“Death!” The speaker was a tall, sinewy, athletic man, from twenty-eight to thirty years of age. The single word came from his lips short and sharp as a pistol shot. He looked around upon his auditors, who watched his hard-set features in silence. A group of a dozen peasants stood before him, the youngest not more than twenty, the oldest a man of sixty years, above the average height, thin, cadaverous looking, with hollow, sunken eyes, black as night, that contrasted strangely with the prominent, grey, bushy eyebrows. Deep lines, traced by suffering and bitter thought, furrowed his ample brow, and long, lank, white hair came down almost to his shoulders. His eyes rested upon the speaker, whose face became blanched under the terrible and earnest gaze that was fastened upon him. Though dressed in peasant garb, it was easy to see that the young man’s life was not always spent in the peaceful occupation of the peasantry; a scar on his right cheek told a story of conflict, while the deep bronze that stained his face was suggestive of travel in other lands. Born on the southern coast, his earlier years were spent in the precarious pursuit of fishing, and just as he crossed the threshold of manhood, an adventurousspirit prompted him to join some of his comrades who sailed with a French captain bound from the Shannon for Brest. He pursued the sea-faring life for a year or two, when, falling in at one of the French ports with a detachment of the Irish Brigade, then battling under theFleur-de-lis, he took service in it, and fought in several engagements, until a bullet in the breast incapacitated him for the duties of a soldier’s life. Returning to Ireland, he found the peasantry engaged in the great agrarian struggle which produced the “Whiteboys.” His military and adventurous spirit, as well as his sympathy with his class, invested the conspiracy with a peculiar attraction for him. He became a member of it, and before many months had passed was the leader of the organisation in his district. His superior ability, and his power of swift and keen judgment, commanded the respect and confidence of his followers. On many a night before this on which our story opens, the terrible sentence of death had fallen from his lips, but never before had his comrades observed the deathlike pallor that was in his face to-night. The scene was a weird one. A long, low-roofed cave, of irregular shape, not more than twelve feet at the widest, and narrowing towards the aperture, which was scarce large enough to allow of one man at a time crouching on his hands and knees; a small opening in the roof, through which a hand might be thrust, allowed the escape of the smoke from thepine logs, blazing in the further end of the cave. As the flame leaped up and down, a thousand shadows and flickering lights danced on roof, and floor, and walls, flitting fantastically, bringing into occasional prominence, the features of the group. As the speaker uttered the single word, a log, displaced by the action of the fire, blazed fiercely, and threw its light upon his face. In the searching light every lineament was clearly portrayed, and the twitching of his mouth, and the white look that chased the bronze from his cheek, became plainly visible to the eyes of his followers.
“It is well,” said the old man. “When shall we meet again?”
The question was addressed to the leader. All eyes were fastened on him as he said with unusual slowness:
“This night fortnight.”
“Too long,” cried the old man, with a fierce cry that had a hard metallic ring in it as it struck against the walls of the cave.
“Too long,” murmured the others.
The leader looked around, scanning the faces of each one closely.
“Too long,” repeated the old man, in deeper tones.
“Well, this night week, be it,” said the leader.
“Agreed,” came the response.
And one by one the party left the cave, save the old man and the leader. The old man moved tothe aperture, peered out, and waited until the last of his comrades had disappeared. He then turned back, and, standing with folded arms before his companion, said to him:
“We chose you to be our leader because we knew you were brave, and we believed you to be true; you have never failed us up to this.”
“Then why do you doubt me now?”
“Because,” said the old man gravely, “there was a white look in your face to-night, which was the sign of either fear or treachery; you are too brave for fear; then what did it mean? You have decreed swift doom to the petty tyrants; why did you seek to-night to postpone the execution of the arch tyrant? You know the wrong he has done our people—ay, the nameless outrages which he has inflicted upon their honour, yet you sought to gain for him the long day, for him who would string us up at short shrift. What does it mean?” And the old man’s tones became fiercer. “Is it true what they whisper of you, that the nut-brown hair and the bright eyes and the red mouth of his daughter have caught you in the net, and that your arm is no longer free, and that your heart is unmanned? Look at me! I am old, and worn, and withered. I was once young like you. I knew what it was to love, and the sweetest maid that ever stepped down the mountain side, bright and sparkling as a streamlet in the sun, was the girl of my heart. Forty years ago the green carpetwas laid over her in the old churchyard, and a week after there was a bullet in the heart of him who was the father of the man you want to save. Ah! You cannot know, God grant you may never know what forty years of sorrow and bitterness are to the heart of man. Yet you would save him, who follows in the footsteps of his father—him who, as I have told you, has done us nameless wrong. Beware! I am old and you are young; you are strong and I am weak, but I can strike a traitor yet.”
As the old man spoke these last words, he had drawn himself up to his full height, his right arm was lifted, and the clenched fist drove the nails into the palm of his hand. Suddenly it fell to his side, and turning from his companion he sought the opening of the cave and disappeared in the night. The leader stood alone. The light from the pine logs began slowly to die out, shadows clothed the walls of the cave and advanced along the floor, and save a small pool of red light below and a faint flickering glow on the roof above, everything was in darkness. Still the leader remained with his arms crossed, motionless; various thoughts disturbed his heart, thoughts of the old days when he was a fisher lad; thoughts of the bivouac and the battle, of the stories of the camp fire, of the long yearning in foreign fields for his own old island home, of the oppression of the people, of the loyalty of his followers, of their faithin him, of the brave work he had hoped to do for them, and then of the sweet face of the girl that he knew never could be his, but for whose sake he would have plucked his eyes out and gone through a thousand deaths. He knew the old man had spoken truly; he knew that her father was one of the bitterest and most hated of the oppressors of his people, and yet he had to confess to himself that for her sake he had sought to gain for him the long day. The last flickering embers were almost dead. Suddenly he became aware of the darkness around, and with an effort, bracing himself up, he sought to chase the harassing thoughts away from him and left the cave.
The cave was by the sea-shore; it was far up on the cliffs, its entrance was concealed by a projecting rock, and was known to very few. A rugged ascent scarcely safe to even the most practised feet, and dangerous to any but a man of the firmest nerves, led up to it from the beach. When the leader stepped through the outlet the strong sea breeze restored him to himself. He descended cautiously until he reached the strand. To the right lay his home. For a moment he turned in that direction, but only for a moment, and then he went the opposite way. After walking for a quarter of an hour he again ascended the cliff, and reaching the table land advanced with quick steps until he found the road. Having gone three or four hundred yards, a light piercing far through the darknessfrom the window of a square building, that looked half fortress and half mansion, caught his eyes. There was a wild stir in his heart, and the blood rushed fiercely through his veins. He walked like one fascinated. He knew not what he thought; he only felt that if with every forward step death should grip him by the throat he should still go on. At last he stood almost close enough to the lighted windows to touch them with his hand. He looked into the room which was on the ground floor. Pictures and books and embroidery were there; a bright fire sparkled on the hearth, candles fixed against the walls made the room almost as light as day. There was no one visible. Just as he was about to turn away in despair the door opened and a radiant girl entered. She advanced towards the fireplace, shuddered a little as if cold, and stretched her soft white hands over the blaze, and the ruddy glow stained the white lilies on her cheeks. Something like a sob stuck in his throat, and when a moment after her father entered the room, and the Whiteboy chief remembered the sentence in the cave, with a moan, like that of a dumb animal in pain, he staggered helplessly away and sought his home.
The morning broke cold and grey, but soon the level lights of the winter sun came into the room where he had spent a sleepless night. He rose from his bed, and dressing himself opened the little window and looked out upon the sea. Thechill breeze of the morning, odorous with the brine of the ocean, filled the room. Hours passed and he still watched the glancing billows keen and cold, and thought of the Shannon river and his voyage to Brest and the escape that was open to him, and he sank into himself and thought and thought. Then looking out again he saw on the strand below, moving along with pain, the old man of the cave, and his heart was divided, and once more he remembered the oppressions of his people.
“They trust me,” he said, “and what am I to her? What am I to her?” he cried out passionately, “she does not know of my existence. I am one of the crowd that her father treats even worse than dogs, and whom she, with all her graciousness, scarcely deigns to recognise. Ay! there you go, old man, with your load of sorrow, greater than mine; and yet ’tis hard, ’tis hard to think of it, that I should be the one to pronounce his doom.”
Wearily he closed the window and left the room and went down by the sea, and watched its ebbing and its flowing with sinking heart. The following night found him equally restless. How the week passed he did not know, but the night came when he was to meet his followers again in the cave. A week before he was a man of thirty years, looking resolute and brave save for the white look that momentarily came into his face as he pronounced the terrible sentence; to-night he looked old andhaggard, and the ruddy light from the blazing logs served only to make his face look ghastly. The doom had been decreed. To-night was to decide who was to carry it into execution. Hitherto the executioner had been selected by lot. To-night it was proposed the same course should be followed. All appeared to agree, when the old man lifted his voice and said:
“We have chosen this man as our leader; we have been faithful to him in carrying out his orders; we have placed our necks within the gallows noose; some of us have stepped up the gallows stair and died without betraying him, when by betraying him they could have saved their lives. The time has come when he should prove his fidelity to us by taking this deed upon himself.”
When the old man had ceased speaking there was perfect silence. In the uncertain light it was impossible to discern clearly the features of the leader. But he spoke no word. An indistinct muttering from the followers scarcely broke the silence. Then a stout strapping fellow stepped to the front and said:
“No! I believe in our leader. Up to this it has always been decided by lot. It fell to me twice. I wished it fell to someone else; but when it fell on me I did it. I don’t see why the captain should not have the same chance as the rest of us.”
A chorus of approval answered this little speech.
“Well, then, comrades,” said the leader, “are you all satisfied that it should go by lot?”
“Yes, yes,” was the answer, while the old man stood with folded arms and remained silent.
“Then let it be by lot,” said the leader.
This course having been determined upon, a pebble was produced for every man present. One was a white pebble; the others were of various colours. The man who drew the white pebble was to be the executioner. The pebbles were placed in a small hole in the side of the cave, not touched by the light of the fire, and too high, even if there was most perfect light to allow anyone to see its contents. The old man was the first to try his fate, and kept the pebble which he drew close in his clenched fist; the others followed, and each also kept the pebble in his closed fist. The last to draw was the leader. The old man, stirring the logs with his feet, said as the blaze lit up the cave—
“Now, let us show our hands,” and every man displayed the pebble upon his level palm.
The white was in the leader’s hand. He had no sooner shown it than his fingers closed over it with a convulsive grasp that might have crushed it into powder.
“Yes,” he said, with a strident voice, “the lot has decided I’m to be the executioner. I shall answer for the discharge of my duty with my life.”
“To-night,” hissed the old man between his teeth.
“Yes, to-night,” was the reply, cold, and brief and fierce.
The conspirators filed out of the cave; the last to leave was the leader.
The new moon had just broken through the clouds, which flung their dark shadows on the sea. He gained the strand, conscious that his comrades were watching him. He took the direction of the doomed house; he moved along like a man whose heart was dead within him. He crossed the lawn, he advanced to the window; the lights were burning in the room as they had burned on that other night. The father and the daughter sat, side by side, in front of the cheerful fire, her arm round his neck, and from the movements of her lips, the light upon her face, and the pleasant laughter in her eyes, the chief knew she was talking fondly. In a moment of madness he lifted his pistol, and aimed it at her father’s head. Just then the girl drew back, rose from her chair, and standing up to her full height, displayed all her freshening beauty.
“God bless you, darling!” he sobbed; and when he was found dead outside the window, with a bullet from his own pistol in his heart, the boys knew that he was “True to them to the Death.”
(A Story of ’98).
Nora O’Kellywas just nineteen years of age—tall, lissome, with cheeks like an apple blossom, hair as brown as a ripe beechnut glowing in the sunset, lips like rowan-berries in the warm August days, and eyes like twin stars looking at themselves in a woodland pool—a girl to dream about in one’s sleep, to rave about when awake.
This is high praise of a sweet Irish colleen, the critical reader may say, but it was not half high enough for half the boys whose heads she turned when she and they were young. Alas! they—the admired and the admirers—have long since passed away, and are all now in noteless graves, for the little story, if story it can be called, which is set down here, is a story of a hundred years ago, when the war clouds hovered over the land, and from out their dark bosoms flashed the lightnings that rived many a home and made many places desolate.
She was a farmer’s daughter in the county Kildare, who lived not far from Naas. Her life had been uneventful until her mother died when she was little over sixteen. Since then, she, the only child, had been the solace of her father. He,as is the way with fathers, would have kept her always by him; and in the happiness which her loving companionship brought him, he persuaded himself that she was perfectly happy under his roof, and that her thoughts never wandered away from it and him.
But as the wind bloweth where it lists, so love wanders at its own sweet will. Sometimes it will steal in through the guarded gates of palaces; sometimes it will creep in through the crannies of the mud-wall cabins; no place is secure from it; the walled town is as defenceless against its assault as the open plain. It marches down through centuries, the overthrow of kingdoms and of nations cannot hinder its buoyant step, and once in a way it came knocking at the heart of sweet Nora O’Kelly. She did not at once understand the summons—what young girl sweet and innocent as she ever does? But she heard the knocking at her heart all the same, and when she looked through the windows of her eyes she saw, or thought she saw, young Larry O’Connor looking straight at her with such a look as she had never seen in a boy’s eyes before, and she felt as if she were walking on air, and that her heart was one sweet song that could not find a word to interpret its music.
Oh! for the delicious dream that comes to a happy privileged youth or maiden once in a lifetime, and that is, no matter what the sceptics and the scoffers say, sometimes realised, and this wasthe dream that had invaded Nora’s heart and taken complete possession of it.
But Larry O’Connor was poor; one of half a dozen children who had to live out of a farm not half as large as that of Nora’s father, and she was his only child. Her father also, like many men of property, thought chiefly of it, and was utterly averse to change, and he had nothing but hard words for the emissaries of the French Government as he said and thought, who were going about the country, inculcating subversive ideas in the minds of the young generation.
Conscious of the growing unrest amongst the people, Mr. O’Kelly recognised, but not until after a long struggle with himself that it was desirable he should settle Nora in life. She was young, beautiful and attractive, and he had means greater than his station. He had discovered for himself that young Captain Anthony of the Yeos, the son of his landlord, had been smitten by his daughter’s charms. And though very loath to think of her leaving himself once or twice, perhaps oftener, it crossed his mind that if she were to leave him she could do no better than become Captain Anthony’s wife. He was a gentleman to the manner born, though a little self-willed and occasionally passionate—failings common enough in these days when his class, a minority of the people was in the ascendant, with scarcely anyone to question them, save some fierce peasant seeking ‘the wild justice of revenge.’
Young Anthony was a good-looking youth, with an air of distinction which goes far to capture woman’s hearts. He had first met Nora O’Kelly at a ball given by his father to his tenants, and had danced with her on that occasion twice or thrice. Nora met him with the freedom of a maiden who looked upon him as above her in station, and she regarded his courtesy towards her as a delicate compliment due from his superior position rather than to herself. Her frankness did not deceive him for a moment. There was that in her eyes—that which is in the eyes of every maiden of guiless heart—which told more plainly than words can tell that he was no more to her than a gracious stranger, here to-day and gone to-morrow.
But this only added fuel to the fire kindled in his heart, her beauty, as marvellous, though happily not so fleeting, as that of the white rose which wins the heart of the wayfarer through the hedgerows in the days of June. A good-looking young fellow as he was, enjoying a high social position, many longing eyes had bent upon him, and he had no doubt that he could easily find a lady of his own station who would be willing to share his fortunes as his wife. But he had hitherto kept himself aloof from the snares of love, and now unwittingly he had fallen over head and ears into it. He did not know this for a considerable time. He had, it is true, directed his steps often towards Nora’s house, on one pretence or another to see herfather, but really to catch a glimpse of her. But he was seldom successful, as Nora had no desire whatever to come in his way, and hardly ever gave him a moment’s thought. Indeed, her whole mind was constantly filled with the vision of Larry O’Connor, who was just as constantly thinking of her, though neither of them had yet spoken of love.
But Captain Anthony, although conscious of a growing interest in Nora, did not suspect that he was really in love with her, and, as a consequence, had not formed any ‘intentions’ concerning her. If he had it would doubtless never have occurred to him that, in case he ventured to offer his hand to her, he would meet with a refusal. But all at once, in the most unexpected manner, he made the discovery that his heart was in her keeping. Riding by the boreen leading up to her father’s house in the twilight of an April evening he caught a glimpse of two figures moving up the boreen close together. One he knew at a glance, it was Nora; the other he found to be Larry O’Connor. There was nothing very remarkable in this, for the farms of the two families were joined, and as neighbour’s children they might naturally be on friendly terms, but the sight smote the heart of Anthony like a sword thrust, and something like hatred for O’Connor was stirred up in him. He rode on home slowly, gnawed at by jealous pangs. The face of Nora was before his vision in all its radiant beauty. The soft, sweet caressing voice which wonall hearts was in his ear, but now it was whispering, he had no doubt, words of love into another’s, and that other one wholly unworthy of her, a mere peasant, for Captain Anthony prided himself on his gentility, although he was only a descendant of a Cromwellian trooper. In another mood he might perhaps have classed Nora’s father in the same category, but now his eyes were suddenly opened to her worth, and the possibility—nay, the likelihood of losing her made her appear still more precious. He made no attempt to shake himself free from his torment. He surrendered himself all that night to it, the next day he came to the rash determination as it proved to go straight to Mr. O’Kelly and ask for Nora’s hand. He had no doubt at all of his consent, and he tried to persuade himself that Nora’s heart was still free, and that she would scarcely refuse him who might choose amongst so many. When he arrived at the house he was disappointed to find that Mr. O’Kelly had gone to Dublin, and would not be back till late, but Nora was at home. He took a sudden resolve, he would see her and propose to her there and then.
Nora at the time was in the garden, and when the message was brought to her that Captain Anthony desired to see her in the absence of her father, she came wondering what the captain could want, and without the faintest suspicion of his purpose. She received him in the parlour, offered him a chair, she herself remaining standing. For asecond Captain Anthony stood as if irresolute—then he plunged straight into the heart of the business.
“I came to find your father, Nora. I have found you. I want to know,” here he looked imploringly at her, “can I keep you for ever?”
Nora flushed crimson, and a startled look stole into her eyes. She hardly knew what interpretation to put on such language, but before she could say a word the captain rushed on impetuously—“I mean it, Nora, I love you—yes, love you with all my heart. Will you be my wife?”
A look of great distress came over Nora’s face. Startling as the proposal was, all the more so because of its brevity and plainness, the evident sincerity of it appealed to her more strongly even than the honour of it. She held out her hand while the tears came to her eyes.
“It is impossible, captain; I love another.”
The captain’s face became white. He ignored the proffered hand, and bowing stiffly left the room and the house. When he had ridden about a quarter of a mile he crossed into the fields and put his horse to the gallop until both horse and rider were well nigh exhausted. It was the means almost instinctively adopted by him to try and subdue the tumult of his soul.
From that day forward Anthony was a changed man. To the passion of jealousy was added a feeling of deepest humiliation. To have been refused by the daughter of one of his tenants in favour of apauper peasant youth was maddening, for though Nora had not mentioned O’Connor’s name, Anthony had no doubt that it was him she meant. But any doubt he might have had was dispelled, for again it chanced he saw the two lovers together, and he was witness, without their knowledge, of a tender parting that still further added to his torments. The feeling, akin to hatred which was stirred up on the first occasion developed into actual hatred. But about this time there were some anxieties that came as a distraction to the mind of the disappointed suitor. Rumours of an intended rising had become persistent, and a few weeks was to prove their truth. On the 23rd day of May Michael Reynolds stopped the mail coaches, and on the following morning he made the attack on Naas. Amongst his followers was Larry O’Connor, wearing for a favour a green rosette, which had been made for him by Nora, who, deeply as she loved him, was proud to see him go forth to battle for his native land. But we are not writing history, and will not detain the reader by a description of the battle of Naas. Information of the intended attack had been given to the authorities, and a strong garrison was posted in the town, and after a gallant effort to dislodge it, Reynolds was forced to order his men to retreat. O’Connor, armed with a pike, had fought desperately by his leader’s side until the last moment. Then he, too, quitted the field and got separated from the rest of his companions. As soon as the insurgents wereseen to be in retreat, the Fourth Dragoon Guards, the Ancient Britons, and the Mounted Yeos, were let loose after them. The latter were commanded by Captain Anthony. It was no quarter for anyone they overtook, whether armed or unarmed. O’Connor finding himself alone, crossed the fields as fast as he could, but still keeping his pike. The pounding of a horse close behind him and a bullet whizzing by his ear caused him to turn round. It was a dragoon, who also had become separated from his troop. He had drawn his long sabre and made a cut at O’Connor as he came up. The latter caught the sword on the guard of his pike. After a combat of a few seconds the dragoon was unhorsed with a fatal gash in his throat, and O’Connor, having possessed himself of his sword, and the horse galloped away in the direction of his home. He was within a few yards of the boreen leading up to O’Kelly’s farm house, when he caught sight of Nora. She was down at the road waiting for tidings of the battle. O’Connor reined in his horse. At that moment round a bend of the road appeared Captain Anthony, his horse covered with foam.
“Surrender, you rebel, or I will shoot you.”
He held the pistol out before him. O’Connor crying, “Go back, Nora darling!” urged his horse forward, raising his sword the while. But Anthony fired and the bullet struck O’Connor in the sword arm, which fell helpless. In a second Anthony had gripped O’Connor, and in the struggle the two menrolled off their horses. Anthony was on top, and he drew a second pistol from his belt. Before he could use it his hand was seized.
It was Nora. Her assistance enabled O’Connor to regain his feet.
“By G——, I’ll make him swing on this very spot!” cried Anthony, foaming with passion.
“Thank God! Captain Anthony, I’ve saved you from committing murder!”
For a moment his eyes met Nora’s. Their deep, soft, tender influence, and the soft, low, sweet voice fell like a happy calm on his soul. For a second a fierce, wild longing to clasp her in his arms took possession of him, and all his heart’s love went out to her. Then there was the noise of galloping horses below the bend of the road.
Turning to O’Connor, Captain Anthony said gently, “The Yeos are coming, save yourselves.”
And Larry and Nora went down the boreen together.
“Superstitious?” Well, I confess I am a little. I would rather not sit down at table with twelve others, and I think that no really good host should expose his guest to such a predicament. I have, indeed, made one of thirteen at dinner on more than one occasion, and was not a penny the worse, nor, as far as I can recall, was anyone else. But all the same, I don’t like the number. And I would rather see two magpies than one any day, and I don’t like to hear the ‘tick’ of the death watch at night.
I would rather not pass a churchyard alone after dark, but then I don’t like churchyards even in the daytime, and would avoid them if I could. I was once induced to make one at a seance of Spiritualists, and sat for at least half an hour, with five or six others, round a table in the dark, vainly hoping for a glimpse of a spirit from the other world, or for a sound of the rapping, the system of telegraphy said to be employed by its denizens, but I neither saw nor heard anything.
The reader will gather from this that I am like nine out of ten of his acquaintances in matters of this kind. I am not a convinced sceptic as to supernatural visitations, and, on the other hand, I am not a believer in them. All I know is thatI had never seen anything to bring me in touch, real or imaginary, with the other world until a certain night in the first days of the month of September, over twenty years ago, when I was staying at one of the most charming seaside resorts on the eastern coast of Ireland.
The weather was simply delightful. The breath of summer seemed still to linger in the leaves, almost as many as they are in June, and which had hardly begun to put on their autumn tints. The sea for days had been like a mill-pond. The tide glided in and out almost imperceptibly, and only in the still night could one hear its soft sighing voice.
I was lodged in a ‘furnished house’ close to the sea. My rooms were very bright, and offered splendid views of sea and mountain, and of the rich foliage that crowned the hills that rose up, gently sloping, almost from the strand.
The house was furnished after the fashion of many seaside houses let for the season, and idle during the winter months. The furniture was indifferent, but sufficient. But of this I had not taken much notice. I was easily satisfied, and moreover I spent most of my time out of doors. But there came a day when the sky was covered with black clouds, from which the rain poured down unceasingly, and the sea was hidden in a mist.
I had smoked and read for two or three hours, and then got up, stretched my legs and walkedabout my sitting room. And for the first time, I think, I paid serious attention to the pictures on the walls. With one exception, they were all photographs. This exception was the allegorical representation of Hope—a beautiful female figure. The others were photos of family groups, churches, etc., and they suggested in an unmistakeable way a “job lot” at an auction.
This suggestion set me speculating on the fortunes of their former owner. And what encouraged me in this was the character of the largest photograph. It was a wedding group, evidently taken just after the arrival from church. The persons forming it stood on the steps of a rather fine house, over the porch of which the word ‘Welcome’ was formed in rosebuds. There were in the group about twenty persons in all. The bride, with a bouquet in her hand, was standing beside the bridegroom, on the top step, and both came out very well in the photo, and as the central figures, of course they naturally excited more interest than the others. The bride was tall, shapely and decidedly good-looking, while the bridegroom, on the other hand, was stumpy, thick-necked, and of an ill-favoured countenance, and apparently much older than the bride. Was it a match of love or convenience? How did it fare with the two standing here side by side, whose future life till death would them part were linked together for good or ill, for happiness or misery?
An idle question, the reader may say, but then it was in an idle hour I put it to myself. As I turned from this photo to the others, it occurred to me that all of them were somehow connected. There were photos of two country churches, one with a tower and steeple recently erected at the time the picture was taken if one might judge from the clearly defined lines of masonry, and the low size of the firs and yews planted round it. The other had a square tower and was almost concealed by ivy, and a glimpse was given of the churchyard and of some of the tombstones, including a fine Celtic cross. In one or other of these I decided the marriage had taken place. In the new church doubtless, for the photo was mounted on a grey toned card, as was that of the wedding group. Moreover, both were from the same photographic studio of Grafton-street, Dublin. The photo of the old church was by a different artist, and was mounted differently. The remaining photos were of the Madeleine, the Place de la Concorde, the tomb of Napoleon, and the Louvre—souvenirs, no doubt, of the honeymoon spent in Paris, and there was one of a pretty cottage, which was, I surmised, the first home of the newly married couple. In this way I explained satisfactorily to myself all the pictures, save that of the old church, with the glimpse of the graveyard. Then it seemed to me that I had arrived at the end of the story, and so I gave it up and returned to my lounge, my book and my pipe.
That evening a friend from town dropped in after dinner and spent a few hours with me. I went down to the station to see him off by the last train, which went about eleven o’clock. Returning alone in a starless night, and with the damp breath of the sea fog clinging to my face, and the long, low moan of the ocean falling upon my ears, a ‘creepy’ feeling came over me. I was like one rescued from a harassing but unseen enemy when I got back into the shelter of my lodgings, and had closed and bolted the door.
I went almost straight to my bedroom, and I found myself leaving the gas lighting, an unusual circumstance with me. After a while I fell asleep, and began, as I thought, to dream. It seemed to me as though I was sitting alone in the sittingroom downstairs, and that I was looking curiously at the pictures, tracing from them again the little history already given. Then my eyes rested steadily on the picture of the old church, and then I thought that the picture itself had vanished, and that I was actually standing at the gate of the churchyard. Over the church and the little cemetery the morning was breaking, and the grass and leaves appeared to be quite wet as if the heavy rain had only just ceased. Then, when about to move away from the gate, I saw a white, and at first, shadowy figure standing by the Celtic cross in the graveyard. In a few seconds it seemed to become a defined and substantial form. It wasthat of a lady of about thirty years of age. She wore about her head drapery similar to that on the head of the allegorical picture of Hope, which, as I have said, was among the pictures in the sitting-room, but the face was different—it was that of the bride! Then I saw the figure leave the cross and pass out by another gate than that at which I was standing and go along the road. I felt myself drawn after it, and it seemed to me that both it and I flew rather than walked, so swiftly did we pass over the road.
We must have gone some miles when the figure stopped in front of a rose-clad cottage, identical with the cottage in the photo.
The figure entered the cottage, and I thought I should see it no more. But in a second the exterior of the cottage disappeared, and I saw instead a bedroom, in which a woman was lying. It was the face and figure which I had followed. The face was pale, and she appeared ill and suffering. By the bed was a man, whose back was at first towards me, but soon he moved and I saw that he was the image of the bridegroom. The woman raised herself uneasily on the pillow. Her eyes were wide and glistening, and she made a gesture towards a table at the head of the bed, on which were two or three medicine bottles. The man, in reply to her gesture, poured out something from one of the bottles into a cup and put it to her lips. She appeared to drink it all, and then, lyingback quietly on the pillow, seemed to fall into a deep sleep.
I awoke, and knew I had been dreaming—to my great surprise, found myself in my dressing-gown in the sitting-room, to which I must have made my way during my sleep.
I started up, shivering with cold, and forgetting all about the dream, went up to my bedroom and was soon asleep.
However, when I awoke the dream came back to me, and so persistently that I determined to find out something about the photos, which had now a keener interest for me than before.
I questioned my landlady. She was unable to give me any information save what I had already guessed, that they had been bought at an auction at one of the Dublin salerooms, but she had no idea who the owner was, or who were the people in the group. She remembered that a former lodger had remarked that the old church was some church near Dublin, but she could not say which.
Here was something of a clue, and I determined to pursue it. I took the photo from the frame, and the next time I went to Dublin showed it to a monument maker in Brunswick Street. He at once told me the church was St. M——s, a few miles outside the city. I asked if it were he who had put up the Celtic cross. He said he had not, but adding it was the work of another sculptor who lived near Glasnevin.
I went to the sculptor whom he named, and showed him the photo. At once he recognised the cross at a glance. It had been erected to the memory of Mrs. A—— D——, who had died a few years after her marriage. Her death was, he said, the result of a misadventure, she having accidently taken the wrong medicine.
“Did she take it herself?” I asked.
“Yes, that was the evidence at the inquest. The husband was dreadfully cut up about it. It was he who put up the cross, one of the finest that ever left a Dublin yard,” said my informant, with an air of professional triumph.
“But for all that,” he continued, “he got married within a few months after his wife’s death, and then,” he added reflectively, “it is often the way, the greater the grief in the beginning the sooner it is got over.”
A question not to be decided this side of the grave if the whole of my dream might not have been true so much having proved itself so.
Someyears ago when I was making a tour through the Basque provinces I fell in with another tourist who had been wandering through them for some months in the endeavour to become acquainted with the manners, customs and language of the peasantry. He was an Irishman, and had been seeking evidence in support of the theory that there was not only a close affinity between the Basque and the early Irish or Celtic tongue, but also that there were close resemblances between the life, habits, and customs of the Basques and the Irish who had not fallen under foreign influence; and he stoutly maintained that the founder of the Fueros, and of all rights and privileges which the Basques had so long enjoyed, was an exiled Irish Prince, and, in support of his assertion, he told me a romantic story which he had taken down from the lips of a Basque peasant, and which I believe is still current in some of the provinces.
Although I did not assent to his views, yet being half Spanish myself, I could not help feeling an interest in his researches, and I was attracted by the earnestness with which he pursued them. But apart from this he was an exceedingly genial and pleasant companion; we soon became fast friends, and when at length we parted he carried awaya promise from me to visit him in his home, which was situated on the south coast of Ireland. “They say it was built by a Spaniard,” he told me, “and it has something of a foreign air about it. It is not quite a palace, you know,” he added, “but it will serve a pair of old bachelors like you and me.” And so it came to pass that I found myself one midsummer night about twenty years ago at Rochestown House, some distance inland from the head of a beautiful little bay not many miles from the town of Kinsale.
Although I had lived in England for many years I had never been to Ireland before, and, I confess I had allowed myself to be misled into the belief that it was in a disturbed state, and so was agreeably surprised to learn from my friend O’Driscoll, that the country was ‘as peaceful as a duck in a pond,’ as he put it, and that there was nothing more dangerous to a bachelor like myself than the eyes of the girls, which he insisted were even brighter than those of Spain—a heresy which I felt bound to challenge.
I shall not waste time by a lengthened description of Rochestown House, for, in sooth, it did not call for one. It was a long, irregular building. The rooms were fairly large and well lit. The only occupants of the house were my friend and three or four servants, and it was but plainly furnished. The room which had been allocated to me had just what was requisite in it, save for a few charmingpictures which O’Driscoll had brought back with him from Spain, and which were pleasant reminders of that romantic land; and a very beautiful inlaid card table, which seemed out of place in the company of the plainer furniture. A few rugs disposed here and there, emphasised rather than hid the bareness of the floor; but the room was, nevertheless, very cheerful, and from the window there were delightful views of land and sea. Yet it was in this room that looked so cheerful on a lovely summer’s evening, I was to undergo the most thrilling experience of my life.
After dinner O’Driscoll and I strolled towards the sea. The night was fine though sultry, and as we returned to the house about eleven o’clock the appearance of the heavens heralded the approach of a thunderstorm. We had so many things to talk about that it was long after midnight before I retired to my room.
I felt no inclination to sleep, owing, perhaps, to the sultriness of the air, and I dropped into an armchair close to the fireplace, and from this position I commanded a full view of the room. I lit a cigar, and then, lifting up a small handbag which was within reach, opened it to get a book which I had been reading—it was one of Exaguoriaz’s plays. A little ivory-handled revolver lay on top of it, which I had been induced to bring over with me owing to the rumours of the disturbed condition of the country. Ismiled as I looked at it, for it seemed likely to be of little use if I were attacked by any of the stalwart fellows whom I had seen when strolling with O’Driscoll down through the village on our way to the sea. I laid it on the table beside me, and, lying back in the armchair, was soon immersed in the play; after a little while a strange feeling crept over me. I shook myself, as if by so doing I could free myself from it, and, dropping the book, looked round the room. It was fully lighted by a lamp. I could see into every corner. Lying back in the chair once more I puffed away at my cigar, and watched, after the fashion of smokers, the blue-white wreaths slowly circling upwards to the ceiling.
Not more than half a dozen had floated up when I heard a noise of scratching inside the wainscot. “It is a rat,” I thought, and my eyes, resting on the lower part of the wainscot directly in front of me, saw peering from a small hole which I had not hitherto observed, the blazing eyes, of what seemed to me a small rat. A little startled, and I fear a little frightened, I caught up the volume which I had been reading, and flung it in the direction of the intruder. The eyes disappeared, and I heard a scurrying away inside the wainscot; and then only did I feel inclined to laugh at myself for allowing such a trifling incident to make any impression on me.
I was about to leave the chair to pick up the bookwhen a flash of lightning, which came in through the slits in the shutter, almost took my sight away, and a peal of thunder followed sounding at first remote, but coming with every discharge nearer and nearer, until it seemed to pour forth its full power directly over the house. Then, as if its force were spent, it passed with a faint rumbling and muttering, and finally died away. I expected to hear the rain falling, but none fell, and the room had become so sultry that I decided to open the window, in the hope of an inrush of cooler air.
Just as I had placed my hand on the bar that fastened the shutter, I thought I heard a long, deep-drawn sigh. I turned and looked about, but saw nothing, and I felt vexed with myself for allowing my imagination to play tricks with me. Again I heard the sigh, and I must confess something like a creepy feeling came over me. I retired from the window without opening it, went back to my chair, and taking up my revolver sat in such a position as to be able to keep the whole room under observation; but I saw nothing, and except the ticking of the clock and the chiming of the quarters, heard nothing.
At length it struck two. Again I saw the eyes peering at me from the corner opposite to that from which I had dislodged them, at the far end of the wall. Instinctively I pointed the revolver at them, and would, I believe, have fired but that a low thrill of laughter fell upon my ear.
I started as if I had been hit. Seated at the little card table of which I have spoken was a woman, beautifully dressed, whose face was concealed by a large fan. Her elbow rested on the table, and her arm, bare to shoulder from wrist, was circled by a bracelet of emeralds and diamonds. A ring was on one of her fingers. It was an opal set in brilliants. I could see a coil of hair above the fan which the lady flirted lightly, and evidently her head was bent the better to conceal her face.
I took all this in at a glance, and for a second was spell-bound. I dropped my hand and the revolver fell from it to the floor. Then her head was swiftly raised, there was the gleam of a white forehead—a flash of wondrous eyes, such eyes as I have never seen, such as I know I shall never see in this life again. Their lustre was simply indescribable, and they possessed a mysterious attraction that seemed to draw my soul through breathless lips. I was divided between desire and undefinable fear. Perhaps it was owing to this conflict of emotions that my senses became confused. I had no doubt but that I was still sitting in the chair gazing at the bewitching apparition, and yet it seemed as if I were looking at myself or my double advancing over the floor, and finally kneeling at the feet of the lady. But the advancing figure, like me in every other respect, was attired as a Spanish gallant of the sixteenth century, and then therecollection flashed on me that I had appeared in a somewhat similar costume at a fancy dress ball a year or two before, and I found myself engaged in that curious yet familiar mental struggle of one who, escaping from a dream, questions himself as to whether he be dreaming.
Suddenly a lightning flash, more vivid than any that had preceded it, was followed by a roll of thunder almost deafening. I could no longer doubt but that I was awake. The lightning had so dazzled me that for a second I no longer saw anything, but as the last faint echo of the thunder died away I saw myself or my other self kneeling at the feet of the lady.
I made an effort to cry out, but I was like one in a nightmare; my voice refused to utter any cry, and then in accents that seemed to melt into my soul I heard the words:
“Then you have come at last, life of my soul?”
“Did you doubt it, dearest of the dear?”
Both sentences were spoken in Spanish. Suddenly, like an inspiration, I remembered the portrait of the young cavalier which bore, it was said, a striking resemblance to me, and whose costume I had copied for the fancy dress ball. It had belonged to my mother’s family, and there was a vague tradition that the young fellow had accompanied Don Juan D’Aguila on a Spanish expedition to Ireland in the time of Queen Elizabeth, and hadfallen in that country. It was he, then, whom I had mistaken for myself.
And now he was bending over the white hand, and he kissed it again and again. I had recovered from my first shock, and so lifelike was it all that I became embarrassed when the wondrous eyes of the beautiful woman for a second rested on mine. I rose from the chair, feeling like an intruder, but before I could move a step, swift as light a sword-blade descended on the youth’s neck. The severed head fell with a thud upon the floor. An ear-piercing scream, which has never since left my memory followed. Once more the lightning’s radiance blinded me, and, after a deep-mouthed roar, the rage of the thunderstorm again seemed to spend itself above the house, that trembled as if it had been stricken.
In a half-defiant mood I rushed to the shutters and flung them open. The grey light of the morning had already come, and faint streaks of gold were shining in the east. I turned from the window and looked for the murdered man and the lady of the wondrous eyes—I was the sole occupant of the room!
A loud, swift, ‘Rap! rap! rap!’ at the door, and a cry of “Open, for God’s sake!” brought me to it. I undid the bolt, and O’Driscoll tumbled in pale as a ghost.
“What was it?” he gasped—“that awful scream? It came from here.”
I knew not what to answer, and said aimlessly:—“There is no one here save myself.”
O’Driscoll opened the window, and the cool fragrant air calmed both him and me. “I was dreaming, I suppose,” he said, “but you have not been to bed!” He had not until then perceived that I was fully dressed.
“Oh, I remained up reading,” I replied.
“And did you hear nothing?” he asked.
“The thunder, of course,” I answered lightly, but I suppose there must have been something in my manner that betrayed me, for my eye had just fallen on a faded brown stain close to the card table and flowing away from it—first a blotch and then three or four trickles—which I knew to be blood stains.
O’Driscoll advanced towards me, put his hand on my shoulder, and looking into my eyes asked earnestly, “Did you hear the scream?”
“Yes.”
“And did you see anything?—I know you did.”
There was no longer any reason for hesitating to avow that I had seen something. “Sit down,” I said. He dropped into an armchair. I sat on the side of the bed and told him of my vision as I have set it down here. He listened without comment until the end, and then he said: “So it’s true, after all.”
“What?” I asked.
His story was brief. Some years previous he was in the garden giving directions to an old gardener who had known the place all his life, and when hecame to a certain corner, “That,” said the gardener, to O’Driscoll, “is where they found the skeletons years agone.”
“What skeletons?” asked O’Driscoll.
“There was a man whose head had been cut off, for ’twas lying beside his ribs, and there were three fingers that they said were lady’s fingers, for on one of them was a gold ring with a jewel in it, and people used to say,” the gardener added, “that sometimes on a wild stormy night, when there was thunder, that the ghosts of a gentleman and a lady used to be seen about the house, but he himself had never seen them, nor had he known anyone who had seen them.”
My friend not unreasonably concluded that the story of that apparition was an invention subsequent to the discovery of the skeletons, and had given no credence to it. Since he had become tenant of the house there had been many nights of thunderstorm as fierce as, if not fiercer than, that which had just passed, but he had never seen anything and never heard anything until he heard the piercing scream that had brought him to my door.
We talked long over the matter then and many times afterwards, and could find no solution of the mystery; but I could not help asking myself, as I do now, if the apparition were not in the nature of a message from the dead to tell the true story of the fate of my kinsman whom in appearance I so much resembled, and who, we had believed, had fallen in the Spanish expedition to Ireland, three hundred years before.
Onewild, stormy night over twenty years ago I entered a second-class smoking carriage in the last train from Dublin to Bray. So wild was the night that it was with great difficulty my cab horse had been able to drag along his rumbling vehicle through the streets swept clear of pedestrians by the blinding sheets of rain. The station was, except for one or two porters, completely deserted. I arrived just as the train, which was almost empty, was about to start, and I entered a carriage with two compartments, in neither of which was there any other passenger. All the windows were closed, and for the few seconds before the train started I enjoyed the luxury of the quiet that contrasted so pleasantly with the storm that was howling outside. But as soon as the train had moved out from the station the rain began to rattle like hail against the windows, and I could hear the wind strike the carriages, and the oil lamps in the roof flash and flicker, so that I expected them every moment to go out. I was muffled up to the throat, and was solacing myself with a cigar and the thought of the bright fire that I knew would greet me on arriving at my destination, and helped to raise my feelings. I was staying at Bray in the house of my sister, who, however, was with her husband inScotland, and would not return for some days, and the only other occupant of the house besides myself was an old woman who acted as housekeeper for me. She would have gone to bed long before my arrival, but I knew from experience that she would take care to leave for me in the parlour a cheery fire and a comfortable supper.
I took no note of the stations at which we stopped, and it is only a conjecture on my part that it was at a station about half way between Dublin and Bray that an old gentleman entered the compartment in which I was. As he came in, a cold blast of air swept into the carriage, and made little whirlpools of the sawdust that had been spread on the floor. I shivered as the icy blast caught me, but I was almost ashamed of my weakness, well-clad as I was, when I looked at the old gentleman who sat opposite me. He was thinly clad in an ill-fitting coat; his face was wan and haggard; his slouched hat was shining with wet; and the rain was streaming from his white beard that descended to his breast. He took off his hat and shook and squeezed it. I then noticed that his white hair was scant. His brow was furrowed by many wrinkles. His eyebrows were white and bushy. His eyes were light blue, the lightest, I think, I had ever seen, and they were very mild—mild almost to sadness. I made some remark upon the weather. My fellow traveller answered in a weak, thin voice that it ‘was cold, very cold, and cut to the bone like a knife.’I felt somehow that the old gentleman was poor and miserable. Indeed, he shivered visibly several times. He did not appear in a mood for conversation, and I continued to smoke in silence till we reached Bray. Here the porters opened the door, and I stepped out. I gave my hand to the old gentleman and helped him to alight, for which he thanked me in a mild voice. The station, as that of Dublin had been, was deserted but for the porters. The old gentleman and myself were the only passengers. I went down to the van to get some heavy luggage and give it in charge of the porters as there was no chance of getting it brought to my house that night. When I had seen to this I left the station. I saw no sign of my fellow-traveller and supposed he had gone his way. I could not help thinking of him as I pursued mine, and I was irritating myself with the question whether he might not have been in need of some help which I could have given him. But I ceased to think of him and his needs when I reached the esplanade.
The storm was sweeping the spray from the roaring waves right up against the faces of the houses, and the night was so intensely dark and most of the lamps having been blown out, it was with difficulty I kept the path. My house was half way between the railway station and Bray Head. A few steps led up to the door. The fierce wind almost carried me up the steps, and when by means of my latch-key I opened the door itswept inwards with a bang against the wall, and the pictures hanging in the hall were lifted up and fell back with a succession of slaps loud as pistol shots. With the utmost difficulty I pressed back the door. I was so cold and drenched with the rain and spray that I did not wait to lock it, but closed it securely. Flinging off my overcoat I hurried into the parlour where a light was burning and a bright fire blazing. I was shivering from head to foot. Having taken off my boots that were damp, I flung myself into the armchair in front of the fire.
The influence of the fire quickly asserted itself, and a feeling of pleasant languor crept over me, although the wind that buffeted the windows and made them rattle moaned like a soul in pain. Soon the sound seemed to grow fainter and fainter, and I felt the lids closing on my eyes, and was half conscious that sleep was gently dulling my senses, when suddenly a cold blast of air chilled the room, and the loud booming of the sea sounded almost at my ear. I jumped up and turned towards the parlour door. It was open, and on the threshold stood my fellow traveller. Although I was wide awake I looked upon him as if he were a spectre, and I found it impossible to utter a word. His hat was in his hand, and his white hair fell over his face, and from his long beard the rain was dripping. He advanced towards me timidly, and, bowing low, said—
“I hope you will forgive me, sir. I am a stranger here, and I know not where to seek a bed to-night.I followed you aimlessly, but when you came up the steps and entered your house, and I found myself alone with the sea and the wind and the night, I knew not what to do. I felt the need of being near some human being, and I crept up to your door, intending to pass the night against it, the other houses were all so cold and dark. I was standing for a few minutes when a flash of lightning showed me the latch-key which you had forgotten to remove. An impulse, impossible to resist, overcame me. I opened the door as softly as I could, taking advantage of a lull in the storm, and entered the hall. I would have remained there, but the light that shone from your room tempted me, and I pushed open the door. It was wrong, I know; but I am old and lonely and somewhat fearsome, and you’ll forgive me.”
I recovered my composure as the old man was speaking, and there was so deep a pathos in his voice, and he swayed so as he spoke, that a feeling of compassion took possession of me, to the exclusion of all other feelings. I forgot completely the strangeness of the situation, and taking the old man by the hand I led him to the chair which I had just occupied, and placed before him the decanter. It seemed to me that a strange glitter troubled the soft blue eyes. He poured out a tumblerful and drained it in a breath. Taking another chair I sat at the side of the fire, lit a cigar, and handed one to my companion. Smoking, as every lover ofthe weed knows, is conducive to silence, and my mind soon became lazily occupied in watching the smoke-wreath from my cigar mingle with that of my companion. He spoke not, and after a while I noticed that he had ceased to smoke, and that the cigar was going out, as his right hand, in the fingers of which he was holding it, remained motionless on his knee. His head had dropped on his breast, and his heavy breathing satisfied me that he was asleep.
I began to feel as if I were in a dream that was not all a dream. I was conscious of the blue smoke rising from my cigar. It floated away from me like a mist. After a while the mist cleared, and I thought I saw a stream slowly gliding through woodland ways, and I followed it till it passed by the foot of a noble ash tree, that bent down and spread its lower branches half across it. And beneath the ash and against its trunk I saw a youth and a maiden sitting side by side. She held his hand in hers. His lips were moving, and he was whispering something that filled her eyes with a light as of summer stars. Her little mouth opened like a rosebud yielding to the sun, as if to answer him, when suddenly a deeper shadow than that cast by the bending branches of the ash fell upon the lovers. The youth was dragged to the ground, and as the maiden shrieked, a knife was driven into his throat by a man whose face I could not see. I strove to cry out, but my voice failed me.I struggled as if a great weight were pressing me down. At last I shook myself free with the wild scream ringing in my ears. I looked around. My companion was sitting in his chair, apparently in deep sleep. The half consumed cigar had dropped from his hands. I felt so shaken by what I had seen, or dreamed, that I was about to awaken him when a new horror took away my powers of action. Sitting on the ground close to my companion and with his head resting upon the old man’s knees, was the figure of the murdered youth whom I had seen slain beneath the ash tree. His eyes were open and staring, his face was wan and white. In his throat was a jagged gash, and around the edges were seams of clotted blood. His fingers were slashed and bloody, as if he had struggled hard with his murderer. I looked from the dead man to the sleeper. He was breathing lightly, and a smile like that of a child parted his lips. But as I continued to look at him I noticed that they began to twitch convulsively, then his whole frame shook as if a fierce tempest of passion were raging in his heart. He started from his chair—the dead man fell upon the floor. I rushed instinctively, and yet with a horrible dread, to lift him up, but as I was stretching out my hands for that purpose I felt myself gripped by the throat by the skinny hands of the old man. His eyes that I had thought so mild had a hard glitter in them, and his haggard face was convulsed with passion. It cost me a great effort,although I was young and strong, to loose his grip, but at length I flung him back on his chair. He sat for a second like one dazed. Then he raised his hands in supplication, and the tears stole from his eyes, that were again as mild looking as when I first saw them.
“I was dreaming. I—I thought—I thought—but that was long ago, and you’ll forgive me.”
I didn’t quite know how to answer him, I was not sure that I had not been, was not dreaming myself. The dead youth was, of course, only a ghastly vision, and, perhaps, the old man’s hands had been already on my throat when I fancied I saw the deed of murder under the ash tree. It seemed to me useless to seek any explanation from my unbidden guest, who began to appear to me uncanny.
“I’ll go, I’ll go,” he said as I kept looking towards him, “the morning will soon be here now. I am not afraid of the morning, only of the night—the black night, for then it all comes back to me, and I see them as I saw them on that evening so long ago. Hundreds of years ago, I think, since they and I were young. And now I am old, so old.”
“Who are they? When was it?” I asked, scarcely indeed, expecting any serious answer, but it seemed to me as if I kept the unhappy man at arm’s length by talking to him. I felt I could crush him with a blow, but I suppose it was owing to the shock which I had undergone in the hideous dreamfrom which his attack had roused me that made me afraid of him, for afraid I was.
I had thought that at farthest only a few hours had passed since I entered the parlour, but the stranger was nearer the truth. The morning was almost at hand. Through the chinks of the shutters a grey light began to show itself. I flung them back, pulled up the blind, and could see the sea still raging, but the wind had died away, and in the east there was a faint rose-coloured streak.
When I turned back the old gentleman was pouring himself out a glass of whisky. His hand trembled as he lifted it to his lips. When he had set down the tumbler, having drained it, he said:
“The morning has come. You are very good, I go. I was wrong; but I knew not what I was doing, and I have suffered.”
I no longer feared him. As the light of the morning increased I saw only the haggard, worn old man, whose face was itself a witness of long suffering, and I felt a great pity for him. There was some bread and butter and cold meat on the sideboard, which had been left there by the housekeeper the night before. I pointed to it. He said he would take a little bread. I pressed him to eat some meat, but he refused. Then, as he turned to leave the room, I put my hand in my pocket and produced some silver. A faint flush stole into his wasted face, and I saw I had offended him. I apologised. Hethanked me for my kindness in offering it to him, and also for my hospitality, and begged me to forgive him for his intrusion and the trouble he had caused. With a low bow he left the room. I followed, but he had opened the hall door himself and passed out on to the esplanade without looking back.
I returned to the parlour, and flinging myself into the chair began to recall the events of the night, and had been for some time vainly speculating on them when I was disturbed by the housekeeper entering the room to make arrangements for breakfast.
She saw at a glance that I had not been to bed. I did not like to communicate my experience to her, but the day following I saw in the daily papers the account of the escape of a lunatic from the Dundrum Criminal Lunatic Asylum. The description, save as to the clothes, tallied with that of the old man. There was a further announcement stating that he had been found wandering in the direction of Enniskerry, and had been brought back to the asylum.
It so happened that I knew one of the physicians that attended the Dundrum Institution, and when I met him a few days after, without giving him any hint of my acquaintance with the object of my inquiry, asked him what he knew concerning the old man, and suggested that my curiosity had been aroused solely by the account of the escape which appeared in the newspapers.
“It is a very sad story,” he said. “The old man has been confined for over forty years for a terriblecrime committed when he was a young man of about five-and-twenty. He was enamoured of a lady, whose love he believed he had secured. She had accepted him, and they were to have been married in a few months. Rumours were brought to him that the lady was listening to the whispers of another suitor. He soon discovered that the rumours were well founded. The fiercest jealousy completely took possession of him, and undoubtedly deprived him of his senses, he one day surprised the pair, sitting together beneath a tree on the banks of a stream not far from the lady’s house, beside which he and she had often wandered before their vows were plighted. Stung to ungovernable rage by this sight, he killed the young man, gashing his throat with a knife in the most shocking manner. The lady was unharmed; but the tragedy took away her reason, and she died within a few months of the dreadful occurrence. The murderer made no attempt to deny his crime; on the contrary, he talked about it freely to anyone who would listen. He was tried, and, of course, convicted; but the Lord Lieutenant, being satisfied that the wretched man was insane, commuted his sentence, and it was ordered that he should be kept in confinement during Her Majesty’s pleasure. As a rule he is very gentle, but sometimes—and always at night—he becomes very violent, and the attendants have to be on their guard against him.”
“It is, indeed,” said I, “a sad story.”