--Shan-Dhinne-Dhuv, or The Black Spectre.
The next evening was calm and mild; the sun shone with a serene and
mellow light from the evening sky; the trees were green, and still; but
the music of the blackbird and the thrush came sweetly from their
leafy branches. Henry Woodward had been listening to a rather lengthy
discussion upon the subject of the blood-shower, which, indeed, was the
topic of much conversation and great wonder throughout the whole parish.
His father, a Protestant gentleman, and with some portion of
education, although not much, was, nevertheless, deeply imbued with
the superstitions which prevailed around him, as, in fact, were most of
those who existed in his day; the very air which he breathed was rife
with them; but what puzzled him and his family most was the difficulty
which they found in shaping the prodigy into significance. Why should
it take place, and upon such an occasion, they could not for their
lives imagine. The only persons in the family who seemed altogether
indifferent to it were Woodward and his mother, both of whom treated it
with ridicule and contempt.
“It comes before some calamity,” observed Mr. Lindsay.
“It comes before a fiddle-stick, Lindsay,” replied his wife. “Calamity!
yes; perhaps you may have a headache to-morrow, for which the world must
be prepared by a storm of thunder and lightning, and a shower of blood.
The head that reels over night with an excess of wine and punch will
ache in the morning without a prodigy to foretell it.”
“Say what you will,” he replied, “I believe the devil had a hand in
it; and I tell you,” he added, laughing, “that if you be advised by me,
you'll begin to prepare yourself--'a stitch in time saves nine,' you
know--so look sharp, I say.”
“This, Harry,” she said, addressing her son, “is the way your mother has
been treated all along; yes, by a brutal and coarse-minded husband, who
pays no attention to anything but his own gross and selfish enjoyments;
but, thank God, I have now some person to protect me.”
“O, ho!” said her husband, “you are for a battle now. Harry, you don't
know her. If she lets loose that scurrilous tongue of hers I have
no chance; upon my soul, I'd encounter another half dozen of
thunder-storms, and as many showers of blood, sooner than come under it
for ten minutes; a West India hurricane is a zephyr to it.”
“Ah, God help the unhappy woman that's blistered for life with an
ignorant sot!--such a woman is to be pitied.--and such a woman am I;--I,
you good-for-nothing drunken booby, who made you what you are.”
“O, fie! mamma,” said Maria, “this is too bad to papa, who, you know,
seldom replies to you at all.”
“Miss Lindsay, I shall suffer none of your impertinence,” said her
mother; “leave the room, madam, this moment--how dare you? but I am not
surprised at it;--leave the room, I say.”
The poor, amiable girl, who was all fearfulness and affection, quietly
left the room as she was desired, and her father, who saw that his
worthy wife was brimful of a coming squall, put on his hat, and after
having given one of his usual sardonic looks, left the apartment also.
“Mother,” said her son Charles, “I must protest against the
unjustifiable violence of temper with which you treat my father. You
know he was only jesting in what he said to you this moment.”
“Let him carry his jests else were, Mr. Charles,” she replied, “he
shan't indulge in them at my expense; nor will I have you abet him in
them as you always do--yes, sir, and laugh at them in my face. All this,
however, is very natural; as the old cock crows the young one learns.
As for Maria, if she makes as dutiful a wife as she does a daughter, her
husband may thank God for getting his full share of evil in this life.”
“I protest to heaven, Harry,” said Charles, addressing his brother, “if
ever there was a meek, sweet-tempered girl living, Maria is. You do not
yet know her, but you will, of course, have an opportunity of judging
for yourself.”
“You perceive, Harry,” said his mother, addressing him in turn, “you
perceive how they are banded against me; in fact, they are joined with
their father in a conspiracy to destroy my peace and happiness. This is
the feeling that prevails against me in the house at large, for which I
may thank my husband and children--I don't include you, Harry. There
is not a servant in our establishment but could poison me, and probably
would, too, were it not for fear of the gallows.”
Woodward listened to this strange scene with amazement, but was prudent
enough to take no part in it whatsoever. On the contrary, he got his hat
and proceeded out to take a stroll, as the evening was so fine, and the
aspect of the country was so delightful.
“Harry,” said his brother, “if you're for a walk I'll go with you.”
“Not at present, Charley,” said he, “I am in a thoughtful mood, and
generally prefer a lonely stroll on such a beautiful evening as this.”
He accordingly went out, and bent his I steps by a long, rude green
lane, which extended upwards of half a mile across a rich! country,
undulating with fields and meadows. This was terminated by a clump of,
hawthorn trees, then white and fragrant with their lovely blossoms,
which lay in rich profusion on the ground. Contiguous to this was a
small but delightful green glen, from the side of which issued one of
those beautiful spring wells for which the country is so celebrated.
Over a verdant little hill, which concealed this glen and the well we
mention, from a few humble houses, or rather a decenter kind of cabins,
was visible a beaten pathway by which the inhabitants of this small
hamlet came for their water. Upon this, shaded as he was by the
trees, he steadily kept his eye for a considerable time, as if in the
expectation of some person who had made an appointment to meet him. Half
an hour had nearly elapsed--the shades of evening were now beginning
to fall, and he had just come to the resolution of retracing his steps,
with a curse of disappointment on his lips, when, on taking another,
and what he intended to be a last glance at the pathway in question,
he espied the individual for whom he waited. This was no other than the
young beauty of the neighborhood--Grace Davoren. She was tripping along
with a light and merry step, lilting an Irish air of a very lively
character, to which she could scarcely prevent herself from dancing, so
elastic and buoyant were her spirits. On coming to the brow of the glen
she paused a moment and cast her eye searchingly around her, but seemed
after the scrutiny to hesitate about proceeding farther.
Woodward immediately showed himself, and after beckoning to her,
proceeded toward the well. She still paused, however, as if irresolute;
but after one or two significant gestures on his part, she descended
with a slow and apparently a timid step, and in a couple of minutes
stood beside the well. The immediate purport of their conversation
is not essential to this narrative; but, indeed, we presume that our
readers may give a very good guess at it without any assistance from
us. The beautiful girl was young, and credulous, and innocent, as
might naturally be inferred from the confusion of her manner, and the
tremulous tones of her voice, which, indeed, were seductive and full of
natural melody. Her heart palpitated until its beatings might be
heard, and she trembled with that kind of terror which is composed of
apprehension and pleasure. That a gentleman--one of the quality--could
condescend to feel any interest in a humble girl like her, was what she
could scarcely have dreamed; but when he told her of her beauty, the
natural elegance and symmetry of her figure, and added that he loved her
better than any girl, either high or low, he had ever seen, she believed
that his words were true, and her brain became almost giddy with wonder
and delight. Then she considered what a triumph it was over all her
female acquaintances, who, if they knew it, would certainly envy
her even far more than they did already. After about half an hour's
conversation the darkness set in, and she expressed an apprehension
lest some of her family should come in quest of her--a circumstance, she
said, which might be dangerous to them both. He then prevailed on her
to promise another meeting, which at length she did; but on his taking
leave of her she asked him by which way he intended to go home.
“I came by the old green path,” said he, “but intend to turn down the
glen into the common road.”
“O, don't go that way,” said she; “if you do, you'll have to pass the
haunted house, ay, and maybe, might meet the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_.”
“What is that,” said he.
“O, Lord save us, sir,” said she, “did you never hear of the
_Shan-dhinne-dhuv?_ A spirit, sir, that appears about the haunted house
in the shape of a black ould man, and they say that nobody lives long
afther seein' him three times.”
“Yes; but did he ever take any person's life?”
“They say so, sir.”
“When? How long ago?”
“Indeed, I can't tell that, sir; but sure every one says it.”
“Well, what every one says must be true,” he replied, smiling. “I,
however, am not afraid of him, as I never go unarmed; and if I happen to
meet him, trust me I will know what mettle he's made of before we part,
or whether he belongs to this world or the other.”
He then went down the glen, by the bottom of which the road went; and at
a lonely place in a dark angle of it this far-famed spirit was said to
appear.
This vain, but simple girl, the pride of her honest parents and all her
simple relations and friends, took up her pitcher and proceeded with an
elated heart by the pathway house. We say her heart was elated at
the notion of having engaged the affections of a handsome, young, and
elegant gentleman, but at the same time she felt a secret sense of
error, if not of guilt, in having given him a clandestine meeting, and
kept an appointment which she knew her parents and brothers would have
heard with indignation and shame. She was confident, however, in her own
strength, and resolved in her mind that Woodward's attachment for her
never should terminate either in her disgrace or “ruin.” There were,
however, many foolish and pernicious ballads sung about that period
at the hearths of the peasantry, in which some lord or squire of high
degree was represented to have fallen in love with some beautiful girl
of humble life, whom he married in spite of his proud relations, and
after having made her a lady of rank, and dressed her in silks and
satins, gold rings and jewels, brought her home to his castle, where
they lived in grandeur and happiness for the remainder of their lives.
The simple-minded girl began to imagine that some such agreeable destiny
might be reserved for herself; and thus endeavored, by the deceitful
sophistry of a credulous heart, and proud of her beauty, to palliate her
conduct amidst the accusations of her own conscience, which told her she
was acting wrong.
She had now got about half way home, when she saw an individual approach
her at a rapid pace; and as the moon had just risen, his figure was
distinctly before her, and she immediately felt a strong impression
of terror and alarm. The individual in question was young, tall, and
muscular; his person had in it every symptom of extraordinary activity
and vigor. His features, however, were not at all such as could be
termed handsome; so far from that, they were rude and stern, but not
without a wild and disagreeable dignity. His eyes were at all times
fierce and fiery, and gave unequivocal indications of a fierce and fiery
spirit. He wore a pair of rude pantaloons that fitted closely to his
finely made limbs, a short jacket or Wyliecoat that also fitted closely
to his body, over which he wore the usual cloak of that day, which was
bound about his middle with a belt and buckle, in which was stuck a
middogue, or, as it ought to be written, _meadoige_, and pronounced
_maddogay_. He wore a kind of cap or _barrad_, which, as well as his
cloak, could, by being turned inside out, instantly change his whole
appearance, and mislead his pursuers--for he was the outlaw. Such was
the startling individual who now approached her, and at whose fierce
aspect she trembled--not less from her knowledge of the natural violence
of his character than from a consciousness of her interview with
Woodward.
“Well, Granua (Grace),” said he, quickly and with some vehemence, “where
have you been?”
“At the well,” she replied; “have you eyes in your head? Don't you see
my pitcher?”
“I do; but what kept you there so long? and why is your voice tremblin',
as if you wor afeard, or did something wrong? Why is your face pale,
too?--it's not often so.”
“The Lord save us, Shawn,” replied Grace, attempting to treat those
pointed interrogatories with a jocular spirit, “how can you expect me to
answer such a catechize as you're puttin' to me at wanst.”
“Answer me, in the mane time,” he replied; “I'll have no doubling,
Granua.”
“Has anything vexed you, Shawn?”
“_Chorp an diaoul!_ tell me why you staid so long at the well”--and as
he spoke his eyes flashed with resentment and suspicion.
“I didn't stay long at it.”
“I say you did. What kept you?”
“Why, bekaise I didn't hurry myself, but took my time. I was often
longer.”
“You were spakin' to some one at the well.”
“Ah, thin, Shawn, who would I be spakin' to?”
“Maybe I know--I believe I do--but I want now to know whether you're a
liar, as I suspect you to be, or whether you are honest enough to tell
the truth.”
“Do you suspect me, then?”
“I do suspect you; or rather I don't--bekaise I know the truth. Answer
me--who were you spakin' with?”
“Troth,” said she, “I was lookin' at your sweetheart in the well,”
meaning her own shadow, “and was only asking her how she did.”
“You danced with _Harry-na-Suil Balor_ last night?”
“I did; because the gentleman axed me--and why would I refuse him?”
“You whispered in a corner with him?”
“I did not,” she replied; “how could I when the room was so throng?”
“Ay, betther in a throng room than a thin one; ay, and you promised to
meet him at the well to-night; and you kept your word.”
A woman's courage and determination to persist in falsehood are never
so decided and deliberate as when she feels that the suspicion expressed
against her is true. She then gets into heroics and attempts to turn the
tables upon her opponent, especially when she knows, as Miss Davoren did
on this occasion, that he has nothing but suspicion to support him. She
knew that her lover had been at the bonfire, and that his friends must
have seen her dance with Woodward; and this she did not attempt to deny,
because she could not; but as for their tryst at the well, she felt
satisfied, from her knowledge of his jealous and violent character, that
if he had been aware of it, it would not have been by seeking the fact
through the medium of his threats and her fears that he would have
proceeded. Had he seen Woodward, for instance, and herself holding a
secret meeting in such a place and at such an hour, she concluded justly
that the _middogue_ or dagger, for the use of which he had been already
so celebrated, would have been brought into requisition against either
one or both.
“I'll talk no more to you,” she replied, with a flushed face; “for even
if I tould you the truth, you wouldn't believe me. I did meet him, then;
are you satisfied now?”
This admission was an able stroke of policy on her part, as the reader
will soon perceive.
“O,” he exclaimed, with a bitter, or, rather, a furious expression of
face, “_dar manim_, if you had, you wouldn't dare to confess as much.
But listen to me; if I ever hear or know, to my own satisfaction, that
you meet him, or keep his company, or put yourself in his power,
I'll send six inches of this “--and he pulled out the glittering
weapon--“into your heart and his; so now be warned and avoid him, and
don't bring down my vengeance on you both.”
“I don't see what right you have to bring me over the coals about any
one. My father was forcin' me to marry you; but I now tell you to your
teeth, that I never had the slightest intention of it. No! I wouldn't
take the wealth of the barony, and be the wife of sich a savage
murdherer. No man wid blood upon his hands and upon his sowl, as you
have--a public robber, a murdherer, an outlaw--will ever be my husband.
What right have you to tell me who I'm to spake to, or who I'm not to
spake to?”
“Ah,” he replied, “that wasn't your language to me not long ago.”
“But you were a different boy then from what you are now. If you had
kept your name free from disgrace and blood, I might have loved you; but
I cannot love a man with such crimes to answer for as you have.”
“You accuse me of shedding blood,” he replied; “that is false. I have
never shed blood nor taken life; but, on the contrary, did all in my
power to prevent those who have placed me at their head from doin' so.
Yet, when they did it in my absence, and against my orders, the blame
and guilt is charged upon me because I am their leader. As for anything
else I have done, I do not look upon it as a crime; let it rest upon the
oppression that drove me and others to the wild lives we lead. We are
forced to live now the best way we can, and that you know; but as to
this gentleman, you mustn't spake to him at any rate,” he proceeded;
“why should you? What 'ud make a man so high in life, and so far above
you as he is, strive to become acquainted with you, unless to bring
about your ruin to gratify his own bad passions? Think of it, and bring
it home to your heart. You have too many examples before your eyes,
young as you are, of silly girls that allow themselves to be made fools
of, and desaved and ruined by such scoundrels as this. Look at that
unfortunate girl in the mountains there--Nannie Morrissey; look at her
father hanged only for takin' God's just revenge, as he had a right to
do, on the villain that brought destruction upon her and his innocent
family, and black shame upon their name that never had a spot upon it
before. After these words you may now act as you like; but remember that
you have got _Shawn-na-Middogue's_ warning, and you ought to know what
that is.”
He then started off in the same direction which Woodward had taken, and
Grace, having looked after him with considerable indignation on her own
part and considerable apprehension on behalf of Woodward, took up her
pitcher and proceeded home.
She now felt herself much disturbed, and experienced that state of mind
which is often occasioned by the enunciation of that which is known
to be truth, but which, at the same time, is productive of pain to the
conscience, especially when that conscience begins to abandon the field
and fly from its duty.
Woodward, as he had intended, preferred the open and common road home,
although it was much longer, rather than return by the old green
lane, which was rugged and uneven, and full of deep ruts, dangerous
inequalities, and stumps of old trees, all of which rendered it not only
a disagreeable, but a dangerous, path by night. Having got out upon
the highway, which here, and until he reached near home, was, indeed,
solemn-looking and lonely, not a habitation except the haunted house
being visible for upwards of two miles, he proceeded on his way,
thinking of his interview with Grace Davoren. The country on each side
of him was nearly a desert; a gray ruin, some of whose standing and
isolated fragments assumed, to the excited imagination of the terrified
peasants as they passed it by night, the appearance of supernatural
beings, stood to the left, in the centre of an antiquated church-yard,
in which there had not been a corpse buried for nearly half a century--a
circumstance which always invests a graveyard with a more fearful
character. As Woodward gazed at these still and lonely relics of the
dead, upon which the faint rays of the moon gleamed with a spectral and
melancholy light, he could not help feeling that the sight itself, and
the associations connected with it, were calculated to fill weak minds
with strong feelings of supernatural terror. His, however, was not a
mind accessible to any such impressions; but at the same time he could
make allowance for them among those who had seldom any other notions to
guide them on such subjects than those of superstition and ignorance.
The haunted house, which was not yet in sight, he did not remember, nor
was he acquainted with its history, with the exception of Grace's
slight allusion to it. At length he came to a part of the road which was
overhung, or rather altogether covered with long beech trees, whose huge
arms met and intertwined with each other across it, filling the arch
they made with a solemn darkness even in the noon of day. At night,
however, the obscurity was black and palpable; and such upon this
occasion was its awful solemnity and stillness, and the sense of
insecurity occasioned by the almost supernatural gloom about him, that
Woodward could not avoid the idea that it afforded no bad conception
of the entrance to the world of darkness and of spirits. He had not
proceeded far, however, under this dismal canopy, when an incident
occurred which tested his courage severely. As he went along he imagined
that he heard the sound of human footsteps near him. This, to be sure,
gave him at first no trouble on the score of anything supernatural. The
country, however, was, as we have already intimated, very much infested
with outlaws and robbers, and although Woodward was well armed, as he
had truly said, and was no coward besides, yet it was upon this view
of the matter that he experienced anything like apprehension. He
accordingly paused, in order to ascertain whether the footsteps he heard
might not have been the echo of his own. When his steps ceased, so
also did the others; and when he advanced again so did they. He coughed
aloud, but there was no echo; he shouted out “Is there any one there?”
but still there was a dead stillness. At length he said again, “Whoever
you may be, and especially if your designs be evil and unlawful, you had
better beware; I am well armed, and both able and determined to defend
myself; if money is your object, pass on, for I have none about me.”
Again there was the silence, as there was the darkness of the grave. He
now resumed his former pace, and the noise of footsteps, evidently and
distinctly different from his own, were once more heard near him. Those
that accompanied him fell upon his ear with a light, but strange and
chilling sound, that filled him with surprise, and something like awe.
In fact, he had never heard anything similar to it before. It was very
strange, he thought, for the sounds, though light, were yet as distinct
and well-defined as his own. He still held a pistol in each hand, and as
he had no means of unravelling this mystery so long as he was inwrapped
in such Cimmerian gloom, he resolved to accelerate his pace and get into
the light of the moon as soon as he could. He accordingly did so; but
the footsteps, although they fell not now so quickly as his own, still
seemed to maintain the same distance from him as before. This certainly
puzzled him; and he was attempting, if possible, to solve this new
difficulty, when he found himself emerging from the darkness, and in
a few moments standing in the light of the moon. He immediately looked
about him, but except the usual inanimate objects of nature, he could
see nothing. Whatever it is, thought he, or, rather, whoever it is, he
has thought proper to remain undiscovered in the darkness. I shall now
bid him good-night, and proceed on my way home. He accordingly moved
on once more, when, to his utter astonishment, he heard the footsteps
again, precisely within the same distance of him as before.
“Tut,” said he, “I now perceive what the matter with me is. This is a
mere hallucination, occasioned by a disordered state of the nerves; and
as he spoke he returned his pistols into his breast pockets, where
he usually wore them, and once more resumed his journey. There
was, however, something in the sound of the footsteps--something so
hollow--so cold, as it were, and so unearthly, that he could not throw
off the unaccountable impression which it made upon him, infidel and
sceptic as he was upon all supernatural intimations and appearances. At
length, he proceeded, or rather they proceeded, onward until he arrived
within sight of what he supposed to be the haunted house. He paused
a few moments, and was not now so insensible to its lonely and dismal
aspect. It was a two-storied house, and nothing could surpass the
spectral appearance of the moon's light as it fell with its pale and
death-like lustre upon the windows. He stood contemplating it for
some time, when, all at once, he perceived, walking about ten yards in
advance of him, the shape of a man dressed in black from top to toe. It
was not within the scope of human fortitude to avoid being startled by
such a sudden and incomprehensible apparition. Woodward was startled;
but he soon recovered himself, and after the first shock felt rather
satisfied that he had some visible object with which he could make the
experiment he projected, viz., to ascertain the nature, whether mortal
or otherwise, of the being before him. With this purpose in view, he
walked very quickly after him, and as the other did not seem to quicken
his pace into a corresponding speed, he took it for granted that
he would soon overtake him. In this, however, he was, much to his
astonishment, mistaken. His own walk was quick and rapid, whilst that of
this incomprehensible figure was slow and solemn, and yet he could not
lessen the distance between them a single inch.
“Stop, sir,” said Woodward, “whoever or whatever you are--stop, I wish
to speak with you; be you mortal or spiritual, I fear you not--only
stop.”
The being before him, however, walked on at the same slow and solemn
pace, but still persisted in maintaining his distance. Woodward was
resolute, fearless--a sceptic, an infidel, a materialist--but here was a
walking proposition in his presence which he could not solve, and which,
up to that point, at least, had set all his theories at defiance. His
blood rose--he became annoyed at the strange silence of the being before
him, but more still at the mysterious and tardy pace with which it
seemed to precede and escape him.
[Illustration: PAGE 652-- I will follow it until morning]
“I will follow it until morning,” he said to himself, “or else I shall
develop this startling enigma.”
At this moment his mysterious fellow-traveller, after having advanced as
if there had not been such an individual as Woodward in existence, now
stood; he was directly opposite the haunted house, and turning round,
faced the tantalized and bewildered mortal. The latter looked on him;
his countenance was the countenance of the dead--of the sheeted dead,
stretched out in the bloodless pallor which lies upon the face of
vanished life--of existence that is no more, at least in flesh and
blood. Woodward approached him--for the thing had stood, as we have
said, and permitted, him to come within a few yards from him. His eyes
were cold and glassy, and apparently without speculation, like those
of a dead man open; yet, notwithstanding this, Woodward felt that they
looked at him, if not into him.
“Speak,” said he, “speak; who or what are you?”
He received no reply; but in a few seconds the apparition, if it were
such, put his hand into his bosom, and, pulling out a dagger, which
gleamed with a faint and visionary light, he directed it as if to his
(Woodward's) heart. Three times he did this, in an attitude more of
warning than of anger, when, at length, he turned and approached the
haunted house, at the door of which he disappeared.
Woodward, as the reader must have perceived, was a strong-minded,
fearless man, and examined the awful features of this inscrutable being
closely.
“This, then,” thought he, “is the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_, or the Black
Spectre; but, be it what it may, I am strongly of opinion that it
was present at the bonfire last night, and as I am well armed, I will
unquestionably pursue it into the house. Nay, what is more, I
suspect that it is in some way or I other connected with the outlaw
_Shawn-na-Middogue_, who it was, they say, made that amazing leap over
the aforesaid bonfire in my own presence.”
On that very account, however, he reflected that such an intrusion might
be attended with more danger than that to be apprehended from a ghost.
He consequently paused for some time before he could decide on following
up such a perilous resolution. While he thus stood deliberating upon
the prudence of this daring exploit, he heard a variety of noises, and
knockings, and rollings, as if of empty barrels, and rattling of chains,
all going on inside, whilst the house itself appeared to be dark and
still, without smoke from the chimneys, or light in the windows, or any
other symptom of being inhabited, unless by those who were producing the
wild and extraordinary noises he then heard.
“If I do not see this out,” said he, “my account of it will go to add
another page to the great volume of superstition. I am armed, not a whit
afraid, and I will see it out, if human enterprise can effect it.”
He immediately entered the door, which he found, somewhat to his
surprise, was only laid to, and, after listening for a few moments,
resolved to examine the premises closely. In deference to the reader,
whose nerves may not be so strong as those of Henry Woodward, and who
consequently may entertain a very decided objection to enter a haunted
house, especially one in such a lonely and remote situation, we will
only say that he remained in it for at least an hour and a half; at
the expiration of which time he left it, walked home in a silent and
meditative mood, spoke little to his family, who were a good deal
surprised at his abstracted manner, and, after sipping a tumbler of
punch with his step-father, went rather gloomily to bed.
The next morning at breakfast he looked a good deal paler than they had
yet seen him, and for some time his contribution to the family dialogue
was rather scanty.
“Harry,” said his mother, “what is the matter with you? You are silent,
and look pale. Are you unwell?”
“No, ma'am,” he replied, “I cannot say that I am. But, by the way,
have you not a haunted house in the neighborhood, and is there not an
apparition called the Black Man, or the Black Spectre, seen occasionally
about the premises?”
“So it is said,” replied Lindsay, “but none of this family has ever seen
it, although I believe it has undoubtedly been seen by many persons in
the neighborhood.”
“What is supposed to have been the cause of its appearance?” asked
Harry.
“Faith, Harry,” replied his brother, “I fear there is nobody here
can give you that information. To speak for myself, I never heard its
appearance accounted for at all. Perhaps Barney Casey knows. Do you,
father?”
“Not I,” replied his father; “but as you say, Charley, we had better try
Barney. Call him up.”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Lindsay, sharply and disdainfully, “it was the
Black Spectre who produced the shower of blood last night?”
“Faith, it's not unlikely,” replied her husband, “if he be, as the
people think, connected with the devil.”
In a couple of minutes Barney entered to know what was wanted.
“Barney,” said his master, “can you inform us who or what the
_Shan-dhinne-dhuv_ is, or why he appears in this neighborhood? Damn the
fellow; he has that house of mine on my hands this many a long year, for
I cannot get it set. I've had priests and parsons to lay him, and for
some time we thought the country was free of him; but it was all to no
purpose; he was still sure to return, and no earthly habitation should
serve him but that unlucky house of mine. It is very odd that he never
began to appear until after my second marriage.”
“Sir,” replied Barney, “I heard something about it; but I'm not clear
on it. To tell you the truth, there's two or three accounts of him; but
anyhow, sir, you're in luck for the right one; for if livin' man can
give it to you, Bandy Brack, the peddler, is the man. He's now at his
breakfast in the kitchen; but I'll have him up.”
“Not in the parlor,” said his mistress; “a strolling knave like him.
Who ordered him his breakfast in the kitchen without my knowledge?” she
asked. “The moment I can find out the person that dared to do so, that
moment they shall leave my family. Must I keep an open house for every
strolling vagabond in the country?”
“If you choose to turn me out,” replied her husband, “you may try your
hand at it. It was I ordered the poor man his breakfast; and, what is
more, I desire you instantly to hold your peace.”
As he spoke, she saw that one of his determined looks settled upon his
countenance--a pretty certain symptom that she had better be guided by
his advice.
“Come, Barney,” said he, “throw up that window and send the poor man
here, until he tells us what he knows about this affair.”
The window was accordingly thrown open, and in a few minutes Bandy Brack
made his appearance outside, and, on being interrogated on the subject
in question, took off his hat, and was about to commence his narrative,
when Lindsay said,
“Put on your hat, Bandy; the sun's too hot to be uncovered.”
“That's more of it,” said his wife; “a fine way to make yourself
respected, Lindsay.”
“I love to be respected,” he replied sternly, “and to deserve respect:
but I have no desire to incur the hatred of the poor by oppression and
want of charity, like some of my female acquaintances.”
“Plase your honor,” said Bandy, “all that I know about the
_Shan-dhinne-dhuv_, or the Black Spectre, as the larned call him, won't
require many words to tell you. It's not generally known what I'm goin'
to say now. The haunted house, as your honor, maybe, remimbers, was
an inn--a carman's inn chiefly--and one night, it seems, there came a
stranger to stop in it. He was dressed in black, and when he thought it
time to go to bed he called the landlord, Antony McMurt, and placed in
his hands a big purse o' goold to keep for him till he should start at
daybreak, as he intended, the next morning. Antony--
“Ay,” said Lindsay, interrupting him, “that accounts for the nature of
the villain's death. I remember him well, Bandy, although I was only
a boy at the time; go on--he was always a dishonest scoundrel it was
said--proceed.”
“Well it seems, Antony, sir, mistook him for a Protestant parson; and
as he had a hankerin' afther the goold, he opened a gusset in the man's
throat that same night, when the unsuspectin' traveller was sound in
that sleep that he never woke from in this world. When the deed was done
Antony stripped him of his clothes, and in doing so discovered a silver
crucifix upon his breast, and a bravery (breviary) under his head, by
which he found that he had murdhered a priest of his own religion in
mistake. They say he stabbed him in the jigler vein wid a _middoge_. At
all events, the body disappeared, and there never was any inquiry made
about it--a good proof that the unfortunate man was a stranger. Well and
good, your honor--in the coorse of a short time, it seems, the murdhered
priest began to appear to him, and haunted him almost every night, until
the unfortunate Antony began to get out of his rason, and, it is said,
that when he appeared to him he always pointed the _middoge_ at him,
just as if he wished to put it into his heart. Antony then, widout
tellin' his own saicret, began to tell everybody that he was doomed to
die a bloody death; in short, he became unsettled--got fairly beside
himself, and afther mopin' about for some months in ordher to avoid the
bloody death the priest threatened him wid, he went and hanged himself
in the very room where he killed the unfortunate priest before.”
“I remember when he hanged himself, very well,” observed Lindsay, “but
d--n the syllable of the robbery and murder of the priest or any body
else ever I heard of till the present moment, although there was an
inquest held over himself. The man got low-spirited and depressed,
because his business failed him, or, rather, because he didn't attend
to it; and in one of these moods hanged himself; but by all accounts,
Bandy, if he hadn't done the deed for himself the hangman would have
done it for him. He was said, I think, to have been connected with some
of the outlaws, and to have been a bad boy altogether. I think it is now
near fifty years ago since he hanged himself.”
“'Tis said, sir, that this account comes from one of his own relations;
but there's another account, sir, of the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_ that I don't
believe a word of.”
“Another--what is that, Bandy?”
“O, bedad, sir,” replied Bandy, “it's more than I could venture to tell
you here.”
“Come, come--out with it.”
Mrs. Lindsay went over with an inflamed face, and having ordered him
to go about his business, slapped down the window with great violence,
giving poor Bandy a look of wrath and intimidation that sealed his
lips upon the subject of the other tradition he alluded to. He was,
consequently, glad to escape from the threatening storm which he
saw brewing in her countenance, and, consequently, made a very hasty
retreat. Barney, who met him in the yard returning to fetch his pack
from the kitchen, noticed his perturbation, and asked him what was the
matter.
“May the Lord protect me from that woman's eye!” replied the pedler, “if
you'd 'a' seen the look she gave me when she thought I was goin' to tell
them the true story of the Shan-dhinne-dhuv.”
“And why should she put a sword in her eye against you for that, Bandy?”
asked the other.
Bandy looked cautiously about him, and said in a whisper:
“Because it's connected with her family, and follows it.”
He then proceeded to the kitchen, and having secured his pack, he made
as rapid a disappearance as possible from about the premises.