearly
blood-red, and whose features were hideously ugly, or rather, we should
say, absolutely revolting. Her brows, which were of the same color as
the hair, were knit into a scowl, such as is occasioned by an intense
expression of hatred and malignity, yet which was rendered almost
frightful by a squint that would have disfigured the features of a
demon. Her coarse hair lay matted together in stiff, wiry waves! on each
side of her head, from whence it streamed down her shoulders, which
it covered like a cape of scarlet. As they approached each other, she
glanced at them with a look from which they could only infer that she
seemed to meditate the murder of each, and yet there was mingled with
its malignity a bitter but derisive expression that was perfectly
diabolical.

“What a frightful hag!” exclaimed Woodward, addressing his companion; “I
never had a perfect conception of the face of an ogress until now!
Did you observe her walrus tusks, as they projected over her misshapen
nether lip? The hag appears to be an impersonation of all that is evil.”

“She may be a very harmless creature for all that,” replied the other;
“we are not to judge by appearances. I know a man who had murder
depicted in his countenance, if ever a man had, and yet there lived!
not a kinder, more humane, or benevolent creature on earth. He was as
simple, too, as a child, and the most affectionate father! and husband
that ever breathed. These, however, may be exceptions; for most
certainly I am of opinion that the countenance may be considered, in
general, a very certain index to the character and disposition. But what
is this?--here are the men returning from their journey, let us question
them.”

“Pray,” said Woodward, addressing them, “if it be not impertinent, may
I inquire why you ran in such a hurry off the road just now, and hid
yourselves behind the ditch?”

“Certainly, sir, you may,” replied one of them; “we wor on our way to
the fair of, Knockmore, and we didn't wish to meet Pugshy Roe.” (Red
Peggy).

“But why should you not wish to meet her?”

“Bekaise, sir, she's unlucky--unlucky in the three ways--unlucky to man,
unlucky to baste, and unlucky to business. She overlooks, sir; she has
the Evil Eye--the Lord be about us!”

“The Evil Eye,” repeated Woodward, dryly; “and pray, what harm could her
evil eye do you?”

“Why, nothing in the World,” replied the man, naively, “barrin' to
wither us off o' the earth--that's all.”

“Has she been long in this neighborhood?” asked the stranger.

“Too long, your honor. Sure she overlooked Biddy Nelligan's child, and
it never did good afterwards.”

“And I,” said another, “am indebted to the thief o' hell for the loss of
as good a cow as ever filled a piggin.”

“Well, sure,” observed a third, “Father Mullen is goin' to read her out
next Sunday from the althar. She has been banished from every parish in
the counthry. Indeed, I believe he's goin' to drown the candles against
her, so that, plaise the Lord, she'll have to tramp.”

“How does she live and maintain herself?” asked the stranger again.

“Why, sir,” replied the man, “she tuck possession of a waste cabin and
a bit o' garden belongin' to it; and Larry Sullivan, that owns it, was
goin' to put her out, when, Lord save us, he and his whole family were
saized with sickness, and then he sent word to her that if she'd take it
off o' them and put it on some one else he'd let her stay.”

“And did she do so?”

“She did, sir; every one o' them recovered, and she put it on his
neighbor, poor Harry Commiskey and his family, that used to visit them
every day, and from them it went over the country--and bad luck to her!
Devil a man of us would have had luck or grace in the fair to-day if we
had met her. That's another gift she has--to bring bad luck to any
one that meets her first in the mornin'; for if they're goin' upon
any business it's sure not to thrive with them. She's worse than Mrs.
Lindsay; for Mrs. Lindsay, although she's unlucky to meet, and unlucky
to cattle, too, has no power over any one's life; but they say it has
always been in her family, too.”

The equestrians then proceeded at a rather brisk pace until they had got
clear of the peasants, when they pulled up a little.

“That is a strange superstition, sir,” said Woodward, musingly.

“It is a very common one in this country, at all events,” replied the
other; “and I believe pretty general in others as well as here.”

“Do you place any faith in it?” asked the other.

The stranger paused, as if investigating the subject in question, after
which he replied,

“To a certain extent I do; but it is upon this principle, that I believe
the force of imagination on a weak mind constitutes the malady. What is
your own opinion?”

“Why, that it is not a superstition but a fact; a fact, too, which has
been frequently proved; and, what is more, it is known, as the man said,
to be hereditary in families.”

“I don't give credence to that,” said the stranger.

“Why not, sir?” replied Woodward; “are not the moral qualities
hereditary? are not the tempers and dispositions hereditary, as well as
decline, insanity, scrofula, and other physical complaints?”

The stranger paused again, and said, “Perhaps so. There is certainly
much mystery in human nature; more, probably, than we can conceive or be
aware of. Time, however, and the progress of science, will develop much.
But who was this Mrs. Lindsay that the man spoke of?”

“That lady, sir,” replied the other, “is my mother.”

The stranger, from a feeling of delicacy, made no observation upon this,
but proceeded to take another view of the same subject.

“Suppose, then,” he added, “that we admit the fact that the eye of a
certain individual can transfuse, by the force of strong volition, an
evil influence into the being or bodily system of another--why should it
happen that an eye or touch charged with beneficence, instead of evil,
should fail to affect with a sanative contagion those who labor under
many diseases?”

“The only reply I can make to your question,” said Woodward, “is this:
the one has been long and generally known to exist, whereas the latter
has never been heard of, which most assuredly would not have been the
case if it had ever existed; as for the cure of the King's Evil it is a
royal imposture.”

“I believe in the latter,” observed the other calmly.

“Upon what grounds?” asked his companion.

“Simply because I know a person who possesses the sanative power I speak
of.”

“And I believe in the former,” replied Woodward, “and upon better
grounds still, because I possess it myself.”

“You will pardon me,” said the other; “but I hesitate to believe that.”

Woodward, who felt this imputation against his veracity with resentment,
suddenly pulled up his horse, and, turning himself on the saddle, looked
upon his companion with an expression that was as extraordinary as it
was blighting. The stranger, on the other hand, reining in his horse,
and taking exactly the same attitude as Woodward, bent his eye on him in
return; and there they sat opposite to each other, where we will leave
them until we describe the somewhat extraordinary man who had become the
fellow-traveller of the hero of the breakfast table.

[Illustration: PAGE 631-- The gaze was long and combative]

He was mounted upon a powerful charger; for indeed it was evident at
a glance that no other would have been equal to his weight. He was
well-dressed--that is to say, in the garb of a country gentleman of the
day. He wore his own hair, however, which fell in long masses over his
shoulders, and a falling collar, which came down over his breast. His
person was robust and healthy looking, and, what is not very usual in
large men, it was remarkable for the most consummate proportion and
symmetry. He wore boots and silver spurs, and his feet were unusually
small, considering his size, as were also his hands. That, however,
which struck the beholder with amazement, was the manly beauty of his
features. At a first glance this was visible; but on contemplating
them more closely you began to feel something strange and wonderful
associated with a feeling of veneration and pleasure. Even this,
however, was comparatively little to what a still more deliberate
perusal of that face brought to light. There could be read that
extraordinary union of humility and grandeur; but above all, and beyond
all other expressions, there proceeded from his eyes, and radiated like
a halo from every part of his countenance, a sense of power which was
felt to be irresistible. His eyes, indeed, were almost transparent with
light--a light so clear, benignant, and strong, that it was impossible
to withstand their glance, radiant with benevolence though it was. The
surrender to that glance, however, was a willing and a pleasing one. The
spectator submitted to it as an individual would to the eye of a blessed
spirit that was known to communicate nothing but good. There, then, they
sat contemplating one another, each, as it were, in the exercise of some
particular power, which, in this case, appeared to depend altogether
on the expressions of the eye. The gaze was long and combative in its
character, and constituted a trial of that moral strength which each,
in the peculiar constitution of his being, seemed to possess. After some
time, however, Woodward's glance seemed to lose its concentrative
power, and gradually to become vague and blank. In a little time he felt
himself rapidly losing ground, and could hardly avoid thinking that
the eyes of his opponent were looking into his very soul: his eyelids
quivered, his eyes assumed a dull and listless appearance, and
ultimately closed for some moments--he was vanquished, and he felt it.

“What is the matter with you?” said his companion at length, “and why
did you look at me with such a singular gaze? I hope you do not feel
resentment at what I said. I hesitated to believe you only because I
thought you might be mistaken.”.

“I entertain no resentment against you,” replied Woodward; “but I must
confess I feel astonished. Pray, allow me to ask, sir, are you a medical
man?”

“Not at all,” replied the other; “I never received a medical education,
and yet I perform a great number of cures.”

“Then, sir,” said Woodward, “I take it, with every respect, that you
must be a quack.”

“Did you ever know a quack to work a cure without medicine?” replied the
other; “I cure without medicine, and that is more than the quack is able
to do with it; I consequently, cannot be a quack.”

“Then, in the devil's name, what are you?” asked Woodward, who felt that
his extraordinary fellow-traveller was amusing himself at his expense.

“I reply to no interrogatory urged upon such authority,” said the
stranger; “but let me advise you, young man, not to allow that
mysterious and malignant power which you seem to possess to gratify
itself by injury to your fellow-creatures. Let it be the principal
purpose of your life to serve them by every means within your reach,
otherwise you will neglect to your cost those great duties for which God
created you. Farewell, my friend, and remember my words; for they are
uttered in a spirit of kindness and good feeling.”

They had now arrived at cross-roads; the stranger turned to the right,
and Woodward proceeded, as directed, toward Rathfillan House, the
residence of his father.

The building was a tolerably large and comfortable one, without any
pretence to architectural beauty. It had a plain porch before the
hall-door, with a neat lawn, through which wound a pretty drive up to
the house. On each side of the lawn was a semicircle of fine old trees,
that gave an ancient appearance to the whole place.

Now, one might imagine that Woodward would have felt his heart bound
with affection and delight on his return to all that ought to have been
dear to him after so long an absence. So far from that, however, he
returned in disappointment and ill-temper, for he calculated that unless
there had been some indefensible neglect, or unjustifiable offence
offered to his uncle Hamilton by his family, that gentleman, who, he
knew, had the character of being both affectionate and good-natured,
would never have left his property to a stranger. The alienation of this
property from himself was, indeed, the bitter reflection which rankled
in his heart, and established in it a hatred against the Goodwins which
he resolved by some means to wreak upon them in a spirit of the blackest
vengeance. Independently of this, we feel it necessary to say here, that
he was utterly devoid of domestic affection, and altogether insensible
to the natural claims and feelings of consanguinity. His uncle abroad,
for instance, had frequently urged him to pay a visit to his relatives,
and, of course, to supply him liberally with the necessary funds for the
journey. To every such suggestion, however, he gave a decided negative.
“If they wish to see me,” he would reply, “let them come and see me: as
for me, I have no wish to see them, and I shall not go.”

This unnatural indifference to the claims of blood and affection, not
only startled his uncle, but shook his confidence in the honor and
integrity of his favorite. Some further discoveries of his dishonesty
ultimately led to his expulsion from the heart of that kind relative, as
well as from the hospitable roof of which he proved himself so unworthy.

With such a natural disposition, and affected as he must have been by a
train of circumstances so decidedly adverse to his hopes and prospects,
our readers need not feel surprised that he should return home in
anything but an agreeable mood of mind.




CHAPTER IV.

Woodward meets a Guide--His Reception at Home--Preparations for a Fete.


Woodward rode slowly, as he indulged in those disagreeable reflections
to which we alluded, until he reached a second crossroads, where he
found himself somewhat at a loss whether to turn or ride straight
onward. While pausing for a moment, as to which way he should take, the
mellow whistle of some person behind him indulging in a light-hearted
Irish air, caused him to look back, when he saw a well-made, compact,
good-looking young fellow approaching, who, finding his attention
evidently directed to him, concluded his melody and respectfully touched
hia hat.”

“Pray, my good friend,” said Woodward, “can you direct me to Rathfillan,
the residence of Mr. Lindsay, the magistrate?”

“Misther Lindsay's, is it?”

“Yes; I said so.”

“Well, I think I can, sir.”

“Yes; but are you sure of it?”

“Well, I think I am, sir.”

“You think! why, d--n it, sir, do you not know whether you are or not?”

“May I ax, sir,” inquired the other in his turn, “if you are a religious
character?”

“WHy, what the devil has that to do with the matter in question?” said
Woodward, beginning to lose his temper. “I ask you to direct me to
the residence of a certain gentleman, and you ask me whether I am a
religious character? What do you mean by that?”

“Why, sir,” replied the man, “not much, I'm afeard--only if you had let
me speak, which you didn't, God pardon you, I was going to say, that
if you knew the way to heaven as well as I do to Misther Lindsay's you
might call yourself a happy man, and born to luck.”

Woodward looked with something of curiosity at his new companion, and
was a good deal struck with his appearance. His age might be about
twenty-eight or from that to thirty; his figure stout and well-made;
his features were decidedly Milesian, but then they were Milesian of
the best character; his mouth was firm, but his lips full, red, and
handsome; his clear, merry eyes would puzzle one to determine whether
they were gray or blue, so equally were the two colors blended in them.
After a very brief conversation with him, no one could doubt that humor
formed a predominant trait in his disposition. In fact, the spirit of
the forthcoming jest was visible in his countenance before the jest
itself came forth; but although his whole features bore a careless
and buoyant expression, yet there was no mistaking in them the
unquestionable evidences of great shrewdness and good sense. He also
indulged occasionally in an ironical and comic sarcasm, which, however,
was never directed against his friends; this he reserved for certain
individuals whose character entitled them to it at his hands. He
also drew the long-bow, when he wished, with great skill and effect.
Woodward, after having scrutinized his countenance for some time, was
about to make some inquiries, as a stranger, concerning his family and
the reputation they bore in the neighborhood, when he found himself,
considerably to his surprise, placed in the witness-box for a rather
brisk fire of cross-examination.

“You are no stranger in this part of the country, I presume” said
he, with a view of bringing him out for his own covert and somewhat
ungenerous purposes.

“I am no stranger, sure enough, sir,” replied the other, “so far as a
good slice of the counthry side goes; but if I am not you are, sir, or
I'm out in it.”

“Yes, I am a stranger here.”

“Never mind, sir, don't let that disthress you; it's a good, man's case,
sir. Did you thravel far, wid submission? I spake in kindness, sir.”

“Why, yes, a--a--pretty good distance; but about Mr. Lindsay and--”

“Yes, sir; crossed over, sir, I suppose? I mane from the other side?”

“O! you want to know if I crossed the Channel?”

“Had you a pleasant passage, sir?”

“Yes, tolerable.”

“Thank God! I hope you'll make a long stay with us, sir, in this part
of the counthry. If you have any business to do with Mr. Lindsay--as of
coorse you have--why, I don't think you and he will quarrel; and by the
way, sir, I know him and the family well, and if I only got a glimpse, I
could throw in a word or two to guide you in dalin' wid him--that is, if
I knew the business.”

“As to that,” replied Woodward, “it is not very particular; I am only
coming on a pretty long visit to him, and as you say you know the
family, I would feel glad to hear what you think of them.”

“Misther Lindsay, or rather Misther Charles, and you will have a fine
time of it, sir. There's delightful fishin' here, and the best of
shootin' and huntin' in harvest and winter--that is, if you stop so
long.”

“What kind of a man is Mr. Lindsay?”

“A fine, clever (*Portly, large, comely) man, sir; six feet in his
stockin' soles, and made in proportion.”

“But I want to know nothing about his figure; is the man reputed good or
bad?”

“Why, just good or bad, sir, according as he's treated.”

“Is he well liked, then? I trust you understand me now.”

“By his friends, sir, no man betther--by them that's his enemies, not so
well.”

“You mentioned a son of his, Charles, I think; what kind of a young
fellow is he?”

“Very like his father, sir.”

“I see; well, I thank you, my friend, for the liberality of your
information. Has he any daughters?”

“Two, sir; but very unlike their mother.”

“Why, what kind of a woman is their mother?”

“She's a saint, sir, of a sartin class--ever and always at her prayers,”
 (_sotto voce_, “such as they are--cursing her fellow-cratures from
mornin' till night.”)

“Well, at all events, it is a good thing to be religious.”

“Devil a better, sir; but she, as I said, is a saint from--heaven”
 (_sotto voce_, “and very far from it too.) But, sir, there's a lady
in this neighborhood--I won't name her--that has a tongue as sharp and
poisonous as if she lived on rattlesnakes; and she has an eye of her own
that they say is every bit as dangerous.”

“And who is she, my good fellow?”

“Why, a very intimate friend of Mrs. Lindsay's, and seldom out of her
company. Now, sir, do you see that house wid the tall chimleys, or
rather do you see the tall chimleys--for you can't see the house itself?
That's where the family we spake of lives, and there you'll see Mrs.
Lindsay and the lady I mention.”

Woodward, in fact, knew not what to make of his guide; he found him
inscrutable, and deemed it useless to attempt the extortion of any
further intelligence from him. The latter was ignorant that Mrs.
Lindsay's son was expected home, as was every member of that gentleman's
family. He had, in fact, given them no information of his return.
The dishonest fraud which he had practised upon his uncle, and the
apprehension that that good old man had transmitted an account of his
delinquency to his relatives, prevented him from writing, lest he might,
by subsequent falsehoods, contradict his uncle, and thereby involve
himself in deeper disgrace. His uncle, however, was satisfied with
having got rid of him, and forbore to render his relations unhappy by
any complaint of his conduct. His hope was, that Woodward's expulsion
from his house, and the withdrawal of his affections from him, might,
upon reflection, cause him to turn over a new leaf--an effort which
would have been difficult, perhaps impracticable, had he transmitted to
them a full explanation of his perfidy and ingratitude.

A thought now occurred to Woodward with reference to himself. He saw
that his guide, after having pointed out his father's house to him, was
still keeping him company.

“Perhaps you are coming out of your way,” said he; “you have been
good enough to show me Mr. Lindsay's residence, and I have no further
occasion for your services. I thank you: take this and drink my
health;”,and as he spoke he offered him some silver.

“Many thanks, sir,” replied the man, in a far different tone of voice,
“many thanks; but I never resave or take payment for an act of civility,
especially from any gentleman on his way to the family of Mr. Lindsay.
And now, sir, I will tell you honestly and openly that there is not
a better gentleman alive this day than he is. Himself, his son, and
daughter* are loved and honored by all that know them; and woe betide
the man that 'ud dare to crock (crook) his finger at one of them.”

     * His daughter Jane was with a relation in England, and does
     not appear in this romance.

“You seem to know them very well.”

“I have a good right, sir, seein' that I have been in the family ever
since I was a gorson.”

“And is Mrs. Lindsay as popular as her husband?”

“She is his wife, sir--the mother of his children, and my misthress;
afther that you may judge for yourself.”

“Of course, then, you are aware that they have a son abroad.”

“I am, sir, and a fine young man they say he is. Nothing vexes them so
much as that he won't come to see them. He's never off their tongue; and
if he's aquil to what they say of him, upon my credit the sun needn't
take the trouble of shinin' on him.”

“Have they any expectation of a visit from him, do you know'?”

“Not that I hear, sir; but I know that nothing would rise the cockles of
their hearts aquil to seein' him among them. Poor fellow! Mr. Hamilton's
will was a bad business for him, as it was thought he'd have danced into
the property. But then, they say, his other uncle will provide for him,
especially as he took him from the family, by all accounts, on that
condition.”

This information--if information it could be called--was nothing more
nor less than wormwood and gall to the gentleman on whose ears and
into whose heart it fell. The consciousness of his present
position--discarded by a kind uncle for dishonesty, and deprived, as
he thought, by the caprice or mental imbecility, of another uncle, of a
property amounting to upwards of twelve hundred per annum--sank upon his
heart with a feeling which filled it with a deep and almost blasphemous
resentment at every person concerned, which he could scarcely repress
from the observation of his guide.

“What is your name?” said he abruptly to him; and as he asked the
question he fixed a glance upon him that startled his companion.

The latter looked at him, and felt surprised at the fearful expression
of his eye; in the meantime, we must say, that he had not an ounce of
coward's flesh on his bones.

“What is my name, sir?” he replied. “Faith, afther that look, if you
don't know my name, I do yours; there was your mother's eye fastened on
me to the life. However, take it easy, sir; devil a bit I'm afeared. If
you're not her son, Misther Woodward, why, I'm not Barney Casey, that's
all. Don't deny it, sir; you're welcome home, and I'm glad to see you,
as they all will be.”

“Harkee, then,” said Woodward, “you are right; but, mark me, keep quiet,
and allow me to manage matters in my own way; not a syllable of the
discovery you have made, or it will be worse for you. I am not a person
to be trifled with.”

“Troth, and you're right there, sir; it's what I often said, often say,
and often will say of myself. Barney Casey is not the boy to be trifled
wid.”

On arriving at the house, Barney took round the horse--a hired one, by
the way--to the stable, and Woodward knocked. On the door being
opened, he inquired if Mr. Lindsay was within, and was answered in the
affirmative.

“Will you let him know a gentleman wishes to see him for a few minutes?”

“What name, sir, shall I say?”

“O, it doesn't matter--say a gentleman.”

“Step into the parlor, sir, and he will be with you immediately.”

He did so, and there was but a very short time when his step-father
entered. Short, as the time was, however, he could not prevent himself
from reverting to the strange equestrian he had met on his way, nor to
the extraordinary ascendancy he had gained over him. Another young man
placed in his circumstances would have felt agitated and excited by his
approaching interview with those who were so nearly related to him, and
whom, besides, he had not seen for such a long period of time. To
every such emotion, however, he was absolutely insensible; there was
no beating pulse, no heaving of the bosom, not a nerve disturbed by the
tremulous vibrations of awakened affection, no tumult of the heart, no
starting tear--no! there was nothing of all this--but, on the contrary,
a calm, cold, imperturbable spirit, so dead and ignorant of domestic
attachment, that the man could neither feel nor understand what it
meant.

When his step-father entered, he naturally bowed to the stranger,
and motioned him to a seat, which the other accordingly took. Lindsay
certainly was, as Barney Casey had said, a very fine-looking man for his
years. He was tall, erect, and portly, somewhat inclined to corpulency,
of a handsome, but florid countenance, in which might be read a large
expression of cheerfulness and good humor, together with that peculiar
tinge which results from conviviality. Indeed, there could scarcely
be witnessed a more striking contrast than that between his open,
kind-looking features, and the sharp, disagreeable symmetry which marked
those of his step-son with such a dark and unpleasant character.

“My servant tells me,” said Lindsay, courteously, “that you wished to
see me.”

“I did, sir,” replied Woodward; “in that, he spoke correctly; I wished
to see you, and I am glad to see you.”

“I thank you, sir,” replied the other, bowing again; “but--ahem--in the
meantime, sir, you have the advantage of me.”

“And intend to keep it, sir, for a little,” replied Woodward with one of
his cold smiles. “I came to speak to you, sir, concerning your son who
is abroad, and to ask if you have recently heard from himself or his
uncle.”

“O, then, I presume, sir,” replied Lindsay, “you are an acquaintance
or friend of his; if so, allow me to bid you welcome; nothing, I assure
you, could afford either myself or my family greater pleasure than to
meet and show attention to any friend of his. Unfortunately, we have
heard nothing from him or his uncle for nearly the last year and a half;
but, you will be doubly welcome, sir, if you can assure us that they are
both well. His uncle, or rather I should, say his grand-uncle, for in
that relation he stands to him, adopted him, and a kinder man does not
live.”

“I believe Mr. Woodward and his uncle are both well, the former, I
think, sir, is your step-son only.”

“Don't say only, sir, he is just as much the son of my affection as his
brother, and now, sir, may I request to know the name of the gentleman I
am addressing?”

“Should you wish to see Henry Woodward himself, sir?”

“Dear sir, nothing would delight me more, and all of us, especially his
mother; yet the ungrateful boy would never come near us, although he was
pressed and urged to do so a hundred times.”

“Well, then, sir,” replied that gentleman, rising up, “he now stands
before you; I am Henry Woodward, father.”

A hug that half strangled him was the first acknowledgment of his
identity. “Zounds, my dear Harry--Harry, my dear boy, you're welcome a
thousand times, ten thousand times. Stand off a little till I look at
you; fine young fellow, and your mother's image. Gadzooks, I was stupid
as a block not to know you; but who would have dreamed of it. There, I
say--hallo, Jenny!--come here, all of you; here is Harry at last. Are
you all deaf, or asleep?”

These words he shouted out at the top of his voice, and in a few minutes
his mother, Charles, and his sister Maria entered the room, the two
latter in a state of transport.

“Here, Jenny, here he is; you have the first claim; confound it,
Charley, Maria, don't strangle the boy; ha, ha, ha!”

In fact, the precaution, so far as the affectionate brother and sister
were concerned, was anything but needless. His mother, seeing their
eagerness to embrace him, which they did with tears of delight, stood
calmly by until he was disentangled from their arms, when she approached
him and imprinted two kisses upon his lips, with an indifference of
manner that, to a stranger, would have been extraordinary, but which,
to those who were present, excited no surprise; for she had scarcely,
during her life, ever kissed one of her own children. Nothing, indeed,
could exceed the tumultuous exultation of spirits with which they
received him, nor was honest Lindsay himself less joyously affected. Yet
it might be observed that there was a sparkle in the eye of his mother,
which was as singular as it was concentrated and intense. Such an
expression might be observed in a menagerie when a tigress, indolently
dallying with one of her cubs, exhibits, even in repose, those fiery
scintillations in the eye which startle the beholders. The light of that
eye, though intense, was cold, calculating, and disagreeable to look
upon. The frigidity of her manner and reception of him might, to a
certain extent, be accounted for from the fact that she had gone to his
uncle's several times for the purpose of seeing him, and watching his
interests. Let us not, therefore, impute to the coldness of her habits
any want of affection for him; on the contrary, his little finger was a
thousand times dearer to her than the bodies and souls of all her other
children, adding to them her husband himself, put together. Besides,
she was perfectly unsusceptible of emotions of tenderness, and,
consequently, a woman of powerful will, inflexible determination, and
the most inexorable resentments. She was also ambitious, as far as
she had scope for it, within her sphere of life, and would have been
painfully penurious in her family, were it not that the fiery resolution
of her husband, when excited by long and intolerable provocation, was at
all times able to subdue her--a superiority over her will and authority
which she never forgave him. In fact, she neither loved himself,
nor anything in common with him; and the natural affection which he
displayed on the return of her son was one reason why she received him
with such apparent indifference. To all the rest of the family she had a
heart of stone. Since her second marriage they had lost three children;
but, so far as she was concerned, each of them went down into a tearless
grave. She had once been handsome; but her beauty, like her son's, was
severe and disagreeable. There is, however, such a class of beauty, and
it is principally successful with men who have a penchant for overcoming
difficulties, because it is well known that the fact of conciliating or
subduing it is justly considered no ordinary achievement. A great number
of our old maids may trace their solitude and their celibacy to the very
questionable gift of such beauty, and the dispositions which usually
accompany it. She was tall, and had now grown thin, and her features had
become sharpened by ill-temper into those of a flesh-less, angular-faced
vixen. Altogether she was a faithful exponent of her own evil and
intolerable disposition; and it was said that she had inherited that and
the “unlucky eye” from a family that was said to have I been deservedly
unpopular, and equally unscrupulous in their resentments.

“Well, Harry,” said she, after the warmhearted ebullition of feeling
produced by his appearance had subsided, “so you have returned to us at
last; but indeed, you return now to a blank and dismal prospect. Miss
Goodwin's adder tongue has charmed the dotage of your silly old uncle to
some purpose for herself.”

“Confound it, Jenny,” said her husband, “let the young man breathe, at
least, before you bring up that eternal subject. Is not the matter over
and decided and where is the use of your making both yourself and us
unhappy by discussing it?”

“It may be decided, but it is not over, Lindsay,” she replied; “don't
imagine it: I shall pursue the Goodwins, especially that sorceress,
Alice, with a vengeance that will annul the will, and circumvent those
who wheedled him into the making of it. My curse upon them all, as it
will be!”

“Harry, when you become better acquainted with your mother,” said his
step-father, “you will get sick of this. Have you breakfasted; for that
is more to the point?”

“I have, sir,” replied the other; “and you would scarcely guess where;”
 and here he smiled and glanced significantly at his mother.

“Why, I suppose,” said Lindsay, “in whatever inn you stopped at.”

“No,” he replied; “I was obliged to seek shelter from the storm last
night, and where do you think I found it?”

“Heaven knows. Where?”

“Why, with your friend and neighbor, Mr. Goodwin.”

“No friend, Harry,” said his mother; “don't say that.”

“I slept there last night,” he proceeded, “and breakfasted there this
morning, and nothing could exceed the cordiality and kindness of my
reception.”

“Did they know who you were?” asked his mother, with evident interest.

“Not till this morning, at breakfast.”

“Well,” said she again, “when they heard it?”

“Why, their attention and kindness even redoubled,” replied her son;
“and as for Miss Goodwin herself, she's as elegant, as sweet, and as
lovely a girl as I ever looked on. Mother, I beg you to entertain no
implacable or inveterate enmity against her. I will stake my existence
that she never stooped to any fraudulent circumvention of my poor
uncle. Take my word for it, the intent and execution of the will must be
accounted for otherwise.”

“Well and truly said, Harry,” said his step-father--“well and generously
said; give me your hand,--my boy; thank you. Now, madam,” he proceeded,
addressing his wife, “what have you to say to the opinion of a man who
has lost so much by the transaction, when you hear that that opinion is
given in her favor?”

“Indeed, my dear Harry,” observed his sister, “she is all that you
have said of her, and much more, if you knew her as we do; she is all
disinterestedness and truth, and the most unselfish girl that ever
breathed.”

Now, there were two persons present who paused upon hearing this
intelligence; one of whom listened to it with unexpected pleasure, and
the other with mingled emotions of pleasure and pain. The first of these
were Mrs. Lindsay, and the other her son Charles. Mrs. Lindsay, whose
eyes were not for a moment off her son, understood the significant
glance he had given her when he launched forth so heartily in the praise
of Alice Goodwin; neither did the same glance escape the observation of
his brother Charles, who inferred, naturally enough, from the warmth of
the eulogium that had been passed upon her, that she had made, perhaps,
too favorable an impression upon his brother. Of this, however, the
reader shall hear more in due time.

“Well,” said the mother slowly, and in a meditating voice, “perhaps,
after all, we may have done her injustice. If so, no person would regret
it more than myself; but we shall see. You parted from them, Harry, on
friendly terms?”

“I did, indeed, my dear mother, and am permitted, almost solicited, to
make their further acquaintance, and cultivate a friendly intimacy with
them, which I am determined to do.”

“Bravo, Harry, my fine fellow; and we will be on friendly terms with
them once more. Poor, honest, and honorable old Goodwin! what a pity
that either disunion or enmity should subsist between us. No; the
families must be once more cordial and affectionate, as they ought to
be. Bravo, Harry! your return is prophetic of peace and good feeling;
and, confound me, but you shall have a bonfire this night for your
generosity that will shame the sun. The tar-barrels shall blaze, and the
beer-barrels shall run to celebrate your appearance amongst us. Come,
Charley, let us go to Rathfillan, and get the townsfolk to prepare
for the fete: we must have fiddlers and pipers, and plenty of dancing.
Barney Casey must go among the tenants, too, and order them all into the
town. Mat Mulcahy, the inn-keeper, must give us his best room; and, my
life to yours, we will have a pleasant night of it.”

“George,” exclaimed his wife, in a tone of querulous remonstrance, “you
know how expensive--”

“Confound the expense and your penury both,” exclaimed her husband;
“is it to your own son, on his return to us after such an absence, that
you'd grudge the expense of a blazing bonfire?”

“Not the bonfire,” replied his wife, but--”

“Ay, but the cost of drink to the tenants. Why, upon my soul, Harry,
your mother is anything but popular here, you must know; and I think
if it were not from respect to me and the rest of the family she'd
be indicted for a witch. Gadzooks, Jenny, will I never get sense
or liberality into your head? Ay, and if you go on after your usual
fashion, it is not unlikely that you may have a tar-barrel of your own
before long. Go, you and Harry, and tell your secrets to each other
while we prepare for the jubilation. In the meantime, we must get up an
extempore dinner to-day--the set dinner will come in due time, and be a
different affair; but at all events some of the neighbors we must have
to join us in the jovialities--hurroo!”

“Well, George,” said she, with her own peculiar smile, “I see you are in
one of your moods to-day.”

“Ay, right enough, the imperative one, my dear.”

“And, so far as I am concerned, it would not certainly become me to
stand in the way of any honor bestowed upon my son Harry; so I perceive
you must only have it your own way--I consent.”

“I don't care a fig whether you do or not. When matters come to a push,
I am always master of my own house, and ever will be so--and you know
it. Good-by, Harry, we will be back in time for dinner, with as many
friends as we can pick up on so short notice--hurroo!”

He and Charles accordingly went forth to make the necessary
preparations, and give due notice of the bonfire, after which they
succeeded in securing the attendance of about a dozen guests to partake
of the festivity.

Barney, in the meantime, having received his orders for collecting,
or, as it was then called, warning in the tenantry to the forthcoming
bonfire, proceeded upon his message in high spirits, not on account of
the honor it was designed to confer on Woodward, against whom he had
already conceived a strong antipathy, in consequence of the resemblance
he bore to his mother, but for the sake of the fun and amusement which
he purposed to enjoy at it himself. The first house he went into was a
small country cabin, such as a petty farmer of five or six acres at that
time occupied. The door was not of wood, but of wicker-work woven across
long wattles and plastered over with clay mortar. The house had two
small holes in the front side-walls to admit the light; but during
severe weather these were filled up with straw or rags to keep out the
storm. On one side of the door stood a large curra, or, “ould man,” for
it was occasionally termed both--composed of brambles and wattles tied
up lengthwise together--about the height of a man and as thick as an
ordinary sack. This was used, as they termed it, “to keep the wind from
the door.” If the blast came from the right, it was placed on that side,
and if from the left, it was changed to the opposite. Chimneys, at that
period, were to be found only upon the houses of extensive and wealthy
farmers, the only substitute for them being a simple hole in the roof
over the fireplace. The small farmer in question cultivated his acres
with a spade: and after sowing his grain he harrowed it in with a large
thorn bush, which he himself, or one of his sons, dragged over it with
a heavy stone on the top to keep it close to the surface. When Barney
entered this cabin he found the vanithee, or woman of the house, engaged
in the act of grinding oats into meal for their dinner with a quern,
consisting of two diminutive millstones turned by the hand; this was
placed upon a praskeen, or coarse apron, spread under it on the floor to
receive the meal. An old woman, her mother, sat spinning flax with the
distaff--for as yet flax wheels were scarcely known--and a lubberly
young fellow about sixteen, with able, well shaped limbs and great
promise of bodily strength, sat before the fire managing a double task,
to wit, roasting, first, a lot of potatoes in the _greeshaugh_, which
consisted of half embers and half ashes, glowing hot; and, secondly, at
a little distance from the larger lighted turf, two duck eggs, which,
as well as the potatoes, he turned from time to time, that they might
be equally done. All this he conducted by the aid of what was termed a
_muddha vristha_, or rustic tongs, which was nothing more than a wattle,
or stick, broken in the middle, between the ends of which he held
both his potatoes and his eggs while turning them. Two good-looking,
fresh-colored girls were squatted on their hunkers (hams), cutting
potatoes for seed--late as the season was--with two case knives, which,
had been borrowed from a neighboring farmer of some wealth. The dress
of the women was similar and simple. It consisted of a long-bodied gown
that had only half skirts; that is to say, instead of encompassing the
whole person, the lower part of it came forward only as far as the hip
bones, on each side, leaving the front of the petticoat exposed. This
posterior part of the gown would, if left to fall to its full length,
have formed a train behind them of at least two feet in length. It
was pinned up, however, to a convenient length, and was not at all an
ungraceful garment, if we except the sleeves, which went no farther than
the elbows--a fashion in dress which is always unbecoming, especially
when the arms are thin. The hair of the elder woman was doubled back in
front, from about the middle of the forehead, and the rest of the
head was covered by a _dowd cap_, the most primitive of all female
headdresses, being a plain shell, or skull-cap, as it were, for the
head, pointed behind, and without any fringe or border whatsoever.
This turning up of the hair was peculiar only to married life, of which
condition it was universally a badge. The young females wore theirs
fastened behind by a skewer; but on this occasion one of them, the
youngest, allowed it to fall in natural ringlets about her cheeks and
shoulders.

“God save all here,” said Barney, as he entered the house.

“God save you kindly, Barney,” was the instant reply from all.

“Ah, Mrs. Davoren,” he proceeded, “ever the same; by this and by that,
if there's a woman living ignorant of one thing, and you are that
woman.”

“Sorrow off you, Barney! well, what is it?”

“Idleness, achora. Now, let me see if you have e'er a finger at all to
show; for upon my honorable word they ought to be worn to the stumps
long ago. Well, and how are you all? But sure I needn't ax. Faith,
you're crushin' the _blanter_* anyhow, and that looks well.”

     * Blantur, a well-known description of oats. It was so
     called from having been originally imported from Blantire in
     Scotland.

“We must live, Barney; 'tis a poor shift we'd make 'idout the praties
and the broghan,” (meal porridge).

“What news from the big house?”

“News, is it? Come, Corney, come, girls, bounce; news is it? O, faitha',
thin it's I that has the news that will make you all shake your feet
to-night.”

“Blessed saints, Barney what is it?”

“Bounce, I say, and off wid ye to gather brusna (dried and rotten
brambles) for a bonfire in the great town of Rathfillan.”

“A bonfire, Barney! Arra, why, man alive?”

“Why? Why, bekaise the masther's stepson and the misthress's own pet has
come home to us to set the counthry into a state o' conflagration wid
his beauty. There won't be a whole cap in the barony before this day
week. They're to have fiddlers, and pipers, and dancin', and drinkin'
to no end; and the glory of it is that the masther, God bless him, is to
pay for all. Now!”

The younger of the two girls sprang to her feet with the elasticity and
agility of a deer.

“O, _beetha_, Barney,” she exclaimed, “but that will be the fun! And
the misthress's son is home? Arra, what is he like, Barney? Is he as
handsome as Masther Charles?”

“I hope he's as good,” said her mother.

“As good, Bridget? No, but worth a shipload of him; he has a pair of
eyes in his head, _Granua_,” (anglice, Grace,) addressing the younger,
“that 'ud turn _Glendhis_ (the dark glen) to noonday at midnight; divil
a lie in it; and his hand's never out of his pocket wid generosity.”

“O, mother,” said Grace, “won't we all go?”

“Don't ax your mother anything about it,” replied Barney, “bekaise
mother, and father, and sister, and brother, daughter and son, is all to
come.”

“Arra, Barney,” said Bridget Davoren, for such was her name, “is this
gentleman like his _ecald_ of a mother?”

“Hasn't a feature of her purty face,” he replied, “and, to the back o'
that, is very much given to religion. Troth, my own opinion is, he'll be
one of ourselves yet; for I can tell you a saicret about him.”

“A saicret, Barney,” said Grace; “maybe he's married?”

“Married, no; he tould me himself this momin' that it's not his
intention ever to marry 'till he meets a purty girl to plaise him; he'll
keep a loose foot, he says, and an aisy conscience till then, he says;
but the saicret is this, he never aits flesh mate of a Friday--when
he emit get it. Indeed, I'm afeared he's too good to be long for this
world; but still, if the Lord was to take him, wouldn't it be a proof
that he had a great regard for him!”

Grace Davoren was flushed and excited with delight. She was about
eighteen, rather tall for her age, but roundly and exquisitely moulded;
her glossy ringlets, as they danced about her cheeks and shoulders, were
black as ebony; but she was no brunette; for her skin was milk white,
and that portion of her bosom, which was uncovered by the simple nature
of her dress, threw back a polished light like ivory; her figure was
perfection, and her white legs were a finer specimen of symmetry
than ever supported the body of the _Venus de Medicis_. This was all
excellent; but it was the sparkling lustre of her eyes, and the radiance
of her whole countenance, that attracted the beholder. If there was
anything to be found fault with, it was in the spirit, not in the
physical perfection, of her beauty. There was, for instance, too much
warmth of coloring and of constitution visible in her whole exquisite
person; and sometimes her glances, would puzzle you to determine whether
they were those of innocence or of challenge. Be this as it may, she was
a rare specimen of rustic beauty and buoyancy of spirit.

“O, Barney,” said she, “that's the pleasantest news I heard this month
o' Sundays--sich dancin' as we'll have! and maybe I won't foot it, and
me got my new shoes and drugget gown last week;” and here she lilted a
gay Irish air, to which she set a-dancing with a lightness of foot
and vivacity of manner that threw her whole countenance into a most
exquisite glow of mirthful beauty.

“Granua,” said her mother, reprovingly, “think of yourself and what
you are about; if you worn't a light-hearted, and, I'm afeard, a
light-headed, girl, too, you wouldn't go on as you do, especially when
you know what you know, and what Barney here, too, knows.”

“Ah,” said Barney, his whole manner immediately changing, “have you
heard from him, poor fellow?”

“Torley's gone to the mountains,” she replied, “and--but here he is.
Well, Torley, what news, asthore?”

Her husband having passed a friendly greeting to Barney, sat down, and
having taken off his hat, lifted the skirt of his cothamore (big coat)
and wiped the perspiration off his large and manly forehead, on which,
however, were the traces of deep care. He did not speak for some time,
but at length said:

“Bridget, give me a drink.”

His wife took a wooden noggin, which she dipped into a churn and handed
him. Having finished it at a draught, he wiped his mouth with his
gathered, palm, breathed deeply, but was still silent.

“Torley, did you hear me? What news of that unfortunate boy?”

“No news, Bridget, at least no good news; the boy's an outlaw, and will
be an outlaw--or rather he won't be an outlaw long; they'll get him
soon.”

“But why would they get him? hasn't he sense enough to keep from them?”

“That's just what he has not, Bridget; he has left the mountains and
come down somewhere to the Infield country; but where, I cannot make
out.”

“Well, asthore, he'll only bring on his own punishment. Troth, I'm not a
bit sorry that Granua missed him. I never was to say, for the match,
but you should have your way, and force the girl there to it, over and
above. Of what use is his land and wealth to him now?”

“God's will be done,” replied her husband, sorrowfully. “As for me, I
can do no more in it, nor I won't. I was doing the best for my child.
He'll be guided by no one's advice but his own.”

“That's true,” replied his wife, “you did. But here's Barney Casey, from
the big house, comin' to warn the tenantry to a bonfire that's to be
made to-night in Rathfillan, out of rejoicin' for the misthress's son
that's come home to them.”

Here Barney once more repeated the message, with which the reader is
already acquainted.

“You are all to come,” he proceeded, “ould and young; and to bring every
one a backload of sticks and brusna to help to make the bonfire.”

“Is this message from the masther or misthress, Barney?” asked Davoren.

“O, straight from himself,” he replied. “I have it from his own lips.
Troth he's ready to leap out of his skin wid delight.”

“Bekaise,” added Davoren, “if it came from the misthress, the sorrow
foot either I or any one of my family would set near her; but from
himself, that's a horse of another color. Tell him, Barney, we'll be
there, and bring what we can to help the bonfire.”

Until this moment the young fellow at the fire never uttered a syllable,
nor seemed in the slightest degree conscious that there was any
person in the house but himself. He was now engaged in masticating the
potatoes, and eggs, the latter of which he ate with a thin splinter of
bog deal, which served as a substitute for an egg-spoon, and which is
to-this day used among the poor for the same purpose in the remoter
parts of Ireland. At length he spoke:

“This won't be a good night for a bonfire anyhow.”

“Why, Andy, _abouchal?_” (my boy.)

“Bekaise, mudher, _the storm was in the fire_* last night when I was
rakin' it.”

     * This is a singular phenomenon, which, so far as I am
     aware, has never yet been noticed by any Irish or Scotch
     writers when describing the habits and usages of the people
     in either country. When stirring the _greeshaugh_, or red-
     hot ashes, at night at the settling, or mending, or Taking
     of the fire, a blue, phosphoric-looking light is distinctly
     visible in the embers, and the more visible in proportion to
     the feebleness of the light emitted by the fire. It is only
     during certain states of the atmosphere that this is seen.
     It is always considered as as prognostic of severe weather,
     and its appearance is termed as above.

“Then we'll have rough weather,” said his father; “no doubt of that.”

“Don't be afeard,” said Barney, laughing; “take my word for it, if
there's to be rough weather, and that some witch or wizard has broken
bargain with the devil, the misthress has intherest to get it put off
till the bonfire's over.”

He then bade them good-by, and took his departure to fulfil his
agreeable and welcome mission. Indeed, he spent the greater portion of
the day not only in going among the tenants in person, but in sending
the purport of the said mission to be borne upon the four winds of
heaven through every quarter of the barony; after which he proceeded to
the little market-town of Rathfillan, where he secured the services of
two fiddlers and two pipers. This being accomplished, he returned home
to his master's, ripe and ready for both dinner and supper; for, as he
had missed the former meal, he deemed it most judicious to kill, as he
said, the two birds with one stone, by demolishing them both together.




CHAPTER V. The Bonfire--The Prodigy.


Andy Davoren's prognostic, so far as the appearance of the weather went,
seemed, at a first glance, to be literally built on ashes. A calm, mild,
and glorious serenity lay upon the earth; the atmosphere was clear and
golden; the light of the sun shot in broad, transparent beams across
the wooded valleys, and poured its radiance upon the forest tops, which
seemed empurpled with its rich and glowing tones. All the usual signs
of change! or rough weather were wanting. Everything was quiet; and a
general stillness was abroad, which, when a sound did occur, caused
it to be heard at an unusual distance. Not a breath of air stirred the
trees, which stood as motionless as if they had been carved of marble.
Notwithstanding all these auspicious appearances, there were visible to
a clear observer of nature some significant symptoms of a change. The
surfaces of pools and rivers were covered with large white bubbles,
which are always considered as indications of coming rain. The dung
heaps, and the pools generally attached to them, emitted a fetid and
offensive smell; and the pigs were seen to carry straw into their sties,
or such rude covers as had been constructed for them.

In the meantime the dinner party in Lindsay's were enjoying themselves
in a spirit quite as genial as his hospitality. It consisted of two
or three country squires, a Captain Dowd--seldom sober--a pair of twin
brothers, named Gumming, with a couple of half sirs--a class of persons
who bore the same relation to a gentleman that a salmon-trout does to
a salmon. The Protestant clergyman of the parish was there--a jocund,
rattling fellow, who loved his glass, his dog, his gun, and, if fame did
not belie him, paid more devotion to his own enjoyments than he did to
his Bible. He dressed in the extreme of fashion, and was a regular dandy
parson of that day. There also was! Father Magauran, the parish priest,
a rosy-faced, jovial little man, with a humorous! twinkle in his blue
eye, and an anterior rotundity of person that betokened a moderate
relish for the convivialities. Altogether it was a merry meeting; and of
the host himself it might be said that he held as conspicuous a place in
the mirth as he did in the hospitality.

“Come, gentleman,” said he, after the ladies had retired to the
withdrawing-room, “come, gentlemen, fill high; fill your glasses.”

“Troth,” said the priest, “we'd put a heap on them, if we could.”

“Right, Father Magauran; do put a heap on them, if you can; but, at all
events, let them be brimmers; I'm going to propose a toast.”

“Let it be a lady, Lindsay, if you love me,” said the parson, filling
his glass.

“Sorra hair I care if it is,” said the priest, “provided she's dacent
and attends her duty; go on, squire; give us her name at once, and don't
keep the parson's teeth watering.”

“Be quiet, reverend gentlemen,” said Lindsay, laughing; “how can a man
speak when you take the words out of his mouth?”

“The Lord forbid we'd swallow them, though,” subjoined the parson; “if
we did, we'd not be long in a state of decent sobriety.”

“Talk about something you understand, my worthy friends, and, allow me
to proceed,” replied the host; “don't you know that every interruption
keeps you from your glass? Gentlemen, I have great pleasure in proposing
the health of my excellent and worthy step-son, who has, after a long
absence, made me and all my family happy by his return amongst us. I
am sure you will all like him when you come to know him, and that the
longer you know him, the better you will like him. Come now, let me
see the bottom of every man's glass uppermost. I do not address myself
directly to the parson or the priest, because that, I know, would be, as
the latter must admit, a want of confidence in their kindness.

“Parson,” said the priest, in a whisper, “that last observation is
gratifying from Lindsay.”

“Lindsay is a gentleman,” replied the other, in the same voice; “and the
most popular magistrate in the barony. Come, then.”

Here the worthy gentleman's health was drank with great enthusiasm,
after which he thanked them in very grateful and courteous terms, paying
at the same time, some rather handsome compliments to the two clergymen
with respect to the appropriate gravity and exquisite polish of their
manners. He saw the rapidity with which they had gulped down the wine,
and felt their rudeness in interrupting Mr. Lindsay, when about to
propose his health, as offensive, and he retorted it upon them with
peculiar irony, that being one of the talents, which, among others, he
had inherited from his mother.

“I cannot but feel myself happy,” said he, “in returning to the roof of
so hospitable a father; but sensible to the influences of religion, as I
humbly trust I am, I must express a still higher gratification in having
the delightful opportunity of making the acquaintance of two reverend
gentlemen, whose proper and becoming example will, I am sure, guide
my steps--if I have only grace to follow it--into those serious and
primitive habits which characterize themselves, and are so decent and
exemplary in the ministers of religion. They may talk of the light of
the gospel; but, if I don't mistake, the light of the gospel itself
might pale its ineffectual fires before that which shines in their
apostolic countenances.”

The mirth occasioned by this covert, but comical, rebuke, fell
rather humorously upon the two worthy gentlemen, who, being certainly
good-natured and excellent men, laughed heartily.

“That's a neat speech,” said the parson, “but not exactly appropriate.
Father Tom and I are quite unworthy of the compliment he has paid us.”

“Neat,” said Father Tom; “I don't know whether the gentleman has a
profession or not; but from the tone and spirit in which he spoke, I
think that if he has taken up any other than that of his church, he
has missed his vocation. My dear parson, he talks of the light of our
countenances--a light that is lit by hospitality on the one hand, and
moderate social enjoyment on the other. It is a light, however, that
neither of us would exchange for a pale face and an eye that seems to
have something mysterious at the back of it.”

“Come, come, Harry,” said Lindsay, “you mustn't be bantering these two
gentlemen; as I said of yourself, the longer you know them the better
you will relish them. They have both too much sense to carry religion
about with them like a pair of hawkers, crying out 'who'll buy, who'll
buy;' neither do they wear long faces, nor make themselves disagreeable
by dragging religion into every subject that becomes the topic of
conversation. On the contrary, they are cheerful, moderately social, and
to my own knowledge, with all their pleasantry, are active exponents of
much practical benevolence to the poor. Come, man, take your wine, and
enjoy good company.”

“Lindsay,” said one of the guests, a magistrate, “how are we to get the
country quiet? Those rapparees and outlaws will play the devil with us
if we don't put them down. That young scoundrel, _Shawn na Middogue_, is
at the head of them it is said, and, it would seem, possesses the
power of making himself invisible; for we cannot possibly come at him,
although he has been often seen by others.”

“Why, what has been Shawn's last exploit?”

“Nothing that I have heard of since Bingham's robbery; but there is none
of us safe. Have you your house and premises secured?”

“Not I,” replied Lindsay, “unless by good bolts and bars, together with
plenty of arms and ammunition.”

“How is it that these fellows are not taken?” asked another.

“Because the people protect them,” said a third; “and because they have
strength and activity; and thirdly, because we have no adequate force to
put them down.”

“All very sound reasons,” replied the querist; but as to _Shawn na
Middogue_, the people are impressed with a belief that he is under the
protection of the fairies, and can't be taken on this account. Even if
they were willing to give him up, which they are not, they dare not
make the attempt, lest the vengeance of the fairies might come down on
themselves and their cattle, in a thousand shapes.”

“I will tell you what the general opinion upon the subject is,” replied
the other. “It seems his foster-mother was a midwife, and that she was
called upon once, about the hour of midnight, to discharge the duties
of her profession toward a fairyman's wife, and this she refused to do
unless they conferred some gift either upon herself personally, or
upon some one whom she should name. Young Shawn, it appears, was her
favorite, and she got a solemn promise from them to take him under their
protection, and to preserve him from danger. This is the opinion of the
people; but whether it is true or not I won't undertake to determine.”

“Come, gentlemen,” said their host, “push the bottle; remember we must
attend the bonfire.”

“So,” said the magistrate, “you are sending us to blazes, Mr. Lindsay.”

“Well, at all events, my friends,” continued Mr. Lindsay, “we must make
haste, for there's little time to spare. Take your liquor, for we must
soon be off. The evening is delightful. If you are for coffee, let us
adjourn to the ladies; and after the bonfire we will return and make a
night of it.”

“Well said, Lindsay,” replied the parson; “and so we will.”

“Here, you young stranger,” said the priest, addressing Woodward, “I'll
drink your health once more in this bumper. You touched us off decently
enough, but a little too much on the sharp, as you would admit if you
knew us. Your health again, sir, and you are welcome among us!”

“Thank you, sir,” replied Woodward; “I am glad to see that you can bear
a jest from me or my father, even when it is at your own expense--your
health.”

“Are you a sportsman?” asked the parson; “because, if you are not, just
put yourself under my patronage, and I will teach you something worth
knowing. I will let you see what shooting and hunting mean.”

“I am a bit of one,” replied Woodward, “but shall be very happy to put
myself into your hand, notwithstanding.”

“If I don't lengthen your face I shall raise your heart,” proceeded, the
divine. “If I don't make a sportsman of you--”

“Ay,” added the priest, “you will find yourself in excellent hands, Mr.
Woodward.”

“If I don't make a sportsman of you:--confound your grinning, Father
Tom, what are you at?--I'll make a far better thing of you, that is, a
good fellow, always, of course, provided that you have the materials in
you.”

“Not a doubt of it,” added Father Tom; “you'll polish the same youth
until he shines like yourself or his worthy father here. He'll give you
a complexion, my boy--a commodity that you sadly want at present.”

The evening was now too far advanced to think of having coffee--a
beverage, by the way, to which scarcely a single soul of them was
addicted. They accordingly got to their legs, and as darkness was
setting in they set out for the village to witness the rejoicings. Young
Woodward, however, followed his brother to the drawing-room, whither he
had betaken himself at an early hour after dinner. Under their escort,
their mother and sister accompanied them to the bonfire. The whole town
was literally alive with animation and delight. The news of the intended
bonfire had gone rapidly abroad, and the country people crowded into
the town in hundreds. Nothing can at any time exceed the enthusiasm with
which the Irish enter into and enjoy scenes like that to which they
now flocked with such exuberant spirits. Bells were ringing, drums were
beating, fifes were playing in the town, and horns sounding in every
direction, both in town and country. The people were apparelled in their
best costume, and many of them in that equivocal description of it
which could scarcely be termed costume at all. Bareheaded and barefooted
multitudes of both sexes were present, regardless of appearances, half
mad with delight, and exhibiting many a frolic and gambol considerably
at variance with the etiquette of fashionable life, although we question
whether the most fashionable fete, of them all ever produced half so
much happiness. Farmers had come from a distance in the country, mounted
upon lank horses ornamented with incrusted hips, and caparisoned with
long-straw back-suggauns that reached from the shoulders to the tail,
under which ran a crupper of the same material, designed, in addition to
a hay girth, to keep this primitive riding gear firm upon the animal's
back. Behind the farmer, generally sat either a wife or a daughter,
remarkable for their scarlet cloaks and blue petticoats; sometimes with
shoes and stockings, and very often without them. Among those assembled,
we cannot omit to mention a pretty numerous sprinkling of that class
of strollers, vagabonds, and impostors with which the country, at the
period of our tale, was overrun. Fortune-tellers, of both sexes, quacks,
cardcutters, herbalists, cow-doctors, whisperers, with a long list
of such cheats, were at the time a prevailing nuisance throughout the
kingdom; nor was there a fair proportion of them wanting here. That,
however, which filled the people with the most especial curiosity,
awe, and interest, was the general report that nothing less than a live
conjurer, who had come to town on that very evening, was then
among them. The town, in fact, was crowded as if it had been for an
illumination; but as illuminations, unless they could be conducted with
rushlights, were pageants altogether unknown in such small remote towns
as Rathfillan, the notion of one had never entered their heads. All
around the country, however, even for many miles, the bonfires were
blazing, and shone at immense distances from every hill-top. We have
said before that Lindsay was both a popular landlord and a popular
magistrate; and, on this account alone the disposition to do honor
to any member of his family was recognized by the people as an act of
gratitude and duty.

The town of Rathfillan presented a scene of which we who live in the
present day can form but a faint conception. Yet, sooth to say, we
ourselves have, about forty years ago, witnessed in remote glens and
mountain fastnesses little clumps of cabins, whose inhabitants stood
still in the midst even of the snail's progress which civilization
had made in the rustic parts of Ireland; and who, upon examination,
presented almost the same rude personal habits, antiquated social
usages, agricultural ignorance, and ineradicable superstition as their
ancestors did in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Lindsay, knowing
how unpopular his wife was, not only among their own tenantry, but
throughout the country at large, and feeling, besides, how well that
unpopularity was merited, very properly left her and Maria to his son
Charles, knowing that as the two last named shared in the good-will
which the people bore him, their mother would be treated with
forbearance and respect so long as she was in their company. He wished,
besides, that Harry should seem to partake of the honor and gratitude
which their enthusiasm would prompt them to pay to himself.

The whole town was one scene of life, bustle, and enjoyment. It was
studded with bonfires, which were surrounded by wild groups of both
sexes, some tolerably dressed, some ragged as Lazarus, and others young
urchins with nothing but a slip of rag tied about their loins “to make
them look jinteel and daicent.” The monster bonfire, however--that which
was piled up into an immense pyramid in honor of the stranger--was not
ignited until the arrival of the quality. The moment the latter made
their appearance it was set in a flame, and in a few minutes a
blaze issued up from it into the air that not only dimmed the minor
exhibitions, but cast its huge glare over the whole town, making every
house and hut as distinctly visible as if it were broad daylight. Then
commenced the huzzaing--the bells rang out with double energy--the drums
were beaten more furiously--the large bullocks' horns were sounded until
those who blew them were black in the face, and every manifestation of
joy that could be made was resorted to. Fiddles and pipes were in busy
requisition, and “The Boys of Rathfillan,” the favorite local air,
resounded in every direction. And now that the master and the quality
had made their appearance, of course the drink should soon follow, and
in a short time the hints to that effect began to thicken.

“Thunder and turf, Jemmy, but this is dry work; my throat's like a
lime-burner's wig for want of a drop o' something to help me for the
cheerin'.”

Hould your tongue, Paddy; do you think the masther's honor would allow
us to lose our voices in his behalf. It's himself that hasn't his heart
in a trifle, God bless him.”

“Ah, thin, your honor,” said another fellow, in tatters, “isn't this
dust and hate enough to choke a bishop? O Lord, am I able to spake at
all? Upon my sowl, sir, I think there's a bonfire in my throath.”

Everything, however, had been prepared to meet these demands; and in
about a quarter of an hour barrels of beer and kegs of whiskey were
placed under the management of persons appointed to deal out their
contents to the thirsty crowds. Then commenced the dancing, whilst the
huzzaing, shouting, jingling of bells, squeaking of fifes, blowing of
horns, and all the other component parts of this wild melody, were once
more resumed with still greater vigor. The great feat of the night,
however, so far as the people were concerned, was now to take place.
This was to ascertain, by superior activity, who among the young men
could leap over the bonfire, when burnt down to what was considered
such a state as might make the attempt a safe one. The circles about the
different fires were consequently widened to leave room for the run,
and then commenced those hazardous but comic performances. As may be
supposed, they proceeded with various success, and occasioned the most
uproarious mirth whenever any unfortunate devil who had overtasked his
powers in the attempt, happened to fail, and was forced to scamper
out of the subsiding flames with scorched limbs that set him a dancing
without music. In fact, those possessed of activity enough to clear them
were loudly cheered, and rewarded with a glass of whiskey, a temptation
which had induced so many to try, and so many to fail. When these
had been concluded about the minor fires, the victors and spectators
repaired to the great one, to try their fortune upon a larger and more
hazardous scale. It was now nearly half burned down, but was still a
large, glowing mass, at least five feet high, and not less than eighteen
in diameter at the base. On arriving there they all looked on in
silence, appalled by its great size, and altogether deterred from so
formidable an attempt.

It would be death to try it, they exclaimed; no living man could do it;
an opinion which was universally acceded to, with one single exception.
A thin man, rather above the middle size, dressed in a long, black coat,
black breeches, and black stockings, constituted that exception. There
was something peculiar, and even strikingly mysterious, in his whole
appearance. His complexion was pale as that of a corpse, his eyes dead
and glassy, and the muscles of his face seemed as if they were paralyzed
and could not move. His right hand was thrust in his bosom, and! over
his left arm he bore some dark garment of a very funereal cast, almost
reminding one of a mortcloth.

“There is one,” said he, in a hollow and sepulchral voice, “that could
do it.” Father Magauran, who was present, looked at him with surprise;
as indeed did every one who had got an opportunity of seeing him.

“I know there is,” he replied, “a sartin individual who could do it;
ay, in troth, and maybe if he fell into the flames, too, he'd only
find himself in his own element; and if it went to that could dance a
hornpipe in the middle of it.”

This repartee of the priest's elicited loud laughter from the
by-standers, who, on turning round to see how the other bore it, found
that he had disappeared. This occasioned considerable amazement, not
unmixed with a still more extraordinary feeling. Nobody there knew him,
nor had ever even seen him before; and in a short time the impression
began to gain ground that he must have been no other than the conjurer
who was said to have arrived in the town that day. In the meantime,
while this point was under discussion, a clear, loud, but very mellow
voice was heard about twenty yards above them, saying, “Stand aside, and
make way--leave me room for a run.”

The curiosity of the people was at once excited by what they had only
a few minutes before pronounced to be a feat that was impossible to be
accomplished. They accordingly opened a lane for the daring individual,
who, they imagined, was about to submit himself to a scorching
that might cost him his life. No sooner was the lane made, and the
by-standers removed back, than a person evidently youthful, tall,
elastic, and muscular, approached the burning mass with the speed, and
lightness of a deer, and flew over it as if he had wings. A tremendous
shout burst forth, which lasted for more than a minute, and the people
were about to bring him to receive his reward at the whiskey keg, when
it was found that he also had disappeared. This puzzled them once more,
and they began to think that, there were more present at these bonfires
than had ever received baptism; for they could scarcely shake themselves
free of the belief that the mysterious stranger either was something
supernaturally evil himself, or else the conjurer as aforesaid, who, by
all accounts, was not many steps removed from such a personage. Of the
young person who performed this unprecedented and terrible exploit they
had little time to take any notice. Torley Davoren, however, who was one
of the spectators, turned round to his wife and whispered,

“Unfortunate boy--madman I ought-to say--what devil tempted him to come
here?”

“Was it him?” asked his wife.

“Whist, whist,” he replied; “let us say no more about it.”

In the meantime, although the youthful performer of this daring feat may
be said to have passed among them like an arrow from a bow, yet it so
happened that the secret of his identity did not rest solely with Torley
Davoren. In a few minutes whisperings began to take place, which spread
gradually through the crowd, until at length the name of _Shawn na
Middogue_ was openly pronounced, and the secret--now one no longer--was
instantly sent abroad through the people, to whom his fearful leap was
now no miracle. The impression so long entertained of his connection
with the fairies was thus confirmed, and the black stranger was no
other, perhaps, than the king of the fairies himself.

At this period of the proceedings Mrs. Lindsay, in consequence of some
significant whispers which were directly levelled at her character,
suggested to Maria that having seen enough of these wild proceedings,
it would be more advisable to return home--a suggestion to which Maria,
whose presence there at all was in deference to her father's wishes,
very gladly consented. They accordingly placed themselves under the
escort of the redoubtable and gallant twins, and reached home in safety.

It was now expected that the quality would go down to the inn, where the
largest room had been fitted up for refreshments and dancing, and into
which none but the more decent and respectable classes were admitted.
There most of the beauties of the town and the adjoining neighborhood
were assembled, together with their admirers, all of whom entered into
the spirit of the festivity with great relish. When Lindsay and his
company were about to retire from the great bonfire, the conductors of
the pageant, who also acted as spokesmen on the occasion, thus addressed
them:

“It's right, your honors, that you should go and see the dancin' in
the inn, and no harm if you shake a heel yourselves, besides taking
something to wash the dust out o' your throats; but when you come out
again, if you don't find a fresh and high blaze before you still, the
devil's a witch.”

As they proceeded toward the inn, the consequences of the drink, which
the crowd had so abundantly received, began, here and there, to manifest
many unequivocal symptoms. In some places high words were going on, in
others blows; and altogether the affair seemed likely to terminate in a
general conflict.

“Father,” said his son Charles, “had you not better try and settle these
rising disturbances?”

“Not I,” replied the jovial magistrate; “let them thrash one another
till morning; they like it, and I make it a point never to go between
the poor people and their enjoyments. Gadzooks, Charley, don't you know
it would be a tame and discreditable affair without a row?”

“Yes; but now that they've got drunk, they're cheering you, and groaning
my mother.”

“Devil's cure to her,” replied his father; “if she didn't deserve it
she'd not get it. What right had she to send my bailiffs to drive their
cattle without my knowledge, and to take duty fowl and duty work from
them whenever my back is turned, and contrary to my wishes? Come in till
we have some punch; let them shout and fight away; it wouldn't fee the
thing, Charley, without it.”

They found an exceedingly lively scene in the large parlor of the inn;
but, in fact, every available room in the house was crowded. Then, after
they had looked on for some time, every eye soon singled out the
pride and beauty of the assembly in the person of Grace Davoren, whose
features were animated into greater loveliness, and her eyes into
greater brilliancy, by the light-hearted spirit which prevailed. She
was dressed in her new drugget gown, had on her new shoes and blue
stockings, a short striped blue and red petticoat, which displayed as
much of her exquisite limbs as the pretty liberal fashion of the day
allowed; her bust was perfection; and, as her black, natural ringlets
fluttered about her milk-white neck and glowing countenance, she not
only appeared inexpressibly beautiful, but seemed to feel conscious
of that beauty, as was evident by a dash of pride--very charming,
indeed--which shot from her eye, and mantled on her beautiful cheek.

“Why, Charles,” exclaimed Woodward, addressing his brother in a whisper,
“who is that lovely peasant girl?”

“Her father is one of our tenants,” replied Charles; “and she was about
to be married some time ago, but it was discovered, fortunately in time,
that her intended husband was head and leader of the outlaws that infest
the country. It was he, I believe, that leaped over the bonfire.”

“Was she fond of him?”

“Well, it is not easy to say that; some say she was, and others that
she was not. Barney Casey says she was very glad to escape him when he
became an outlaw.”

“By the way, where is Barney? I haven't seen him since I came to look at
this nonsense.”

“Just turn your eye to the farthest corner of the room, and you may see
him in his glory.”

On looking in the prescribed direction, there, sure enough, was Barney
discovered making love hard and fast to a pretty girl, whom Woodward
remembered to have seen that morning in Mr. Goodwin's, and with whom
he (Barney) had become acquainted when the families were on terms of
intimacy. The girl sat smiling on his knee, whilst Barney who had a
glass of punch in his hand, kept applying it to her lips from time to
time, and pressing her so lovingly toward him, that she was obliged
occasionally to give him a pat upon the cheek, or to pull his whiskers.
Woodward's attention, however, was transferred once more to Grace
Davoren, from whom he could not keep his eyes--a fact which she soon
discovered, as was evident by a slight hauteur and affectation of manner
toward many of those with whom she had been previously on an equal and
familiar footing.

“Charles,” said he, “I must have a dance with this beautiful girl; do
you think she will dance with me?”

“I cannot tell,” replied his brother, “but you can ask her.”

“By the way, where are my father and the rest? They have left the room.”

“The landlord has got them a small apartment,” replied Charles, “where
they are now enjoying themselves. If you dance with Grace Davoren,
however, be on your good behavior, for if you take any unbecoming
liberties with her, you may repent it; don't imagine because you see
these humble girls allowing their sweethearts to kiss them in corners,
that either they or their friends will permit you to do so.”

“That's as it may be managed, perhaps,” said Woodward, who immediately
approached Grace in imitation of what he had seen, and making her a low
bow, said,

“I dance to you, Miss Davoren, if you will favor me.”

She was then sitting, but immediately rose up, with a blushing but
gratified face, and replied,

“I will, sir, but I'm not worthy to dance with a gentleman like you.”

“You are worthy to dance with a prince,” he replied, as he led her to
their station, fronting the music.

“Well, my pretty girl,” said he, “what do you wish?”

“Your will, sir, is my pleasure.”

“Very well. Piper,” said he, “play up 'Kiss my lady;'” which was
accordingly done, and the dance commenced. Woodward thought the most
popular thing he could do was to affect no superiority over the young
fellows present, but, on the contrary, to imitate their style and
manner of dancing as well as he could; and in this he acted with great
judgment. They felt flattered and gratified even at his awkward and
clumsy imitations of their steps, and received his efforts with much
laughter and cheering; nor was Grace herself insensible to the mirth
he occasioned. On he went, cutting and capering, until he had them in
convulsions; and when the dance was ended, he seized his partner in his
arms, swung her three times round, and imprinted a kiss upon her lips
with such good humor that he was highly applauded. He then ordered in
drink to treat her and her friends, which he distributed to them with
his own hand; and after contriving to gain a few minutes' private chat
with Grace, he amply rewarded the piper. He was now about to take
his leave and proceed with his brother, when two women, one about
thirty-five, and the other far advanced in years, both accosted him
almost at the same moment.

“Your honor won't go,” said the less aged of the two, “until you get
your fortune tould.”

“To be sure he won't, Caterine,” they all replied; “we'll engage the
gentleman will cross your hand wid silver, like his father before him,
his heart's not in the money.”

“Never mind her, sir,” said the aged crone, “she's a schemer, and will
tell you nothing but what she knows will plaise you. Show me your hand,
sir, and I'll tell you the truth.”

“Never mind the _calliagh_, sir, (old woman, by way of reproach;) she's
dotin', and hasn't remembered her own name these ten years.”

“It doesn't matter,” said Woodward, addressing Caterine, “I shall hear
what you both have to say--but you first.”

He accordingly crossed her hand with a piece of silver, after which she
looked closely into it--then upon his countenance, and said,

“You have two things in your mind, and they'll both succeed.”

“But, my good woman, any one might tell me as much.”

“No,” she replied, with confidence; “examine your own heart and you'll
find the two things there that it is fixed upon; and whisper,” she
added, putting her lips to his ear, “I know what they are, and can help
you in both. When you want me, inquire for Caterine Collins. My uncle is
Sol Donnell, the herb doctor.”

He smiled and nodded, but made no reply.

“Now,” said he, “my old crone, come and let me hear what you have to say
for me;” and as he spoke another coin was dropped into her withered and
skinny hand.

“Bring me a candle,” said she, in a voice that whistled with age, and if
one could judge by her hag-like and repulsive features, with a malignity
that was a habit of her life. After having inspected his palm with
the candle, she uttered three eldrich laughs, or rather screams, that
sounded through the room as if they were more than natural.

“Ha, ha, ha!” she exclaimed; “look here; there's the line of life
stopped by a red instrument; that's not good; I see it, I feel it; your
life will be short and your death violent; ay, indeed, the purty
bonfire of your life, for all so bright as it burns, will be put out wid
blood--and that soon.”

“You're a d--d old croaker,” said Woodward, “and take delight in
predicting evil. Here, my good woman,” he added, turning to the other,
“there's an additional half-crown for you, and I won't forget your
words.”

He and Charles then joined their friends in the other room, and as it
was getting late they all resolved to stroll once more through the town,
in order to take a parting look at the bonfires, to wish the people
good-night, and to thank them for the kindness and alacrity with which
they got them up, and manifested their good feeling upon so short a
notice. The large fire was again blazing, having been recruited with
a fresh supply of materials. The crowd were looking on; many were
staggering about, uttering a feeble huzza, in a state of complete
intoxication, and the fool of the parish was attempting to dance a
hornpipe, when large, blob-like drops began to fall, as happens at the
commencement of a heavy shower. Lindsay put his hand to his face, on
which some few of them had fallen, and, on looking at his fingers,
perceived that they were spotted as if with blood!

“Good God!” he exclaimed, “what is this? Am I bleeding?”

They all stared at him, and then at each other, with dismay and horror;
for there, unquestionably, was the hideous and terrible fact before
them, and legible on every! face around them--it was raining blood!

An awe, which we cannot describe, and a silence, deep as that of the
grave, followed this terrible prodigy. The silence did not last long,
however, for in a few minutes, during which the blood fell very thickly,
making their hands and visages appear as if they had been steeped
in gore--in a few moments, we say, the heavens, which had become one
black and dismal mass, opened, and from the chasm issued a red flash of
lightning, which was followed almost immediately by a roar of thunder,
so loud and terrific that the whole people became fearfully agitated
as they stood round the blaze. It was extremely difficult, indeed, for
ignorant persons to account for, or speculate upon, this strange and
frightful phenomenon. As they stood in fear and terror, with their faces
apparently bathed in blood, they seemed rather to resemble a group of
hideous murderers, standing as if about to be driven into the! flames of
perdition itself. To compare them to a tribe of red Indians surrounding
their war fires, would be but a faint and feeble simile when contrasted
with the terror which, notwithstanding the gory hue with which they
were covered from top to toe, might be read in their terrified eyes and
visages. After a few minutes, however, the alarm became more intense,
and put itself forth into words. The fearful intelligence now spread.
“It is raining blood! it is raining blood!” was shouted from every
mouth; those who were in the houses rushed out, and soon found that it
was true; for the red liquid was still descending, and in a few minutes
they soon were as red as the others. The flight home now became one of
panic; every house was crowded with strangers, who took refuge wherever
they could find shelter; and in the meantime the lightning was flashing
and the thunder pealing with stunning depth throughout the heavens. The
bonfires were soon deserted; for even those who were drunk and tipsy
had been aroused by the alarm, and the language in which it was uttered.
Nobody, in fact, was left at the great fire except those who composed
the dinner party, with the exception of the two clergymen, who fled and
disappeared along with the mob, urged, too, by the same motives.

“This will not be believed,” said Lindsay; “it is, beyond all doubt
and scepticism, a prodigy from heaven, and must portend some fearful
calamity. May God in heaven protect us! But who is this?”

As he spoke, a hideous old hag, bent over her staff, approached them;
but it did not appear that she was about to pay them any particular
attention. She was mumbling and cackling to herself when about to pass,
but was addressed by Lindsay.

“Where are you going, you old hag? They say you are acquainted with more
than you ought to know. Can you account for this blood that's falling?”

“Who are you that axes me?” she squeaked.

“I'm Mr. Lindsay, the magistrate.”

“Ay,” she screamed again, “it was for your son, Harry, na Suil Gloir,
(* Suil Gloir was an epithet bestowed on persons whose eyes were of
different colors) that this bonfire was made to-night. Well he knows
what I tould him, and let him think of it; but there will be more blood
than this, and that before long, I can tell you and him.”

So saying, she hobbled on, mumbling and muttering to herself like a
witch rehearsing her incantations on her way to join their sabbath. They
now turned their steps homewards, but had not proceeded far, when the
rain came down as it might be supposed to have done in the deluge; the,
lightnings flashed, the thunder continued! to roar, and by the time they
reached Rathfillan House they were absolutely drenched to the skin. The
next morning, to the astonishment of the people, there was not visible
a trace or fragment of the bonfires; I every vestige of them had
disappeared; and the general impression now was, that there must have
been something evil and unhallowed connected with the individual for
whom they had been prepared.




CHAPTER VI. Shawn-na-Middogue

--Shan-Dhinne-Dhuv, or The Black Spectre.


The next evening was calm and mild; the sun shone with a serene and
mellow light from the evening sky; the trees were green, and still; but
the music of the blackbird and the thrush came sweetly from their
leafy branches. Henry Woodward had been listening to a rather lengthy
discussion upon the subject of the blood-shower, which, indeed, was the
topic of much conversation and great wonder throughout the whole parish.
His father, a Protestant gentleman, and with some portion of
education, although not much, was, nevertheless, deeply imbued with
the superstitions which prevailed around him, as, in fact, were most of
those who existed in his day; the very air which he breathed was rife
with them; but what puzzled him and his family most was the difficulty
which they found in shaping the prodigy into significance. Why should
it take place, and upon such an occasion, they could not for their
lives imagine. The only persons in the family who seemed altogether
indifferent to it were Woodward and his mother, both of whom treated it
with ridicule and contempt.

“It comes before some calamity,” observed Mr. Lindsay.

“It comes before a fiddle-stick, Lindsay,” replied his wife. “Calamity!
yes; perhaps you may have a headache to-morrow, for which the world must
be prepared by a storm of thunder and lightning, and a shower of blood.
The head that reels over night with an excess of wine and punch will
ache in the morning without a prodigy to foretell it.”

“Say what you will,” he replied, “I believe the devil had a hand in
it; and I tell you,” he added, laughing, “that if you be advised by me,
you'll begin to prepare yourself--'a stitch in time saves nine,' you
know--so look sharp, I say.”

“This, Harry,” she said, addressing her son, “is the way your mother has
been treated all along; yes, by a brutal and coarse-minded husband, who
pays no attention to anything but his own gross and selfish enjoyments;
but, thank God, I have now some person to protect me.”

“O, ho!” said her husband, “you are for a battle now. Harry, you don't
know her. If she lets loose that scurrilous tongue of hers I have
no chance; upon my soul, I'd encounter another half dozen of
thunder-storms, and as many showers of blood, sooner than come under it
for ten minutes; a West India hurricane is a zephyr to it.”

“Ah, God help the unhappy woman that's blistered for life with an
ignorant sot!--such a woman is to be pitied.--and such a woman am I;--I,
you good-for-nothing drunken booby, who made you what you are.”

“O, fie! mamma,” said Maria, “this is too bad to papa, who, you know,
seldom replies to you at all.”

“Miss Lindsay, I shall suffer none of your impertinence,” said her
mother; “leave the room, madam, this moment--how dare you? but I am not
surprised at it;--leave the room, I say.”

The poor, amiable girl, who was all fearfulness and affection, quietly
left the room as she was desired, and her father, who saw that his
worthy wife was brimful of a coming squall, put on his hat, and after
having given one of his usual sardonic looks, left the apartment also.

“Mother,” said her son Charles, “I must protest against the
unjustifiable violence of temper with which you treat my father. You
know he was only jesting in what he said to you this moment.”

“Let him carry his jests else were, Mr. Charles,” she replied, “he
shan't indulge in them at my expense; nor will I have you abet him in
them as you always do--yes, sir, and laugh at them in my face. All this,
however, is very natural; as the old cock crows the young one learns.
As for Maria, if she makes as dutiful a wife as she does a daughter, her
husband may thank God for getting his full share of evil in this life.”

“I protest to heaven, Harry,” said Charles, addressing his brother, “if
ever there was a meek, sweet-tempered girl living, Maria is. You do not
yet know her, but you will, of course, have an opportunity of judging
for yourself.”

“You perceive, Harry,” said his mother, addressing him in turn, “you
perceive how they are banded against me; in fact, they are joined with
their father in a conspiracy to destroy my peace and happiness. This is
the feeling that prevails against me in the house at large, for which I
may thank my husband and children--I don't include you, Harry. There
is not a servant in our establishment but could poison me, and probably
would, too, were it not for fear of the gallows.”

Woodward listened to this strange scene with amazement, but was prudent
enough to take no part in it whatsoever. On the contrary, he got his hat
and proceeded out to take a stroll, as the evening was so fine, and the
aspect of the country was so delightful.

“Harry,” said his brother, “if you're for a walk I'll go with you.”

“Not at present, Charley,” said he, “I am in a thoughtful mood, and
generally prefer a lonely stroll on such a beautiful evening as this.”

He accordingly went out, and bent his I steps by a long, rude green
lane, which extended upwards of half a mile across a rich! country,
undulating with fields and meadows. This was terminated by a clump of,
hawthorn trees, then white and fragrant with their lovely blossoms,
which lay in rich profusion on the ground. Contiguous to this was a
small but delightful green glen, from the side of which issued one of
those beautiful spring wells for which the country is so celebrated.
Over a verdant little hill, which concealed this glen and the well we
mention, from a few humble houses, or rather a decenter kind of cabins,
was visible a beaten pathway by which the inhabitants of this small
hamlet came for their water. Upon this, shaded as he was by the
trees, he steadily kept his eye for a considerable time, as if in the
expectation of some person who had made an appointment to meet him. Half
an hour had nearly elapsed--the shades of evening were now beginning
to fall, and he had just come to the resolution of retracing his steps,
with a curse of disappointment on his lips, when, on taking another,
and what he intended to be a last glance at the pathway in question,
he espied the individual for whom he waited. This was no other than the
young beauty of the neighborhood--Grace Davoren. She was tripping along
with a light and merry step, lilting an Irish air of a very lively
character, to which she could scarcely prevent herself from dancing, so
elastic and buoyant were her spirits. On coming to the brow of the glen
she paused a moment and cast her eye searchingly around her, but seemed
after the scrutiny to hesitate about proceeding farther.

Woodward immediately showed himself, and after beckoning to her,
proceeded toward the well. She still paused, however, as if irresolute;
but after one or two significant gestures on his part, she descended
with a slow and apparently a timid step, and in a couple of minutes
stood beside the well. The immediate purport of their conversation
is not essential to this narrative; but, indeed, we presume that our
readers may give a very good guess at it without any assistance from
us. The beautiful girl was young, and credulous, and innocent, as
might naturally be inferred from the confusion of her manner, and the
tremulous tones of her voice, which, indeed, were seductive and full of
natural melody. Her heart palpitated until its beatings might be
heard, and she trembled with that kind of terror which is composed of
apprehension and pleasure. That a gentleman--one of the quality--could
condescend to feel any interest in a humble girl like her, was what she
could scarcely have dreamed; but when he told her of her beauty, the
natural elegance and symmetry of her figure, and added that he loved her
better than any girl, either high or low, he had ever seen, she believed
that his words were true, and her brain became almost giddy with wonder
and delight. Then she considered what a triumph it was over all her
female acquaintances, who, if they knew it, would certainly envy
her even far more than they did already. After about half an hour's
conversation the darkness set in, and she expressed an apprehension
lest some of her family should come in quest of her--a circumstance, she
said, which might be dangerous to them both. He then prevailed on her
to promise another meeting, which at length she did; but on his taking
leave of her she asked him by which way he intended to go home.

“I came by the old green path,” said he, “but intend to turn down the
glen into the common road.”

“O, don't go that way,” said she; “if you do, you'll have to pass the
haunted house, ay, and maybe, might meet the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_.”

“What is that,” said he.

“O, Lord save us, sir,” said she, “did you never hear of the
_Shan-dhinne-dhuv?_ A spirit, sir, that appears about the haunted house
in the shape of a black ould man, and they say that nobody lives long
afther seein' him three times.”

“Yes; but did he ever take any person's life?”

“They say so, sir.”

“When? How long ago?”

“Indeed, I can't tell that, sir; but sure every one says it.”

“Well, what every one says must be true,” he replied, smiling. “I,
however, am not afraid of him, as I never go unarmed; and if I happen to
meet him, trust me I will know what mettle he's made of before we part,
or whether he belongs to this world or the other.”

He then went down the glen, by the bottom of which the road went; and at
a lonely place in a dark angle of it this far-famed spirit was said to
appear.

This vain, but simple girl, the pride of her honest parents and all her
simple relations and friends, took up her pitcher and proceeded with an
elated heart by the pathway house. We say her heart was elated at
the notion of having engaged the affections of a handsome, young, and
elegant gentleman, but at the same time she felt a secret sense of
error, if not of guilt, in having given him a clandestine meeting, and
kept an appointment which she knew her parents and brothers would have
heard with indignation and shame. She was confident, however, in her own
strength, and resolved in her mind that Woodward's attachment for her
never should terminate either in her disgrace or “ruin.” There were,
however, many foolish and pernicious ballads sung about that period
at the hearths of the peasantry, in which some lord or squire of high
degree was represented to have fallen in love with some beautiful girl
of humble life, whom he married in spite of his proud relations, and
after having made her a lady of rank, and dressed her in silks and
satins, gold rings and jewels, brought her home to his castle, where
they lived in grandeur and happiness for the remainder of their lives.
The simple-minded girl began to imagine that some such agreeable destiny
might be reserved for herself; and thus endeavored, by the deceitful
sophistry of a credulous heart, and proud of her beauty, to palliate her
conduct amidst the accusations of her own conscience, which told her she
was acting wrong.

She had now got about half way home, when she saw an individual approach
her at a rapid pace; and as the moon had just risen, his figure was
distinctly before her, and she immediately felt a strong impression
of terror and alarm. The individual in question was young, tall, and
muscular; his person had in it every symptom of extraordinary activity
and vigor. His features, however, were not at all such as could be
termed handsome; so far from that, they were rude and stern, but not
without a wild and disagreeable dignity. His eyes were at all times
fierce and fiery, and gave unequivocal indications of a fierce and fiery
spirit. He wore a pair of rude pantaloons that fitted closely to his
finely made limbs, a short jacket or Wyliecoat that also fitted closely
to his body, over which he wore the usual cloak of that day, which was
bound about his middle with a belt and buckle, in which was stuck a
middogue, or, as it ought to be written, _meadoige_, and pronounced
_maddogay_. He wore a kind of cap or _barrad_, which, as well as his
cloak, could, by being turned inside out, instantly change his whole
appearance, and mislead his pursuers--for he was the outlaw. Such was
the startling individual who now approached her, and at whose fierce
aspect she trembled--not less from her knowledge of the natural violence
of his character than from a consciousness of her interview with
Woodward.

“Well, Granua (Grace),” said he, quickly and with some vehemence, “where
have you been?”

“At the well,” she replied; “have you eyes in your head? Don't you see
my pitcher?”

“I do; but what kept you there so long? and why is your voice tremblin',
as if you wor afeard, or did something wrong? Why is your face pale,
too?--it's not often so.”

“The Lord save us, Shawn,” replied Grace, attempting to treat those
pointed interrogatories with a jocular spirit, “how can you expect me to
answer such a catechize as you're puttin' to me at wanst.”

“Answer me, in the mane time,” he replied; “I'll have no doubling,
Granua.”

“Has anything vexed you, Shawn?”

“_Chorp an diaoul!_ tell me why you staid so long at the well”--and as
he spoke his eyes flashed with resentment and suspicion.

“I didn't stay long at it.”

“I say you did. What kept you?”

“Why, bekaise I didn't hurry myself, but took my time. I was often
longer.”

“You were spakin' to some one at the well.”

“Ah, thin, Shawn, who would I be spakin' to?”

“Maybe I know--I believe I do--but I want now to know whether you're a
liar, as I suspect you to be, or whether you are honest enough to tell
the truth.”

“Do you suspect me, then?”

“I do suspect you; or rather I don't--bekaise I know the truth. Answer
me--who were you spakin' with?”

“Troth,” said she, “I was lookin' at your sweetheart in the well,”
 meaning her own shadow, “and was only asking her how she did.”

“You danced with _Harry-na-Suil Balor_ last night?”

“I did; because the gentleman axed me--and why would I refuse him?”

“You whispered in a corner with him?”

“I did not,” she replied; “how could I when the room was so throng?”

“Ay, betther in a throng room than a thin one; ay, and you promised to
meet him at the well to-night; and you kept your word.”

A woman's courage and determination to persist in falsehood are never
so decided and deliberate as when she feels that the suspicion expressed
against her is true. She then gets into heroics and attempts to turn the
tables upon her opponent, especially when she knows, as Miss Davoren did
on this occasion, that he has nothing but suspicion to support him. She
knew that her lover had been at the bonfire, and that his friends must
have seen her dance with Woodward; and this she did not attempt to deny,
because she could not; but as for their tryst at the well, she felt
satisfied, from her knowledge of his jealous and violent character, that
if he had been aware of it, it would not have been by seeking the fact
through the medium of his threats and her fears that he would have
proceeded. Had he seen Woodward, for instance, and herself holding a
secret meeting in such a place and at such an hour, she concluded justly
that the _middogue_ or dagger, for the use of which he had been already
so celebrated, would have been brought into requisition against either
one or both.

“I'll talk no more to you,” she replied, with a flushed face; “for even
if I tould you the truth, you wouldn't believe me. I did meet him, then;
are you satisfied now?”

This admission was an able stroke of policy on her part, as the reader
will soon perceive.

“O,” he exclaimed, with a bitter, or, rather, a furious expression of
face, “_dar manim_, if you had, you wouldn't dare to confess as much.
But listen to me; if I ever hear or know, to my own satisfaction, that
you meet him, or keep his company, or put yourself in his power,
I'll send six inches of this “--and he pulled out the glittering
weapon--“into your heart and his; so now be warned and avoid him, and
don't bring down my vengeance on you both.”

“I don't see what right you have to bring me over the coals about any
one. My father was forcin' me to marry you; but I now tell you to your
teeth, that I never had the slightest intention of it. No! I wouldn't
take the wealth of the barony, and be the wife of sich a savage
murdherer. No man wid blood upon his hands and upon his sowl, as you
have--a public robber, a murdherer, an outlaw--will ever be my husband.
What right have you to tell me who I'm to spake to, or who I'm not to
spake to?”

“Ah,” he replied, “that wasn't your language to me not long ago.”

“But you were a different boy then from what you are now. If you had
kept your name free from disgrace and blood, I might have loved you; but
I cannot love a man with such crimes to answer for as you have.”

“You accuse me of shedding blood,” he replied; “that is false. I have
never shed blood nor taken life; but, on the contrary, did all in my
power to prevent those who have placed me at their head from doin' so.
Yet, when they did it in my absence, and against my orders, the blame
and guilt is charged upon me because I am their leader. As for anything
else I have done, I do not look upon it as a crime; let it rest upon the
oppression that drove me and others to the wild lives we lead. We are
forced to live now the best way we can, and that you know; but as to
this gentleman, you mustn't spake to him at any rate,” he proceeded;
“why should you? What 'ud make a man so high in life, and so far above
you as he is, strive to become acquainted with you, unless to bring
about your ruin to gratify his own bad passions? Think of it, and bring
it home to your heart. You have too many examples before your eyes,
young as you are, of silly girls that allow themselves to be made fools
of, and desaved and ruined by such scoundrels as this. Look at that
unfortunate girl in the mountains there--Nannie Morrissey; look at her
father hanged only for takin' God's just revenge, as he had a right to
do, on the villain that brought destruction upon her and his innocent
family, and black shame upon their name that never had a spot upon it
before. After these words you may now act as you like; but remember that
you have got _Shawn-na-Middogue's_ warning, and you ought to know what
that is.”

He then started off in the same direction which Woodward had taken, and
Grace, having looked after him with considerable indignation on her own
part and considerable apprehension on behalf of Woodward, took up her
pitcher and proceeded home.

She now felt herself much disturbed, and experienced that state of mind
which is often occasioned by the enunciation of that which is known
to be truth, but which, at the same time, is productive of pain to the
conscience, especially when that conscience begins to abandon the field
and fly from its duty.

Woodward, as he had intended, preferred the open and common road home,
although it was much longer, rather than return by the old green
lane, which was rugged and uneven, and full of deep ruts, dangerous
inequalities, and stumps of old trees, all of which rendered it not only
a disagreeable, but a dangerous, path by night. Having got out upon
the highway, which here, and until he reached near home, was, indeed,
solemn-looking and lonely, not a habitation except the haunted house
being visible for upwards of two miles, he proceeded on his way,
thinking of his interview with Grace Davoren. The country on each side
of him was nearly a desert; a gray ruin, some of whose standing and
isolated fragments assumed, to the excited imagination of the terrified
peasants as they passed it by night, the appearance of supernatural
beings, stood to the left, in the centre of an antiquated church-yard,
in which there had not been a corpse buried for nearly half a century--a
circumstance which always invests a graveyard with a more fearful
character. As Woodward gazed at these still and lonely relics of the
dead, upon which the faint rays of the moon gleamed with a spectral and
melancholy light, he could not help feeling that the sight itself, and
the associations connected with it, were calculated to fill weak minds
with strong feelings of supernatural terror. His, however, was not a
mind accessible to any such impressions; but at the same time he could
make allowance for them among those who had seldom any other notions to
guide them on such subjects than those of superstition and ignorance.

The haunted house, which was not yet in sight, he did not remember, nor
was he acquainted with its history, with the exception of Grace's
slight allusion to it. At length he came to a part of the road which was
overhung, or rather altogether covered with long beech trees, whose huge
arms met and intertwined with each other across it, filling the arch
they made with a solemn darkness even in the noon of day. At night,
however, the obscurity was black and palpable; and such upon this
occasion was its awful solemnity and stillness, and the sense of
insecurity occasioned by the almost supernatural gloom about him, that
Woodward could not avoid the idea that it afforded no bad conception
of the entrance to the world of darkness and of spirits. He had not
proceeded far, however, under this dismal canopy, when an incident
occurred which tested his courage severely. As he went along he imagined
that he heard the sound of human footsteps near him. This, to be sure,
gave him at first no trouble on the score of anything supernatural. The
country, however, was, as we have already intimated, very much infested
with outlaws and robbers, and although Woodward was well armed, as he
had truly said, and was no coward besides, yet it was upon this view
of the matter that he experienced anything like apprehension. He
accordingly paused, in order to ascertain whether the footsteps he heard
might not have been the echo of his own. When his steps ceased, so
also did the others; and when he advanced again so did they. He coughed
aloud, but there was no echo; he shouted out “Is there any one there?”
 but still there was a dead stillness. At length he said again, “Whoever
you may be, and especially if your designs be evil and unlawful, you had
better beware; I am well armed, and both able and determined to defend
myself; if money is your object, pass on, for I have none about me.”

Again there was the silence, as there was the darkness of the grave. He
now resumed his former pace, and the noise of footsteps, evidently and
distinctly different from his own, were once more heard near him. Those
that accompanied him fell upon his ear with a light, but strange and
chilling sound, that filled him with surprise, and something like awe.
In fact, he had never heard anything similar to it before. It was very
strange, he thought, for the sounds, though light, were yet as distinct
and well-defined as his own. He still held a pistol in each hand, and as
he had no means of unravelling this mystery so long as he was inwrapped
in such Cimmerian gloom, he resolved to accelerate his pace and get into
the light of the moon as soon as he could. He accordingly did so; but
the footsteps, although they fell not now so quickly as his own, still
seemed to maintain the same distance from him as before. This certainly
puzzled him; and he was attempting, if possible, to solve this new
difficulty, when he found himself emerging from the darkness, and in
a few moments standing in the light of the moon. He immediately looked
about him, but except the usual inanimate objects of nature, he could
see nothing. Whatever it is, thought he, or, rather, whoever it is, he
has thought proper to remain undiscovered in the darkness. I shall now
bid him good-night, and proceed on my way home. He accordingly moved
on once more, when, to his utter astonishment, he heard the footsteps
again, precisely within the same distance of him as before.

“Tut,” said he, “I now perceive what the matter with me is. This is a
mere hallucination, occasioned by a disordered state of the nerves; and
as he spoke he returned his pistols into his breast pockets, where
he usually wore them, and once more resumed his journey. There
was, however, something in the sound of the footsteps--something so
hollow--so cold, as it were, and so unearthly, that he could not throw
off the unaccountable impression which it made upon him, infidel and
sceptic as he was upon all supernatural intimations and appearances. At
length, he proceeded, or rather they proceeded, onward until he arrived
within sight of what he supposed to be the haunted house. He paused
a few moments, and was not now so insensible to its lonely and dismal
aspect. It was a two-storied house, and nothing could surpass the
spectral appearance of the moon's light as it fell with its pale and
death-like lustre upon the windows. He stood contemplating it for
some time, when, all at once, he perceived, walking about ten yards in
advance of him, the shape of a man dressed in black from top to toe. It
was not within the scope of human fortitude to avoid being startled by
such a sudden and incomprehensible apparition. Woodward was startled;
but he soon recovered himself, and after the first shock felt rather
satisfied that he had some visible object with which he could make the
experiment he projected, viz., to ascertain the nature, whether mortal
or otherwise, of the being before him. With this purpose in view, he
walked very quickly after him, and as the other did not seem to quicken
his pace into a corresponding speed, he took it for granted that
he would soon overtake him. In this, however, he was, much to his
astonishment, mistaken. His own walk was quick and rapid, whilst that of
this incomprehensible figure was slow and solemn, and yet he could not
lessen the distance between them a single inch.

“Stop, sir,” said Woodward, “whoever or whatever you are--stop, I wish
to speak with you; be you mortal or spiritual, I fear you not--only
stop.”

The being before him, however, walked on at the same slow and solemn
pace, but still persisted in maintaining his distance. Woodward was
resolute, fearless--a sceptic, an infidel, a materialist--but here was a
walking proposition in his presence which he could not solve, and which,
up to that point, at least, had set all his theories at defiance. His
blood rose--he became annoyed at the strange silence of the being before
him, but more still at the mysterious and tardy pace with which it
seemed to precede and escape him.

[Illustration: PAGE 652-- I will follow it until morning]

“I will follow it until morning,” he said to himself, “or else I shall
develop this startling enigma.”

At this moment his mysterious fellow-traveller, after having advanced as
if there had not been such an individual as Woodward in existence, now
stood; he was directly opposite the haunted house, and turning round,
faced the tantalized and bewildered mortal. The latter looked on him;
his countenance was the countenance of the dead--of the sheeted dead,
stretched out in the bloodless pallor which lies upon the face of
vanished life--of existence that is no more, at least in flesh and
blood. Woodward approached him--for the thing had stood, as we have
said, and permitted, him to come within a few yards from him. His eyes
were cold and glassy, and apparently without speculation, like those
of a dead man open; yet, notwithstanding this, Woodward felt that they
looked at him, if not into him.

“Speak,” said he, “speak; who or what are you?”

He received no reply; but in a few seconds the apparition, if it were
such, put his hand into his bosom, and, pulling out a dagger, which
gleamed with a faint and visionary light, he directed it as if to his
(Woodward's) heart. Three times he did this, in an attitude more of
warning than of anger, when, at length, he turned and approached the
haunted house, at the doo

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