had taken the sting of our sorrow away. Our good Father in heaven
never allows a sorrow to come into this world unless He sends a joy to
counterbalance it; life would be a stunted and deformed thing, if, when
the night enveloped it, the bright sunshine of morning did not as surely
follow; and the law which regulates the outer world has its counterpart
in the inner, that “while the earth remaineth, seed time and harvest,
and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night, shall not
cease.” Well, Christmas Day was coming round again, and we determined
that we would spend it in London, with Andrew Morris. It was a cosy
little party we made on Christmas Eve—I and my mother, and Captain Wray,
Mr. and Mrs. Morris, sen., and Andrew and Nelly, and the baby. Whose
baby? Why Nelly’s, to be sure, and never was there a prettier and prouder
little mother, or a handsomer and happier young husband, than Nelly and
Andrew Morris. There was no boisterous fun or merriment, but there was
a great deal of quiet enjoyment amongst us as we sat at the table after
dinner and played round games, or as Nelly and Andrew sang duets, while
baby crowed a chorus. There was an air of homeliness, too, and comfort
about the house, and that was increased tenfold from the fact that the
night was bitterly cold. The wind roared along the streets, and every now
and then the hail came down in a perfect cataract. The evening slipped
rapidly away, and, as Martha came in at about ten o’clock to lay the
cloth for supper, a pause in the rattle of the conversation within,
and a pause in the rattle of hailstones without, enabled us to hear
voices somewhere along the street joined in very good harmony, singing a
Christmas carol. By-and-bye they came opposite our window, and struck up
that fine old carol—
“When Christ was born of Mary free,
In Bethlehem, in that fair citie,
Angels sang then with mirth and glee,
In Excelsis Gloria.”
Now I confess I never had a passion for street music, but this was much
beyond the average of merit. It was a part of my education to love and
venerate old customs, and it was a part of my creed always at Christmas
time to relieve, as far as lay in my power, those who were excluded from
the privileges which are enjoyed by those who have been more highly
favoured by a kind providence. So, putting on my hat, I went to the door
with a jug of foaming ale and a glass, and Andrew followed me with a
good many shining pieces of silver in his hand, which he had collected
in the room. As soon as I opened the door, an old man, with a lantern
in one hand and his hat in the other, stood before us to receive the
contribution. Just as Andrew was putting the money into his hat the
light flashed up into his face. A spasm of joy and fear shot through me;
I staggered back, and should have fallen, had not Andrew held me. _The
old man was my father!_ Wrinkled as the face was, white as the hair had
grown, bent as was that once graceful figure, I was absolutely certain
that I was not mistaken. In a moment my self-possession returned, and in
that moment I realized the meaning of the phrase, “quick as thought.” For
I remembered that I was only a boy when my father went away, and he could
not recognise me. I remembered that a sudden shock of joy might deprive
me of my mother, the very while it restored to me my father. I understood
that Andrew had ascertained the meaning of my sudden emotion, for he
had adroitly screened me from the gaze of my father and the minstrels,
and was beginning to pour out the ale for them. I thought, too, that a
sudden revelation of myself to my father might be injurious to him; and
not knowing the state of his mind, it might be the most fatal thing to
surprise him. So at once my plans were made; and all this happened in a
moment! I whispered to Andrew, “Be spokesman, for my voice may betray
me. Invite them to supper at the ‘King’s Arms’ in an hour, on condition
that they will sing some carols. Say they shall be well paid. Follow them
till then, and don’t let your eyes be off my father for an instant. I
will gently prepare them indoors.”
“All right,” said Andrew, “but come inside with me first, while I get my
coat, and tell them I am going. I will not damage your plan.”
There was great surprise when Andrew called for his coat, and said to
his wife, “Nelly, my dear, I must leave you and our good friends for a
little while. I know you will pardon me, but I have just seen an old
friend who I knew in my school days, and he seems in distress. I can’t
ask him in here to-night, but I will see him into the hotel at the end of
the street; and, John, come for me in half-an-hour to release me, if I am
detained so long.”
Without waiting longer than to give Nelly a kiss he was off, and the
street door closed upon him. Then began an attack of questions which
puzzled my ingenuity to parry. There was something remarkably strange in
the event, and their curiosity was strongly excited. There was not much
time to lose, and the questions were working me towards the subject. At
last Nelly said, “Cannot you guess, John, at all, who this stranger is,
or what he wants with Andrew.” And then I said, “I did not mean to tell
you, or to awaken sad memories, especially to-night, but I think the
stranger will be able to tell him something of the fate of father!”
I had said enough and seen enough to know that I might safely carry out
my plan. Affected as my mother was by the news, she was perfectly calm.
She did not weep, or dream of fainting, or going into hysterics, but
a holy joy lighted up her face, and her very smile was a thanksgiving.
Brave little Nell clasped her hands together (it was just the attitude
she used on that _other_ Christmas Eve), and said, “Thank God.” For
a minute or two there was a dead silence in the room, only broken by
Captain Wray, who took snuff violently.
“John,” said my mother, at length, and her voice faltered just a very
little, “John, you know more than you have told; let me hear it all.
I am more than strong enough to bear it; I have waited for years in
preparation of this hour. Tell me, when did it happen, and where?”
I sat down between her and Nelly, and said, as calmly as I could, “Now,
my dearest mother, be brave and cheery, father is still alive. It would
not be well for you to see him for some time, but he is in London, and
well.”
The tears came at last; not a dry eye was in the room; but when I left
them to go with Captain Wray to the “King’s Arms” (for he could not
remain inactive), a voice had said to the storm of feeling, “Peace, be
still;” and there was a great calm.
My story is nearly ended. That night I made myself known to my father,
and the shock of feeling at seeing me and learning that my mother and
sister were alive and near him, instead of doing him injury, effected a
good that probably nothing else could have done. His was a strange wild
history, and it was only little by little, and that extending over a long
time, as the powers of mind and memory gradually returned, that I learnt
it. When he left his home it was under the terrible delusion that nothing
but the workhouse was before him, and he could not bear to see the
distress that would come upon his family. He took ship to America, and
on the voyage his mind gave way. Arrived in that country, he was placed
in proper care by the authorities, but in all the wanderings of his mind
he never divulged his name or residence. Several times his reason became
temporarily restored, but then the thought of his deserted wife and home
was too terrible for him ever to think resolutely of returning thither.
Years passed in this way, and during his rational periods he had to earn
his bread by the sweat of his brow. At last he so far recovered that
his determination to return to his native land, and at least ascertain
what had become of his family, was carried into effect. Penniless when
he arrived, and the season cold and inclement, he had to endure severe
hardships. Circumstances brought him into the company of a band of carol
singers, to whom he engaged himself as money collector, and he had
resolved to work his way to Marantby as soon as he was able.
The best medical advice that could be had in London was obtained for him,
and, by the blessing of God, his health of body and mind was restored. I
will not attempt to describe the meeting with my mother, for no eye saw
it. The effect was not injurious, on the contrary, from that day his old
habits and spirits began to return, and for many years his life was one
of unmingled peace and happiness.
And so it came to pass that Christmas Day ceased to be a day of painful
memories, for we could say, “He was dead and is alive again, and was lost
and is found.” Now his body rests beside that of my mother in the little
churchyard at Marantby, and their spirits are in the bright world, where,
perhaps, the angels are singing again this night that beautiful song they
sang years ago, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace and
goodwill towards men.”
CASTLE CONNOR.
_By MONA B. BICKERSTAFFE, Author of “Begin Well, End Well;” “Araki, the
Damio,” &c._
Christmas was always a merry season at Castle Connor, and not less merry
than usual was the Christmas time of which I am going to tell you. The
house was as full as it could hold, and added to the usual number of
guests were three English cousins, who had come over to pay their first
visit to their Irish relatives. At the public school from which they
came, they were known as Max, Major, and Minor, and so we shall name them
here. Max (whose real name was Dick Lindsaye) was in his seventeenth
year, and only famous at K⸺ for being the biggest dunce, the biggest
bully, and the biggest boaster in the school; for, while careful to
avoid every kind of danger, he was prone to forge Falstaffian tales of
the dangers he had surmounted, when no one was there to see him. Tom and
Harold Cunliffe were his step-brothers; the former was a soft-faced boy,
about thirteen years of age, with curly, brown hair, dark brown eyes, and
a countenance beaming with good nature and good temper, but evidently a
being more capable of enjoying the _dolce far niente_ than any state of
life in which he might be expected to be an active or energetic member of
society. Yes, a quiet, easy-going youth was Tom, very different from the
twelve-year-old Harry, a wiry, springy young fellow, who, while living
in great awe of his big brother, was always laying plots for fun at his
expense.
Major and Minor were great favourites wherever they went, while no one
could endure Max’s snobbish conceit and self-importance. To have a speck
of mud upon his highly polished boots, or a grain of dust upon his
ever-glossy clothes, was to spoil his pleasure for the day, while his
young brothers, unfortunately, went off to the opposite extreme, and were
only too regardless of their personal appearance.
The family at Castle Connor consisted of the father, mother, two
daughters, and three sons. The latter were manly, warm-hearted youths,
quick-tempered and quick-witted, first rate horsemen, masters of all
field sports, but not very polished in their manners. They had never been
to any school, but were brought up at home, under the care of a tutor,
whom they managed just as they pleased, and who found himself in too
snug a berth at Castle Connor, to venture to make it less agreeable by
complaints that his pupils too often preferred sporting to Latin. He (Mr.
Moriarty) was at Christmas time always absent, enjoying the holidays at
his own home, so the youths were then left entirely to their own devices,
which generally led them to play tricks of all kinds upon the rest of the
household.
Directly they saw Max, they (as Major said) “twigged him at once,”
and came to the conclusion that he was fair game for fun. He soon
adopted a patronizing manner to Dennis Connor, most aggravating to that
high-spirited youth, who cast about in his very fertile mind as to how
he might, once for all, humble the self-conceit of his lofty cousin;
and finding that his father was to be away from home for a day or two,
he laid his plans accordingly. They were standing together in the
drawing-room, waiting for dinner, when he turned abruptly to Max, and
asked him if he had seen the dungeons of Castle Connor?
“The dungeons! no. I never knew there were any.”
Mrs. Connor did not appear to know it either, for she looked up in
astonishment, but a look from her son silenced her.
“Don’t say anything now,” said Dennis, mysteriously; “I’ll tell you all
about it after dinner.”
After dinner, accordingly, Dennis took him aside, and told him that he
never mentioned the dungeons before his father or mother, for “fact is,”
said he, “they are a great source of annoyance and discomfort to them,
and all of us. Dark deeds have been done down there, in the times of the
fights between the O’Connors and the Condons. Weird sounds come from them
in the night time, especially on certain nights, when one Con Condon, the
headless, is said to come to look for his head, which centuries ago was
taken from him by our ancestor, Modha O’Connor, who married a daughter
of Oilioll Olum,[3] King of Munster. Oilioll had carried off a beautiful
lady, Modweena Condon, but somehow she contrived to escape from the place
where he had locked her up, and seeing him sleeping, she in revenge bit
off his ear while he slept, whereon Oilioll, roused by the pain, seized
a spear, and thrust it through her with such force that he flattened the
point against a stone in the wall. Drawing forth the spear, regardless of
his victim’s agonies, he tried to straighten the point with his teeth,
but it had been poisoned, and from that moment his teeth became jet
black. I only tell you this in case you should notice the dark colour of
father’s teeth, for the blackness still runs in the family; but, as I
was saying, Modha O’Connor took the Condon prisoner, brought him to his
castle here, shut him up in the dungeon, and coolly cut off his head.
When the clan heard of it, they assembled in great force, stormed the
castle, broke into the dungeons, and found the body of their chief, but
nowhere could they find his head. The body was buried with all funeral
honours, when the earth fell over it, wild unearthly voices sang the
_Dahtan Da mort_, _Augustha Cadine_; but the spirit of Con can never rest
easy until the head is found. The circumstance I have told you occurred
in the second century, so, of course, the head must now be a skull, but
though we have, generation after generation, sought for it, it has never
been found. Well, some time ago an old crone passed this way (she was for
all the world like a banshee), and, pointing up at the house, she said
she would come again soon after the arrival of a certain youth, of whom
it has been predicted that _he alone_ can find Con Condon’s head. They
say she has been seen about the place to-day. Have you seen her, Major?”
“Look!” said Minor. “Isn’t there something dark sitting under the great
arbutus tree? Yes; surely there is. Look, Max.”
Max looked, and while he did so, the moon, breaking through a cloud,
lighted up the carriage drive in front of the house; while its rays,
falling upon an arbutus tree, distinctly revealed a dark figure crouched
beside it. It seemed to be a very old woman, sitting, Irish fashion, with
her chin resting on her knees, while she rocked herself to and fro, and
crooned out a wailing Irish keen. Her face (which was very dark coloured)
was turned towards the boys, and her large features and long grey hair
gave her a very uncanny appearance. Seeing Dennis, she beckoned to him.
“Come with me, Max,” said he; “I’m awfully frightened.” “I’ll go, too,”
said Harry. “And I.” “And I.” So they all stepped through the open
window, and were soon standing round the old crone.
[Illustration]
“Save ye,” said Dennis.
“Save _you_, kindly,” said she.
“Are you the grana?” asked Dennis.
“Yes, I’m grana, grana, of Carrigogunnel. I’m come from St. Patrick’s
purgatory, an’ there I left Con Condon the headless; an’ says he,
‘Grana,’ says he, ‘I’ve been here this tousandh year and more, an’ I’m
tired of it entirely; but I can’t git out,’ says he, ‘till I find my
head, which that thafe, Modha O’Connor, tuck from me. Good grana,’ says
he, ‘go to Castle Connor an’ find it for me; for it is written,’ says he,
‘that there is wan there now that is Irish, an’ Scotch, an’ Sassenach,
all in one, an’ ’tis he alone that can find me head.’ This is the message
of Con Condon the headless; an’ _you_,” shrieked the hag, pointing
her bony finger at Max, “you, whose mother was a Connor, yer father a
Scotchman, an’ yerself a Sassenach, come with me an’ find Con Condon’s
head!”
“Mercy,” said Max, aside, to Dennis; “what must I do; where must I go? I
daren’t go a step with that terrible old woman.”
“Terrible old woman!” screamed the hag. “Yes, I’m terrible; I’m grana of
Carrigogunnel, sister to the mighty Finn. Don’t cross me, young man, or
’twill be worse for ye.”
“What must I do?” pleaded Max, in real agony, and trembling in every
limb. “Dennis, speak to her.”
Dennis spoke to the woman, and then turned to Max: “She insists that you
go with her to the dungeons, but says we may go, too, as far as the door;
so we shall be near you, and, perhaps, you won’t see Con the headless;
being a Sassenach may break the spell.”
“See him,” said Max; “I should think not, _I_ don’t believe such
superstitions as you Irish do.”
“Oh, very well,” said Dennis; “that being the case we can go on
immediately.”
“Yes, come on,” said the hag, and she slowly rose from her crouching
posture, and, to Max’s great horror, stood before him, nearly six feet
five in height. “Come on,” she cried, “come on!” and on she went with
long strides, while Max, frightened out of his seventeen senses,
followed her, and the others came close behind. Suddenly the hag stopped:
“Dennis O’Connor,” said she, “you lade the way until we come to the foot
of the steps, thin the Sassenach must go on wid me alone.”
Well, on they went, round by the back door, through the kitchens (where,
strange to say, not a servant was to be seen), until they came to the top
of a flight of steep stone steps, to all appearances cut out of the solid
rock.
“Bring a light,” said the hag; “bring two lights.”
Indeed even two lights failed to throw much light on the subject, only
serving to show the horrors of the darkness before them, for here
and there in the wall were narrow passages or crevices, and certain
projections which cast deep shadows, and had a very fearful effect. The
light emitted from two small tallow candles did not much improve the
matter, for, though the shadows became less, the crevices remained as
dark and darker than ever.
“Oh, I can’t go on,” said Max, turning very white, and looking as if he
were going to faint.
“Here,” said the hag, drawing a flask from her bosom (very like a railway
flask, but perhaps they use them in St. Patrick’s purgatory), “drink
this,” said she; “’tis good an’ old, for ’tis it that sperrited Brien
Boru when he fought that mighty battle, when meself saw 3,000 Danes lying
dead together.”
“Drink,” said Dennis; “I’ll take a pull at it, too; ’twill keep your
courage up, man.”
“Oh, ’tisn’t that I’m afraid,” said Max, but he drank at the flask, and
finding it good, tried it again, and the colour came to his face, and
down the stone steps he followed the grana, until they stood at a heavy
oaken door.
“The kay,” said the grana, and Dennis handed her an ancient
clumsy-looking key. She turned it in the lock, and pushed open the door
with such force that it went back with a tremendous crash, causing a
sudden gust of cold air that put out both the candles. But they were not
in the dark! No; for there was a faint and ghastly light, just enough to
show them that they were in a huge chamber hewn out of the rock. Max’s
face became livid. He looked at his companions; their faces were livid
too, and as for the grana, her countenance was something unearthly.
Presently there was a sound like the clanking of a heavy chain, and far
away, somewhere in the depths of the vault, were alternately heard heavy
despairing groans and a wailing cry, like “My head! my head!”
“That’s _him_,” said the grana. “Out, every mother’s son of ye, save the
Sassenach an’ me. Quick, or the spell will be broken;” and seizing Max
tight by the wrist, she pulled him on into the vault.
“Sassenach,” said she, “have ye iver read the Bratheim-hadth, the book of
sacred judgment? Ye havn’t, more’s the pity, for from that book
‘The priest, the prince, the bard, the man of art,
An’ you, too, in this vault might larn yer part.’
Howsomiver, as yer ignorant of mystheries, ye must mind what I tell ye,
an’ the first _white_ thing ye sees on the ground grab it up quick, afore
the evil wan hides it agin. Whisht—”
She might well say “whisht,” for nearer and nearer, from the depths of
the vault, came the clanking chain, and the hollow voice, crying, “My
head, my head! ullagone, ullagone!”
Max, not knowing whether he was on his head or his heels, allowed himself
to be dragged on by the grana. The faint blue light was becoming fainter
and fainter; the wailing “ullagone” was drawing nearer and nearer, when
his foot stumbled against something; he stooped to look at it—it was
white; he took it up—it was a skull! Max fainted.
* * * * *
When he returned to consciousness, he found himself in a vault indeed,
but neither skulls nor groans, nor ghastly blue lights shed their weird
influence round him, but a cheerful glow, as of many candles, lighted
up the place; and as he looked round he saw, not headless Con, but more
than one hogs_head_, for the vault was, in fact, a spacious cellar,
contrived with much care by Master Dennis Connor’s grandfather, for the
accommodation of those choice wines from Burgundy and elsewhere, which he
had “loved, not wisely, but too well.”
Max sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked about him: “Where am I,” said he;
“and how did I come here?” Then, as memory returned, he asked, anxiously,
“Where is she?”
“She’s here!” and before him stood Grana of Carrigogunnel, who, tearing
off her long grey horsehair locks and the rest of her costume, appeared
in the proper character of his decidedly gaunt, but not at all horrible,
cousin Ned.
“Here I am, Max; I’ll wash off the walnut juice by-and-bye.”
“Serve you right if it won’t come off,” said his mother. “It was too bad
of you all to frighten this poor fellow nearly out of his life. It is
well for you your father is not at home.”
“’Tis so,” said the butler, who all the while had been privy to the joke;
“they a’most kilt him intirely with fright. Niver mind ’em in there;
’twas only the skull of the ould white cow that ye tuck up! Ha, ha, ha!
he, he, he!” and in spite of all their pity for the victim, Mrs. Connor
and the girls could not help laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing.
“You see, mother,” said Dennis (to whom Mrs. Connor was administering a
private lecture on practical jokes), “we’d never have done it, only he
was such an awfully conceited chap. We told him some stories the other
day, and he tossed up his nose and talked about Irish ignorance and
superstition. I knew he was a hollow sham all the while; and you see,
directly he heard the hag’s story he was carried away by his fright, and
never stopped to reason about anything. He’ll never lord it over Major
and Minor again, that’s one comfort; the former has twice his sense, and
Harry’s a plucky little fellow, and will be sure, if he tries it, to give
him a reminder about Con Condon the headless, and the white cow’s skull.”
[3] Oilioll Olum was king of Munster in the second century. He was a
ferocious and powerful monarch. The story here told of him is recorded in
the ancient annals of Ireland.
[Illustration]
THE “BLACK DRAGOON.”
_By SIDNEY DARYL._
“Thro’ the black night that sits immense around,
Lash’d into foam the fierce contending brine,
Seems o’er a thousand raging waves to frown.”
_Thomson._