It is the month of June, and the sun has gone down amidst a mass of
those red and angry clouds which prognosticate a night of storm and
tempest. The air is felt to be oppressive and sultry, and the whole
sky is overshadowed with gloom. On such a night the spirit sinks,
cheerfulness abandons the heart, and an indefinable anxiety depresses
it. This impression is not peculiar to man, who, on such occasions,
is only subject to the same instinctive apprehension which is known
to influence the irrational animals. The clouds are gathering in black
masses; but there is, nevertheless, no opening between them through
which the sky is visible. The gloom is unbroken, and so is the silence;
and a person might imagine that the great operations of Nature had been
suspended and stood still. The outlying cattle betake them to shelter,
and the very dogs, with a subdued and timid bark, seek the hearth, and,
with ears and tail hanging in terror, lay themselves down upon it as if
to ask protection from man. On such a night as this we will request the
reader to follow us toward a district that trenches upon the foot of
a dark mountain, from whose precipitous sides masses of gray rock,
apparently embedded in heath and fern, protrude themselves in uncouth
and gigantic shapes. 'Tis true they were not then visible; but we wish
the reader to understand the character of the whole scenery through
which we pass. We diverge from the highway into a mountain road, which
resembles the body of a serpent when in motion, going literally up one
elevation, and down another. To the right, deep glens, gullies, and
ravines; but the darkness with which they are now filled is thick and
impervious to the eye, and nothing breaks the silence about us but the
rush of the mountain torrent over some jutting precipice below us. To
the left all is gloom, as it would be even were there light to guide the
sight, because on that side spreads a black, interminable moor. As it is
we can see nothing; yet as we get along we find that we are not alone.
Voices reach our ears; but they are not, as usual, the voices of mirth
and laughter. These which we hear--and they are not far from us--are
grave and serious; the utterance thick and low, as if those from whom
they proceed were expressing a sense of sympathy or horror. We have now
advanced up this rugged path about half a mile from the highway we
have mentioned, and discovered a light which will guide us to our
destination. As we approach the house the people are increasing in point
of numbers; but still their conversation is marked by the same strange
and peculiar character. Perhaps the solemn depth of their voices gains
something by the ominous aspect of the sky; but, be this as it may, the
feeling which it occasions fills one with a different and distinct sense
of discomfort.
We ourselves feel it, and it is not surprising; for, along this wild and
rugged path of darkness, we are conducting the reader to the wake of a
murderer. We have now arrived within fifty yards of the house, which,
however, we cannot see, for nothing but a solitary light is visible.
But, lo! a flash of lightning! and there for a moment is the whole
rugged and savage scenery revealed. The huge, pointed mountains, the
dreary wastes, the wild, still glens, the naked hills of granite, and
the tremendous piles of rocks, ready, one would think, to crash down
from the positions where they seem to hang, if only assailed by a strong
gale of wind--these objects, we say, were fearful and startling in
themselves; but the sensations which they produced were nothing in
comparison with the sight of an unpainted deal coffin which stood
near the door, against the side wall of the house. The appearance of a
coffin, but especially at night, is one that casts a deep shadow over
the spirits, because it is associated with death, of which it is the
melancholy and depressing exponent; but to look upon it by such an awful
though transient light as that which proceeds from the angry fires of
heaven, and to reflect upon the terrible associations of blood and
crime which mingle themselves with that of a murderer, is a dreadful but
wholesome homily to the heart. We now enter the house of death, where
the reader must suppose himself to be present, and shall go on to
describe the scene which presents itself.
On entering, we found the house nearly crowded; but we could observe
that there were very few of the young and light-hearted present, and
scarcely any females, unless those who were related to the family of the
deceased, or to himself. The house was low and long, and the kitchen
in which they had laid him out was spacious, but badly furnished.
Altogether its destitution was calculated to deepen the sense of awe
which impressed those who had come to spend the night with the miserable
widow and wailing orphans of the murderer.
The unfortunate man had been executed that morning after having
acknowledged his crime, and, as the laws of that period with respect to
the interment of the convicted dead were not so strict as they are at
present, the body was restored to his friends, in order that they might
bury it when and where they wished. The crime of the unhappy man was
deep, and so was that which occasioned it. His daughter, a young and
beautiful girl, had been seduced by a gentleman in the neighborhood who
was unmarried; and that act of guilt and weakness on her part was the
first act that ever brought shame upon the family. All the terrible
passions of the father's heart leaped into action at the rain of his
child, and the disgrace which it entailed upon his name. The fury of
domestic affection stimulated his heart, and blazed in his brain even
to madness. His daughter was obliged to fly with her infant and
conceal herself from his vengeance, though the unhappy girl, until the
occurrence of that woful calamity, had been the solace and the sunshine
of his life. The guilty seducer, however, was not doomed to escape the
penalty of his crime. Morrissey--for that was the poor man's name--cared
not for law; whether it was to recompense him for the degradation of
his daughter, or to punish him for inflicting the vengeance of outraged
nature upon the author of her ruin. What compensation could satisfy his
heart for the infamy entailed upon her and him? what paltry damages from
a jury could efface her shame or restore her innocence? Then, the man
was poor, and to the poor, under such circumstances, there exists no
law, and, consequently, no redress. He strove to picture to himself his
beautiful and innocent child; but he could not bear to bring the image
of her early and guiltless life near him. The injury was irreparable,
and could only be atoned for by the blood of the destroyer. He could
have seen her borne shameless and unpolluted to the grave, with the
deep, but natural, sorrow of a father; he could have lived with her in
destitution and misery; he could have begged with her through a hard and
harsh world; he could have seen her pine in want; moan upon the bed of
sickness; nay, more, he could have seen her spirit pass, as it were,
to the God who gave it, so long as that spirit was guiltless, and her
humble name without spot or stain; yes, he could have witnessed and
borne all this, and the blessed memory of her virtues would have
consoled him in his bereavement and his sorrow. But to reflect that she
was trampled down into guilt and infamy by the foot of the licentious
libertine, was an event that cried for blood; and blood he had, for he
murdered the seducer, and that with an insatiable rapacity of revenge
that was terrible. He literally battered the head of his victim out of
all shape, and left him a dead and worthless mass of inanimate matter.
The crime, though desperate, was openly committed, and there were
sufficient witnesses at his trial to make it a short one. On that
morning, neither arrest, nor friar, nor chaplain, nor jailer, nor
sheriff could wring from him one single expression of regret or
repentance for what he had done. The only reply he made them was
this--“Don't trouble me; I knew what my fate was to be, and will die
with satisfaction.”
After cutting him down, his body, as we have said, was delivered to his
friends, who, having wrapped it in a quilt, conveyed it on a common car
to his own house, where he received the usual ablutions and offices of
death, and was composed upon his own bed into that attitude of the grave
which will never change.
The house was nearly filled with grave and aged people, whose
conversation was low, and impressed with solemnity, that originated from
the painful and melancholy spirit of the event that had that morning
taken place. A deal table was set lengthwise on the floor; on this were
candles, pipes, and plates of cut tobacco. In the usual cases of death
among the poor, the bed on which the corpse is stretched is festooned
with white sheets, borrowed for the occasion from the wealthier
neighbors. Here, however, there was nothing of the kind. The
associations connected with murder were too appalling and terrible
to place the rites required, either for the wake or funeral of the
murderer, within the ordinary claims of humanity for these offices
of civility to which we have alluded. In this instance none of the
neighbors would lend sheets for what they considered an unholy purpose;
the bed, therefore, on which the body lay had nothing to ornament it. A
plain drugget quilt was his only covering, but he did not feel the want
of a better.
It was not the first time I had ever seen a corpse, but it was the
first time I had ever seen that of a murderer. I looked upon it with an
impression which it is difficult, if not impossible, to describe. I felt
my nerves tingle, and my heart palpitate. To a young man, fresh, and
filled with the light-hearted humanity of youth, approximation to such
an object as then lay before me is a singular trial of feeling, and a
painful test of moral courage. The sight, however, and the reflections
connected with it, rendered a long contemplation of it impossible, and,
besides, I had other objects to engage my attention. I now began to
observe the friends and immediate connections of the deceased. In all,
there were only seven or eight women, including his wife. There were
four boys and no daughters; for, alas! I forgot to inform the reader
that his fallen daughter was his only one; a fact which, notwithstanding
his guilt, must surely stir up the elements of our humanity in
mitigation of his madness.
This house of mourning was, indeed, a strange, a solemn, and a peculiar
one. The women sat near the bed upon stools, and such other seats as
they had prepared. The wife and his two sisters were rocking themselves
to and fro, as is the custom when manifesting profound sorrow in
Irish wake-houses; the other women talked to each other in a low tone,
amounting almost to a whisper. Their conduct was marked, in fact, by a
grave and mysterious monotony; but after a little reflection, it soon
became painfully intelligible. Here was shame, as well as guilt and
sorrow--here was shame endeavoring to restrain sorrow; and hence the
silence, and the struggle between them which it occasioned. The wife
from time to time turned her heavy eyes upon the countenance of the
corpse; and after the first sensations of awe had departed from me, I
ventured to look upon it with a purpose of discovering in its features
the lineaments of guilt. Owing to the nature of his death, that collapse
which causes the flesh to shrink almost immediately after the spirit has
departed was not visible here. The face was rather full and livid, but
the expression was not such as penitence or a conviction of crime
could be supposed to have left behind it. On the contrary, the whole
countenance had somewhat of a placid look, and the general contour was
unquestionably that of affection and benevolence.
It was easy, however, to perceive that this agonizing restraint upon
the feelings of that loving wife could not last long, and that the task
which the poor woman was endeavoring to perform in deference to the
conventional opinions of society was beyond her strength. Hers, indeed,
was not a common nor an undivided sorrow; for, alas, she had not only
the loss of her kind husband and his ignominious death to distract her,
but the shame and degradation of their only daughter which occasioned
it; and what a trial was that for a single heart! From time to time a
deep back-drawing sob would proceed from her lips, and the eye was again
fixed upon the still and unconscious features of her husband. At length
the chord was touched, and the heart of the wife and mother could
restrain itself no longer. The children had been for some time
whispering together, evidently endeavoring to keep the youngest of them
still; but they found it impossible--he must go to awaken his daddy.
This was too much for them, and the poor things burst out into an
uncontrollable wail of sorrow. The conversation among the spectators was
immediately hushed; but the mother started to her feet, and turning to
the bed, bent over it, and raised a cry of agony such as I never heard
nor hope ever to hear again. She clapped her hands, and rocking herself
up and down over him, gave vent to her accumulated grief, which now
rushed like a torrent that had been dammed up and overcome its barriers,
from her heart.
“O Harry,” said she in Irish--but we translate it--“O Harry, the husband
of the kind heart, the loving father, and the good man! O Harry, Harry,
and is it come to this with you and me and our childre! They may say
what they will, but you're not a murderer. It was your love for our
unfortunate Nannie that made you do what you did. O, what was the world
to you without her! Wasn't she the light of your eyes, and the sweet
pulse of your loving heart! And did ever a girl love a father as she
loved you, till the destroyer came across her--ay, the destroyer that
left us as we now are, sunk in sorrow and misery that will never end in
this world more! And now, what is she, and what has the destroyer made
her? O, when I think of how you sought after her you loved as you did,
to take her life, and when I think of how she that loved you as she
did was forced to fly from the hand that would pluck out your own heart
sooner than injure a hair of her head--so long as she was innocent--O,
when I think of all this, and look upon you lying there now, and all for
the love you bore her, how can my heart bear it, and how can I live. O,
the destroyer, the villain! the devil! what has he wrought upon us!
But, thank God, he is punished--the father's love punished him. They are
liars! you are no murderer. The mother's heart within me tells me that
you did what was right--you acted like a man, my husband. God bless
you, and make your soul happy for its love to Nannie. I'll kiss you,
Harry--I'll kiss you, my heart's treasure, for your noble deed--but O
Harry, you don't know the lips of sorrow that kiss! you now. Sure they
are the lips of your own Rose, that gave her young heart to you, and was
happy for it. Don't feel ashamed, Harry; it's a good man's case to die
the death you did, and be at rest, as I hope you are, for you are not a
murderer; and if you are, it is only in the eye of the law, and it was
your love for Nannie that did it.”
This woeful dirge of the mother's heart, and the wife's sorrow, had
almost every eye in tears; and, indeed, it was impossible that the
sympathy for her should not be deep and general. They all knew the
excellence and mildness of her husband's character, and that every word
she uttered concerning him was truth.
In Irish wakehouses, it is to be observed, the door is never closed. The
heat of the house, and the crowding of the neighbors to it, render it
necessary that it should be open; but independently of this, we believe
it a general custom, as it is also to keep it so during meals. This last
arises from the spirit of hospitality peculiar to the Irish people.
When his wife had uttered the words “you are no murderer,” a young and
beautiful girl entered the house in sufficient time to have heard them
distinctly. She was tall, her shape was of the finest symmetry, her
features, in spite of the distraction which, at first glance, was
legible in them, were absolutely fascinating. They all knew her well;
but the moment she made her appearance, the conversation, and those
expressions of sympathy which were passing from one to another, were
instantly checked; and nothing now was felt but compassion for the
terrible ordeal that they knew was before her mother. She rushed up to
where her mother had sat down, her eyes flashing, and her long brown
hair floating about her white shoulders, which were but scantily
covered.
“You talk of a murderer, mother,” she exclaimed. “You talk of a
murderer, do you? But if murder has been committed, as it has, I am the
murderer. Keep back now, let me look upon my innocent father--upon that
father that I have murdered.”
She approached the bed on which he lay, her eyes still flashing, and her
bosom panting, and there she stood gazing upon his features for about
two minutes.
The silence of the corpse before them was not deeper than that which her
unexpected presence occasioned. There she stood gazing on the dead body
of her father, evidently torn by the pangs of agony and remorse, her
hands clenching and opening by turns, her wild and unwinking eyes
riveted upon those moveless features, which his love for her had so
often lit up with happiness and pride. Her mother, who was alarmed,
shocked, stunned, gazed upon her, but could not speak. At length she
herself broke the silence.
“Mother,” said she, “I came to see my father, for I know he won't strike
me now, and he never did. O, no, because I ran away from him and from
all of you, but not till after I had deserved it; before that I was
safe. Mother, didn't my father love me once better than his own life?
I think he did. O, yes, and I returned it by murdering him--by sending
him--that father there that loved me so well--by--by sending him to the
hangman--to a death of disgrace and shame. That's what his own Nannie,
as he used to call me, did for him. But no shame---no guilt to you,
father; the shame and the guilt are your own Nannie's, and that's the
only comfort I have; for you're happy, what I will never be, either in
this world or the next. You are now in heaven; but you will never see
your own Nannie there.”
The recollections caused by her appearance, and the heart-rending
language she used, touched her mother's heart, now softened by her
sufferings into pity for her affliction, if not into a portion of the
former affection which she bore her.
“O Nannie, Nannie!” said she, now weeping bitterly upon a fresh sorrow,
“don't talk that way--don't, don't; you have repentance to turn to; and
for what you've done, God will yet forgive you, and so will your mother.
It was a great crime in you; but God can forgive the greatest, if his
own creatures will turn to him with sorrow for what they've done.”
She never once turned her eyes upon her mother, nor raised them for a
moment from her father's face. In fact, she did not seem to have heard
a single syllable she said, and this was evident from the wild but
affecting abstractedness of her manner.
“Mother!” she exclaimed, “that man they say is a murderer, and yet I am
not worthy to touch him. Ah! I'm alone now--altogether alone, and he--he
that loved me, too, was taken away from me by a cruel death--ay, a cruel
death; for it was barbarous to kill him as if he was a wild beast--ay,
and without one moment's notice, with all his sins upon his head. He
is gone--he is gone; and there lies the man that murdered him--there
he lies, the sinner; curse upon his hand of blood that took him I loved
from me! O, my heart's breakin' and my brain is boilin'! What will I do?
Where will I go? Am I mad? Father, my curse upon you for your deed of
blood! I never thought I'd live to curse you; but you don't hear me,
nor know what I suffer. Shame! disgrace--ay, and I'd bear it all for his
sake that you plunged, like a murderer, as you were, into eternity. How
does any of you know what it is to love as I did? or what it is to lose
the man you love by a death so cruel? And this hair that he praised so
much, who will praise it or admire it now, when he is gone? Let it go,
too, then. I'll not keep it on me--I'll tear it off--off!”
Her paroxysm had now risen to a degree of fury that fell little, if
anything, short of insanity--temporary insanity it certainly was.
She tore her beautiful hair from her head in handfuls, and would have
proceeded to still greater lengths, when she was seized by some of those
present, in order to restrain her violence. On finding that she was held
fast, she looked at them with blazing eyes, and struggled to set herself
free; but on finding her efforts vain, she panted deeply three or four
times, threw back her head, and fell into a fit that, from its violence,
resembled epilepsy. After a lapse of ten minutes or so, the spasmodic
action, having probably wasted her physical strength, ceased, and she
lay in a quiet trance; so quiet, indeed, that it might have passed for
death, were it not for the deep expression of pain and suffering which
lay upon her face, and betrayed the fury of the moral tempest which
swept through her heart and brain. All the mother's grief now was
hushed--all the faculties of her soul were now concentrated on her
daughter, and absorbed by the intense anxiety she felt for her recovery.
She sat behind the poor girl, and drew her body back so that her head
rested on her bosom, to which she pressed her, kissing her passive lips
with streaming eyes.
“O, darling Nannie!” she exclaimed, “strive and rouse yourself; it is
your loving mother that asks you. Waken up, poor misled and heart-broken
girl, waken up; I forgive you all your errors. O, avillish machree
(sweetness of my heart), don't you hear that it is your mother's voice
that's spakin' to you!”
She was still, however, insensible; and her little brothers were all in
tears about her.
“O mother!” said the oldest, sobbing, “is Nannie dead too? When she went
away from us you bid us not to cry, that she would soon come back; and
now she has only come back to die. Nannie, I'm your own little Frank;
won't you hear me I Nannie, will you never wash my face of a Sunday
morning more? will you never comb down my hair, put the pin in my shirt
collar, and kiss me, as you used to do before we went to Mass together?”
The poor mother was so much overcome by this artless allusion to her
innocent life, involving, as it did, such a manifestation of affection,
that she wept until fairly exhausted, after which she turned her eyes up
to heaven and exclaimed, whilst her daughter's inanimate body still lay
in her arms,
“O Lord of mercy, will you not look down with pity and compassion on me
this night!”
In the course of about ten minutes after this her daughter's eyes began
to fill with those involuntary tears which betoken in females recovery
from a fit; they streamed quietly, but in torrents, down her cheek.
She gave a deep sigh, opened her eyes, looked around her, first with
astonishment, and then toward the bed with a start of horror.
“Where am I?” said she.
“You are with me, darlin',” replied the mother, kissing her lips, and
whispering, “Nannie, I forgive you--I forgive you; and whisper, your
father did before he went to death.”
She smiled faintly and sorrowfully in her mother's face, and said,
“Mother, I didn't know that.” After which she got up, and proceeding to
the bed, she fell upon his body, kissed his lips, and indulged in a wild
and heart-breaking wail of grief. This evidently afforded her relief,
for she now became more calm and collected.
“Mother,” said she, “I must go.”
“Why, sure you won't leave us, Nannie?” replied the other with
affectionate alarm.
“O, I must go,” she repeated; “bring me the children till I see them
once--Frank first.”
The mother accordingly brought them to her, one by one, when she stooped
down and kissed them in turn, not without bitter tears, whilst they,
poor things, were all in an uproar of sorrow. She then approached her
mother, threw herself in her arms, and again wept wildly for a time, as
did that afflicted mother along with her.
“Mother, farewell,” said she at length--“farewell; think of me when I am
far away--think of your unfortunate Nannie, and let every one that hears
of my misfortune think of all the misery and all the crime that may come
from one false and unguarded step.”
“O, Nannie darling,” replied her mother, “don't desert us now; sure you
wouldn't desert your mother now, Nannie?”
“If my life could make you easy or happy, mother, I could give it for
your sake, worthless now and unhappy as it is; but I am going to a far
country, where my shame and the misfortunes I have caused will never
be known. I must go, for if I lived here, my disgrace would always be
before you and myself; then I would soon die, and I am not yet fit for
death.”
With these words the unhappy girl passed out of the house, and was
never after that night seen or heard of, but once, in that part of the
country.
In the meantime that most pitiable mother, whose afflicted heart could
only alternate from one piercing sorrow to another, sat down once more,
and poured forth a torrent of grief for her unhappy daughter, whom she
feared, she would never see again.
Those who were present, now that the distressing scene which we have
attempted to describe was over, began to chat together with more
freedom.
“Tom Kennedy,” said one of them, accosting a good-natured young fellow,
with a clear, pleasant eye, “how are all your family at Beech Grove?
Ould Goodwin and his pretty daughter ought to feel themselves in good
spirits after gaining the lawsuit in the case of Mr. Hamilton's will.
They bate the Lindsays all to sticks.”
“And why not,” replied Kennedy; “who had a betther right to dispose of
his property than the man that owned it? and, indeed, if any one livin'
desarved it from another, Miss Alice did from him. She nearly brought
herself to death's door, in attending upon and nursing her sister, as
she called poor Miss Agnes; and, as for her grief at her death, I never
saw anything like it, except “--he added, looking at the unfortunate
widow--“where there was blood relationship.”
“Well, upon my sowl,” observed another, “I can't blame the Lindsays for
feeling so bittherly about it as they do. May I never see yestherday, if
a brother of mine had property, and left it to a stranger instead of to
his own--that is to say, my childre--I'd take it for granted that he was
fizzen down stairs for the same. It was a shame for the ould sinner to
scorn his own relations for a stranger.”
“Well,” said another, “one thing is clear--that since he did blink them
about the property, it couldn't get into betther hands. Your master,
Tom, is the crame of a good landlord, as far as his property goes, and
much good may it do him and his! I'll go bail that, as far as Miss Alice
herself is consarned, many a hungry mouth, will be filled many a naked
back covered, and many a heavy heart made light through the manes of
it.”
“Faith,” said a third spokesman, “and that wouldn't be the case if that
skinflint barge of Lindsay's had got it in her clutches. At any rate,
it's a shame for her and them to abuse the Goodwins as they do. If ould
Hamilton left it to them surely it wasn't their fault.”
“Never mind,” said another, “I'll lay a wager that Mrs. Lindsay's son--I
mane the step-son that's now abroad with the uncle---will be sent for,
and a marriage will follow between him and Miss Goodwin.”
“It maybe so,” replied Tom, “but it's not very probable. I know the man
that's likely to walk into the property, and well worthy he is of it.”
“Come, Tom, let us hear who is the lucky youth?”
“Family saicrets,” replied Tom, “is not to be rovaled. All I can say is,
that he is a true gentleman. Give me another blast o' the pipe, for I
must go home.”
Tom, who was servant to Mr. Goodwin, having now taken his “blast,”
wished them good-night; but before he went he took the sorrowing widow's
cold and passive hand in his, and said, whilst the tears stood in his
eyes,
“May God in heaven pity you and support your heart, for you are the
sorely tried woman this miserable night!”
He then bent his steps to Beech Grove, his master's residence, the hour
being between twelve and one o'clock.
The night, as we have already said, had been calm, but gloomy and
oppressive. Now, however, the wind had sprung up, and, by the time
Kennedy commenced his journey home, it was not only tempestuous but
increasing in strength and fury every moment. This, however, was not
all;--the rain came down in torrents, and was battered against his
person with such force that in a few moments he was drenched to the
skin. So far, it was wind and rain--dreadful and tempestuous as they
were. The storm, however, was only half opened. Distant flashes of
lightning and sullen growls of thunder proceeded from the cloud masses
to the right, but it was obvious that the thunderings above them were
only commencing their deep and terrible pealings. In a short time they
increased in violence and fury, and resembled, in fact, a West Indian
hurricane more than those storms which are peculiar to our milder
climates. The tempest-voice of the wind was now in dreadful accordance!
with its power. Poor Kennedy, who fortunately knew every step of the
rugged road along which he struggled and staggered, was frequently
obliged to crouch himself and hold by the projecting crags about him,
lest the strength of the blast might hurl him over the rocky precipices
by the edges of which the road went. With great difficulty, however, and
not less danger, he succeeded in getting into the open highway below,
and into a thickly inhabited country. Here a new scene of terror and
confusion awaited him. The whole neighborhood around him were up and in
alarm. The shoutings of men, the screams of women and children, all in
a state of the utmost dread and consternation, pierced his ears, even
through the united rage and roaring of the wind and thunder. The
people had left their houses, as they usually do in such cases, from an
apprehension that if they remained in them they might be buried in their
ruins. Some had got ladders, and attempted, at the risk of their lives,
to secure the thatch upon the roofs by placing flat stones, sods, and
such other materials, as by their weight, might keep it from being borne
off like dust upon the wings of the tempest. Their voices, and! screams,
and lamentations, in accordance, as they were, with the uproar of the
elements, added a new feature of terror to this dreadful tumult. The
lightnings now became more vivid and frequent, and the pealing of the
thunder so loud and near, that he felt his very ears stunned by it.
Every cloud, as the lightnings flashed from it, seemed to open, and to
disclose, as it were, a furnace of blazing fire within its black
and awful shroud. The whole country around, with all its terrified
population running about in confusion and dismay, were for the moment
made as clear and distinct to the eye as if it were noonday, with this
difference, that the scene borrowed from the red and sheeted flashes a
wild and spectral character which the light of day never gives. In fact,
the human figures, as they ran hurriedly to and fro, resembled those
images which present themselves to the imagination in some frightful
dream. Nay, the very cattle in the fields could be seen, in those
flashing glimpses, huddled up together in some sheltered corner, and
cowering with terror at this awful uproar of the elements. It is a very
strange, but still a well-known fact, that neither man nor beast wishes
to be alone during a thunder-storm. Contiguity to one's fellow creatures
seems, by some unaccountable instinct, to lessen the apprehension of
danger to one individual when it is likely to be shared by many,
a feeling which makes the coward in the field of battle fight as
courageously as the man who is naturally brave.
The tempest had not yet diminished any of its power; so far from that,
it seemed as if a night-battle of artillery was going on, and raging
still with more violence in the clouds. Thatch, doors of houses, glass,
and almost everything light that the winds could seize upon, were flying
in different directions through the air; and as Kennedy now staggered
along the main road, he had to pass through a grove of oaks, beeches,
and immense ash trees that stretched on each side for a considerable
distance. The noises here were new to him, and on that account the more
frightful. The groanings of the huge trees, and the shrieking of their
huge branches as they were crushed against each other, sounded in
his ears like the supernatural voices of demons, exulting at their
participation in the terrors of the storm. His impression now was that
some guilty sorcerer had raised the author of evil, and being unable to
lay him, the latter was careering in vengeance over the earth until he
should be appeased by the life of some devoted victim--for such, when a
storm more than usually destructive and powerful arises, is the general
superstition of the people--at least it was so among the ignorant in our
early youth.
In all thunder-storms there appears to be a regular gradation--a
beginning, a middle, and an end. They commence first with a noise
resembling the crackling of a file of musketry where the fire runs along
the line, man after man; then they increase, and go on deepening their
terrors until one stunning and tremendous burst takes place, which is
the acme of the tempest. After this its power gradually diminishes
in the same way as it increased--the peals become less loud and less
frequent, the lightning feebler and less brilliant, until at length it
seems to take another course, and after a few exhausted volleys it dies
away with a hoarse grumble in the distance.
Still it thundered and thundered terribly; nor had the sweep of
the wind-tempest yet lost any of its fury. At this moment Kennedy
discovered, by a succession of those flashes that were lighting the
country around him, a tall young female without cloak or bonnet, her
long hair sometimes streaming in the wind, and sometimes blown up in
confusion over her head. She was proceeding at a tottering but eager
pace, evidently under the influence of wildness and distraction, or
rather as if she felt there was something either mortal or spectral in
pursuit of her. He hailed her by her name as she passed him, for he knew
her, but received no reply. To Tom, who had, as the reader knows, been
a witness of the scene we have described, this fearful glimpse of Nannie
Morrissey's desolation and misery, under the pelting of the pitiless
storm and the angry roar of the I elements, was distressing in the
highest degree, and filled his honest heart with compassion for her
sufferings.
He was now making his way home at his utmost speed, when he heard the
trampling of a horse's feet coming on at a rapid pace behind him, and on
looking back he saw a horseman making his way in the same direction
with himself. As he advanced, the repeated flashes made them distinctly
visible to each other.
“I say,” shouted the horseman at the top of his lungs, “can you direct
me to any kind of a habitation, where I may take shelter?”
“Speak louder,” shouted Tom; “I can't hear you for the wind.”
The other, in a voice still more elevated, repeated the question, “I
want to get under the roof of some human habitation, if there be one
left standing. I feel that I have gone astray, and this is no night to
be out in.”
“Faith, sir,” again shouted Tom, “it's pure gospel you're spakin', at
any rate. A habitation! Why, upon my credibility, they'd not deserve a
habitation that 'ud refuse to open the door for a dog on such a night
as this, much less to a human creature with a sowl to be saved. A
habitation! Well, I think I can, and one where you'll be well treated. I
suppose, sir, you're a gentleman?”
“Speak out,” shouted the traveller in his turn; “I can't hear you.”
Tom shaded his mouth with his hand, and shouted again, “I suppose, sir,
you're a gentleman?”
“Why, I suppose I am,” replied the stranger, rather haughtily.
“Becaise,” shouted Tom, “devil a traneen it 'ud signify to them I'm
bringing you to whether you are or not. The poorest man in the parish
would be sheltered as well as you, or maybe a betther man.”
“Are we near the house?” said the other.
“It's just at hand, sir,” replied Tom, “and thanks be to God for it; for
if ever the devil was abroad on mischief, he is this night, and may the
Lord save us! It's a night for a man to tell his grandchildre about, and
he may call it the 'night o' the big storm.'”
A lull had now taken place, and Tom heard a laugh from the stranger
which he did not much relish; it was contemptuous and sarcastic, and
gave him no very good opinion of his companion. They had now arrived
at the entrance-gate, which had been blown open by the violence of the
tempest. On proceeding toward the house, they found that their way was
seriously obstructed by the fall of several trees that had been blown
down across it. With some difficulty, however, they succeeded in
reaching the house, where, although the hour was late, they found the
whole family up, and greatly alarmed by the violence of the hurricane.
Tom went in and found Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin in the parlor, to both of
whom he stated that a gentleman on horseback, who had lost his way,
requested shelter for the night.
“Certainly, Kennedy, certainly; why did you not bring the gentleman in?
Go and desire Tom Stinton to take his horse to the stable, and let him
be rubbed down and fed. In the meantime, bring the gentleman in.”
“Sir,” said Tom, going to the bottom of the hall door-steps, “will
you have the goodness to walk in; the masther and misthress are in the
parlor; for who could sleep on such a night as this?”
On entering he was received with the warmest and most cordial
hospitality.
“Sir,” said Mr. Goodwin, “I speak in the name of myself and my wife
when I bid you heartily welcome to whatever my roof can afford you,
especially on such an awful night as this. Take a seat, sir; you must
want refreshments before you put off those wet clothes and betake
yourself to bed, after the dreadful severity of such a tempest.”
“I have to apologize, sir, for this trouble,” replied the stranger, “and
to thank you most sincerely for the kindness of the reception you and
your lady have given to an utter stranger.”
“Do not mention it, sir,” said Mr. Goodwin; “come, put on a dry coat and
waistcoat, and, in the meantime, refreshments will be on the table in a
few minutes. The servants are all up and will attend at once.”
The stranger refused, however, to change his clothes, but in a few
minutes an abundant cold supper, with wine and spirits, were placed upon
the table, to all of which he did such ample justice that it would seem
as if he had not dined that day. The table having been cleared, Mr.
Goodwin joined him in a glass of hot brandy and water, and succeeded
in pressing him to take a couple more, whilst his wife, he said, was
getting a bed and room prepared for him. Their! chat for the next
half hour consisted in a discussion of the storm, which, although much
abated, was not yet over. At length, after an intimation that his room
was ready for him, he withdrew, accompanied by a servant, got into an
admirable bed, and in a few minutes was fast asleep.