immemorial belonged to a family which, for distinctness, we shall call
by the name of Ardagh; and owing to the associations which, in Ireland,
almost always attach to scenes which have long witnessed alike the
exercise of stern feudal authority, and of that savage hospitality which
distinguished the good old times, this building has become the subject
and the scene of many wild and extraordinary traditions. One of them I
have been enabled, by a personal acquaintance with an eye-witness of the
events, to trace to its origin; and yet it is hard to say whether the
events which I am about to record appear more strange or improbable as
seen through the distorting medium of tradition, or in the appalling
dimness of uncertainty which surrounds the reality.
Tradition says that, sometime in the last century, Sir Robert Ardagh, a
young man, and the last heir of that family, went abroad and served
in foreign armies; and that, having acquired considerable honour and
emolument, he settled at Castle Ardagh, the building we have just now
attempted to describe. He was what the country people call a DARK man;
that is, he was considered morose, reserved, and ill-tempered; and, as
it was supposed from the utter solitude of his life, was upon no terms
of cordiality with the other members of his family.
The only occasion upon which he broke through the solitary monotony
of his life was during the continuance of the racing season, and
immediately subsequent to it; at which time he was to be seen among
the busiest upon the course, betting deeply and unhesitatingly, and
invariably with success. Sir Robert was, however, too well known as a
man of honour, and of too high a family, to be suspected of any unfair
dealing. He was, moreover, a soldier, and a man of an intrepid as well
as of a haughty character; and no one cared to hazard a surmise, the
consequences of which would be felt most probably by its originator
only.
Gossip, however, was not silent; it was remarked that Sir Robert never
appeared at the race-ground, which was the only place of public resort
which he frequented, except in company with a certain strange-looking
person, who was never seen elsewhere, or under other circumstances. It
was remarked, too, that this man, whose relation to Sir Robert was never
distinctly ascertained, was the only person to whom he seemed to speak
unnecessarily; it was observed that while with the country gentry
he exchanged no further communication than what was unavoidable in
arranging his sporting transactions, with this person he would converse
earnestly and frequently. Tradition asserts that, to enhance the
curiosity which this unaccountable and exclusive preference excited, the
stranger possessed some striking and unpleasant peculiarities of person
and of garb--she does not say, however, what these were--but they, in
conjunction with Sir Robert's secluded habits and extraordinary run of
luck--a success which was supposed to result from the suggestions and
immediate advice of the unknown--were sufficient to warrant report in
pronouncing that there was something QUEER in the wind, and in surmising
that Sir Robert was playing a fearful and a hazardous game, and that, in
short, his strange companion was little better than the devil himself.
Years, however, rolled quietly away, and nothing novel occurred in the
arrangements of Castle Ardagh, excepting that Sir Robert parted with his
odd companion, but as nobody could tell whence he came, so nobody could
say whither he had gone. Sir Robert's habits, however, underwent no
consequent change; he continued regularly to frequent the race
meetings, without mixing at all in the convivialities of the gentry,
and immediately afterwards to relapse into the secluded monotony of his
ordinary life.
It was said that he had accumulated vast sums of money--and, as his bets
were always successful, and always large, such must have been the case.
He did not suffer the acquisition of wealth, however, to influence his
hospitality or his housekeeping--he neither purchased land, nor extended
his establishment; and his mode of enjoying his money must have been
altogether that of the miser--consisting merely in the pleasure of
touching and telling his gold, and in the consciousness of wealth.
Sir Robert's temper, so far from improving, became more than ever gloomy
and morose. He sometimes carried the indulgence of his evil dispositions
to such a height that it bordered upon insanity. During these paroxysms
he would neither eat, drink, nor sleep. On such occasions he insisted on
perfect privacy, even from the intrusion of his most trusted servants;
his voice was frequently heard, sometimes in earnest supplication,
sometime as if in loud and angry altercation with some unknown visitant;
sometimes he would, for hours together, walk to and fro throughout the
long oak wainscoted apartment, which he generally occupied, with wild
gesticulations and agitated pace, in the manner of one who has been
roused to a state of unnatural excitement by some sudden and appalling
intimation.
These paroxysms of apparent lunacy were so frightful, that during
their continuance even his oldest and most-faithful domestics dared not
approach him; consequently, his hours of agony were never intruded upon,
and the mysterious causes of his sufferings appeared likely to remain
hidden for ever.
On one occasion a fit of this kind continued for an unusual time, the
ordinary term of their duration--about two days--had been long past,
and the old servant who generally waited upon Sir Robert after these
visitations, having in vain listened for the well-known tinkle of his
master's hand-bell, began to feel extremely anxious; he feared that his
master might have died from sheer exhaustion, or perhaps put an end to
his own existence during his miserable depression. These fears at length
became so strong, that having in vain urged some of his brother servants
to accompany him, he determined to go up alone, and himself see whether
any accident had befallen Sir Robert.
He traversed the several passages which conducted from the new to the
more ancient parts of the mansion, and having arrived in the old hall of
the castle, the utter silence of the hour, for it was very late in the
night, the idea of the nature of the enterprise in which he was
engaging himself, a sensation of remoteness from anything like human
companionship, but, more than all, the vivid but undefined anticipation
of something horrible, came upon him with such oppressive weight that
he hesitated as to whether he should proceed. Real uneasiness, however,
respecting the fate of his master, for whom he felt that kind of
attachment which the force of habitual intercourse not unfrequently
engenders respecting objects not in themselves amiable, and also a
latent unwillingness to expose his weakness to the ridicule of his
fellow-servants, combined to overcome his reluctance; and he had just
placed his foot upon the first step of the staircase which conducted
to his master's chamber, when his attention was arrested by a low but
distinct knocking at the hall-door. Not, perhaps, very sorry at finding
thus an excuse even for deferring his intended expedition, he placed
the candle upon a stone block which lay in the hall, and approached the
door, uncertain whether his ears had not deceived him. This doubt was
justified by the circumstance that the hall entrance had been for nearly
fifty years disused as a mode of ingress to the castle. The situation
of this gate also, which we have endeavoured to describe, opening upon
a narrow ledge of rock which overhangs a perilous cliff, rendered it
at all times, but particularly at night, a dangerous entrance. This
shelving platform of rock, which formed the only avenue to the door, was
divided, as I have already stated, by a broad chasm, the planks across
which had long disappeared by decay or otherwise, so that it seemed at
least highly improbable that any man could have found his way across the
passage in safety to the door, more particularly on a night like that,
of singular darkness. The old man, therefore, listened attentively, to
ascertain whether the first application should be followed by another.
He had not long to wait; the same low but singularly distinct knocking
was repeated; so low that it seemed as if the applicant had employed no
harder or heavier instrument than his hand, and yet, despite the immense
thickness of the door, with such strength that the sound was distinctly
audible.
The knock was repeated a third time, without any increase of loudness;
and the old man, obeying an impulse for which to his dying hour he could
never account, proceeded to remove, one by one, the three great oaken
bars which secured the door. Time and damp had effectually corroded the
iron chambers of the lock, so that it afforded little resistance. With
some effort, as he believed, assisted from without, the old servant
succeeded in opening the door; and a low, square-built figure,
apparently that of a man wrapped in a large black cloak, entered
the hall. The servant could not see much of this visitant with any
distinctness; his dress appeared foreign, the skirt of his ample cloak
was thrown over one shoulder; he wore a large felt hat, with a very
heavy leaf, from under which escaped what appeared to be a mass of long
sooty-black hair; his feet were cased in heavy riding-boots. Such were
the few particulars which the servant had time and light to observe. The
stranger desired him to let his master know instantly that a friend
had come, by appointment, to settle some business with him. The servant
hesitated, but a slight motion on the part of his visitor, as if to
possess himself of the candle, determined him; so, taking it in his
hand, he ascended the castle stairs, leaving his guest in the hall.
On reaching the apartment which opened upon the oak-chamber he was
surprised to observe the door of that room partly open, and the room
itself lit up. He paused, but there was no sound; he looked in, and
saw Sir Robert, his head and the upper part of his body reclining on
a table, upon which burned a lamp; his arms were stretched forward on
either side, and perfectly motionless; it appeared that, having been
sitting at the table, he had thus sunk forward, either dead or in a
swoon. There was no sound of breathing; all was silent, except the sharp
ticking of a watch, which lay beside the lamp. The servant coughed
twice or thrice, but with no effect; his fears now almost amounted to
certainty, and he was approaching the table on which his master partly
lay, to satisfy himself of his death, when Sir Robert slowly raised
his head, and throwing himself back in his chair, fixed his eyes in a
ghastly and uncertain gaze upon his attendant. At length he said, slowly
and painfully, as if he dreaded the answer:
'In God's name, what are you?'
'Sir,' said the servant, 'a strange gentleman wants to see you below.'
At this intimation Sir Robert, starting on his feet and tossing his arms
wildly upwards, uttered a shriek of such appalling and despairing terror
that it was almost too fearful for human endurance; and long after
the sound had ceased it seemed to the terrified imagination of the old
servant to roll through the deserted passages in bursts of unnatural
laughter. After a few moments Sir Robert said:
'Can't you send him away? Why does he come so soon? O God! O God! let
him leave me for an hour; a little time. I can't see him now; try to
get him away. You see I can't go down now; I have not strength. O God!
O God! let him come back in an hour; it is not long to wait. He cannot
lose anything by it; nothing, nothing, nothing. Tell him that; say
anything to him.'
The servant went down. In his own words, he did not feel the stairs
under him till he got to the hall. The figure stood exactly as he had
left it. He delivered his master's message as coherently as he could.
The stranger replied in a careless tone:
'If Sir Robert will not come down to me, I must go up to him.'
The man returned, and to his surprise he found his master much more
composed in manner. He listened to the message, and though the cold
perspiration rose in drops upon his forehead faster than he could wipe
it away, his manner had lost the dreadful agitation which had marked
it before. He rose feebly, and casting a last look of agony behind him,
passed from the room to the lobby, where he signed to his attendant not
to follow him. The man moved as far as the head of the staircase,
from whence he had a tolerably distinct view of the hall, which was
imperfectly lighted by the candle he had left there.
He saw his master reel, rather than walk down the stairs, clinging all
the way to the banisters. He walked on, as if about to sink every moment
from weakness. The figure advanced as if to meet him, and in passing
struck down the light. The servant could see no more; but there was
a sound of struggling, renewed at intervals with silent but fearful
energy. It was evident, however, that the parties were approaching the
door, for he heard the solid oak sound twice or thrice, as the feet of
the combatants, in shuffling hither and thither over the floor, struck
upon it. After a slight pause he heard the door thrown open with such
violence that the leaf seemed to strike the side-wall of the hall, for
it was so dark without that this could only be surmised by the sound.
The struggle was renewed with an agony and intenseness of energy
that betrayed itself in deep-drawn gasps. One desperate effort, which
terminated in the breaking of some part of the door, producing a sound
as if the door-post was wrenched from its position, was followed by
another wrestle, evidently upon the narrow ledge which ran outside the
door, overtopping the precipice. This proved to be the final struggle,
for it was followed by a crashing sound as if some heavy body had fallen
over, and was rushing down the precipice, through the light boughs that
crossed near the top. All then became still as the grave, except when
the moan of the night wind sighed up the wooded glen.
The old servant had not nerve to return through the hall, and to him the
darkness seemed all but endless; but morning at length came, and with
it the disclosure of the events of the night. Near the door, upon the
ground, lay Sir Robert's sword-belt, which had given way in the scuffle.
A huge splinter from the massive door-post had been wrenched off by
an almost superhuman effort--one which nothing but the gripe of a
despairing man could have severed--and on the rock outside were left the
marks of the slipping and sliding of feet.
At the foot of the precipice, not immediately under the castle, but
dragged some way up the glen, were found the remains of Sir Robert, with
hardly a vestige of a limb or feature left distinguishable. The right
hand, however, was uninjured, and in its fingers were clutched, with the
fixedness of death, a long lock of coarse sooty hair--the only direct
circumstantial evidence of the presence of a second person. So says
tradition.
This story, as I have mentioned, was current among the dealers in such
lore; but the original facts are so dissimilar in all but the name of
the principal person mentioned and his mode of life, and the fact that
his death was accompanied with circumstances of extraordinary mystery,
that the two narratives are totally irreconcilable (even allowing the
utmost for the exaggerating influence of tradition), except by supposing
report to have combined and blended together the fabulous histories
of several distinct bearers of the family name. However this may be, I
shall lay before the reader a distinct recital of the events from which
the foregoing tradition arose. With respect to these there can be no
mistake; they are authenticated as fully as anything can be by human
testimony; and I state them principally upon the evidence of a lady who
herself bore a prominent part in the strange events which she related,
and which I now record as being among the few well-attested tales of the
marvellous which it has been my fate to hear. I shall, as far as I am
able, arrange in one combined narrative the evidence of several distinct
persons who were eye-witnesses of what they related, and with the truth
of whose testimony I am solemnly and deeply impressed.
Sir Robert Ardagh, as we choose to call him, was the heir and
representative of the family whose name he bore; but owing to the
prodigality of his father, the estates descended to him in a very
impaired condition. Urged by the restless spirit of youth, or more
probably by a feeling of pride which could not submit to witness, in
the paternal mansion, what he considered a humiliating alteration in
the style and hospitality which up to that time had distinguished
his family, Sir Robert left Ireland and went abroad. How he occupied
himself, or what countries he visited during his absence, was never
known, nor did he afterwards make any allusion or encourage any
inquiries touching his foreign sojourn. He left Ireland in the year
1742, being then just of age, and was not heard of until the year
1760--about eighteen years afterwards--at which time he returned. His
personal appearance was, as might have been expected, very greatly
altered, more altered, indeed, than the time of his absence might
have warranted one in supposing likely. But to counterbalance the
unfavourable change which time had wrought in his form and features, he
had acquired all the advantages of polish of manner and refinement of
taste which foreign travel is supposed to bestow. But what was truly
surprising was that it soon became evident that Sir Robert was very
wealthy--wealthy to an extraordinary and unaccountable degree; and this
fact was made manifest, not only by his expensive style of living,
but by his proceeding to disembarrass his property, and to purchase
extensive estates in addition. Moreover, there could be nothing
deceptive in these appearances, for he paid ready money for everything,
from the most important purchase to the most trifling.
Sir Robert was a remarkably agreeable man, and possessing the combined
advantages of birth and property, he was, as a matter of course, gladly
received into the highest society which the metropolis then commanded.
It was thus that he became acquainted with the two beautiful Miss
F----ds, then among the brightest ornaments of the highest circle of
Dublin fashion. Their family was in more than one direction allied to
nobility; and Lady D----, their elder sister by many years, and sometime
married to a once well-known nobleman, was now their protectress. These
considerations, beside the fact that the young ladies were what is
usually termed heiresses, though not to a very great amount, secured to
them a high position in the best society which Ireland then produced.
The two young ladies differed strongly, alike in appearance and in
character. The elder of the two, Emily, was generally considered the
handsomer--for her beauty was of that impressive kind which never
failed to strike even at the first glance, possessing as it did all the
advantages of a fine person and a commanding carriage. The beauty of her
features strikingly assorted in character with that of her figure and
deportment. Her hair was raven-black and richly luxuriant, beautifully
contrasting with the perfect whiteness of her forehead--her finely
pencilled brows were black as the ringlets that clustered near them--and
her blue eyes, full, lustrous, and animated, possessed all the power and
brilliancy of brown ones, with more than their softness and variety of
expression. She was not, however, merely the tragedy queen. When she
smiled, and that was not seldom, the dimpling of cheek and chin, the
laughing display of the small and beautiful teeth--but, more than all,
the roguish archness of her deep, bright eye, showed that nature had not
neglected in her the lighter and the softer characteristics of woman.
Her younger sister Mary was, as I believe not unfrequently occurs in
the case of sisters, quite in the opposite style of beauty. She was
light-haired, had more colour, had nearly equal grace, with much more
liveliness of manner. Her eyes were of that dark grey which poets so
much admire--full of expression and vivacity. She was altogether a very
beautiful and animated girl--though as unlike her sister as the presence
of those two qualities would permit her to be. Their dissimilarity did
not stop here--it was deeper than mere appearance--the character of
their minds differed almost as strikingly as did their complexion.
The fair-haired beauty had a large proportion of that softness and
pliability of temper which physiognomists assign as the characteristics
of such complexions. She was much more the creature of impulse than of
feeling, and consequently more the victim of extrinsic circumstances
than was her sister. Emily, on the contrary, possessed considerable
firmness and decision. She was less excitable, but when excited her
feelings were more intense and enduring. She wanted much of the gaiety,
but with it the volatility of her younger sister. Her opinions
were adopted, and her friendships formed more reflectively, and
her affections seemed to move, as it were, more slowly, but more
determinedly. This firmness of character did not amount to anything
masculine, and did not at all impair the feminine grace of her manners.
Sir Robert Ardagh was for a long time apparently equally attentive to
the two sisters, and many were the conjectures and the surmises as to
which would be the lady of his choice. At length, however, these doubts
were determined; he proposed for and was accepted by the dark beauty,
Emily F----d.
The bridals were celebrated in a manner becoming the wealth and
connections of the parties; and Sir Robert and Lady Ardagh left Dublin
to pass the honeymoon at the family mansion, Castle Ardagh, which had
lately been fitted up in a style bordering upon magnificent. Whether
in compliance with the wishes of his lady, or owing to some whim of his
own, his habits were henceforward strikingly altered; and from having
moved among the gayest if not the most profligate of the votaries
of fashion, he suddenly settled down into a quiet, domestic, country
gentleman, and seldom, if ever, visited the capital, and then his
sojourns were as brief as the nature of his business would permit.
Lady Ardagh, however, did not suffer from this change further than in
being secluded from general society; for Sir Robert's wealth, and the
hospitality which he had established in the family mansion, commanded
that of such of his lady's friends and relatives as had leisure or
inclination to visit the castle; and as their style of living was very
handsome, and its internal resources of amusement considerable, few
invitations from Sir Robert or his lady were neglected.
Many years passed quietly away, during which Sir Robert's and Lady
Ardagh's hopes of issue were several times disappointed. In the lapse of
all this time there occurred but one event worth recording. Sir Robert
had brought with him from abroad a valet, who sometimes professed
himself to be French, at others Italian, and at others again German. He
spoke all these languages with equal fluency, and seemed to take a kind
of pleasure in puzzling the sagacity and balking the curiosity of such
of the visitors at the castle as at any time happened to enter into
conversation with him, or who, struck by his singularities, became
inquisitive respecting his country and origin. Sir Robert called him by
the French name, JACQUE, and among the lower orders he was familiarly
known by the title of 'Jack, the devil,' an appellation which originated
in a supposed malignity of disposition and a real reluctance to mix in
the society of those who were believed to be his equals. This morose
reserve, coupled with the mystery which enveloped all about him,
rendered him an object of suspicion and inquiry to his fellow-servants,
amongst whom it was whispered that this man in secret governed the
actions of Sir Robert with a despotic dictation, and that, as if to
indemnify himself for his public and apparent servitude and self-denial,
he in private exacted a degree of respectful homage from his so-called
master, totally inconsistent with the relation generally supposed to
exist between them.