seat with terror, and turned up her eyes to ascertain whether or not any
dreadful appearance had approached her, or hung over her where she sat.
"Woman," said she, "I spoke you kind an' fair, an' I wish you
well--but----"
"But what?" replied the other--and her eyes kindled into deep and
profound excitement, apparently upon very slight grounds.
"Why--hem--nothin' at all sure, only----"
"Only what?" asked the stranger, with a face of anguish that seemed to
torture every feature out of its proper lineaments.
"Dacent woman," said Mrs Sullivan, whilst the hair began to stand with
terror upon her head, "sure it's no wondher in life that I'm in a
perplexity, whin a _Lianhan Shee_ is undher the one roof wid me. 'Tisn't
that I want to know anything at all about it--the dear forbid I should;
but I never hard of a person bein' tormented wid it as you are. I always
used to hear the people say that it thrated its friends well."
"Husht!" said the woman, looking wildly over her shoulder, "I'll not
tell: it's on myself I'll leave the blame! Why, will you never pity me?
Am I to be night and day tormented? Oh, you're wicked and cruel for no
reason!"
"Thry," said Mrs Sullivan, "an' bless yourself; call on God."
"Ah!" shouted the other, "are you going to get me killed?" and as she
uttered the words, a spasmodic working which must have occasioned great
pain, even to torture, became audible in her throat; her bosom heaved up
and down, and her head was bent repeatedly on her breast, as if by
force.
"Don't mention that name," said she, "in my presence, except you mean to
drive me to utter distraction. I mean," she continued, after
considerable effort to recover her former tone and manner--"hear me with
attention--I mean, woman--you, Mary Sullivan--that if you mention that
holy name, you might as well keep plunging sharp knives into my heart!
Husht! peace to me for one minute, tormentor! Spare me something, I'm in
your power!"
"Will you ate anything?" said Mrs Sullivan; "poor crathur, you look like
hunger an' distress; there's enough in the house, blessed be them that
sent it! an' you had betther thry an' take some nourishment, any way";
and she raised her eyes in a silent prayer of relief and ease for the
unhappy woman, whose unhallowed association had, in her opinion, sealed
her doom.
"Will I?--will I?--oh!" she replied, "may you never know misery for
offering it! Oh, bring me something--some refreshment--some food--for
I'm dying with hunger."
Mrs Sullivan, who, with all her superstition, was remarkable for charity
and benevolence, immediately placed food and drink before her, which the
stranger absolutely devoured--taking care occasionally to secrete under
the protuberance which appeared behind her neck, a portion of what she
ate. This, however, she did, not by stealth, but openly; merely taking
means to prevent the concealed thing from being, by any possible
accident, discovered.
When the craving of hunger was satisfied, she appeared to suffer less
from the persecution of her tormentor than before; whether it was, as
Mrs Sullivan thought, that the food with which she plied it appeased in
some degree its irritability, or lessened that of the stranger, it was
difficult to say; at all events, she became more composed; her eyes
resumed somewhat of a natural expression; each sharp ferocious glare,
which shot from them with such intense and rapid flashes, partially
disappeared; her knit brows dilated, and part of a forehead, which had
once been capacious and handsome, lost the contractions which deformed
it by deep wrinkles. Altogether the change was evident, and very much
relieved Mrs Sullivan, who could not avoid observing it.
"It's not that I care much about it, if you'd think it not right o' me,
but it's odd enough for you to keep the lower part of your face muffled
up in that black cloth, an' then your forehead, too, is covered down on
your face a bit. If they're part of the _bargain_,"--and she shuddered
at the thought,--"between you an' anything that's not good--hem!--I
think you'd do well to throw thim off o' you, an' turn to thim that can
protect you from everything that's bad. Now, a scapular would keep all
the divils in hell from one; an' if you'd----"
On looking at the stranger she hesitated, for the wild expression of her
eyes began to return.
"Don't begin my punishment again," replied the woman; "make no
allus----don't make mention in my presence of anything that's good.
Husht--husht--it's beginning--easy now--easy! No," said she, "I came to
tell you, that only for my breaking a vow I made to this thing upon me,
I'd be happy instead of miserable with it. I say, it's a good thing to
have, if the person will use this bottle," she added, producing one, "as
I will direct them."
"I wouldn't wish, for my part," replied Mrs Sullivan, "to have anything
to do wid it--neither act nor part"; and she crossed herself devoutly,
on contemplating such an unholy alliance as that at which her companion
hinted.
"Mary Sullivan," replied the other, "I can put good fortune and
happiness in the way of you and yours. It is for you the good is
intended; if _you_ don't get both, _no other_ can," and her eyes kindled
as she spoke like those of the Pyrhoness in the moment of inspiration.
Mrs Sullivan looked at her with awe, fear, and a strong mixture of
curiosity; she had often heard that the _Lianhan Shee_ had, through
means of the person to whom it was bound, conferred wealth upon several,
although it could never render this important service to those who
exercised direct authority over it. She therefore experienced something
like a conflict between her fears and a love of that wealth, the
possession of which was so plainly intimated to her.
"The money," said she, "would be one thing, but to have the _Lianhan
Shee_ planted over a body's shouldher--och! the saints preserve us!--no,
not for oceans of hard goold would I have it in my company one minnit.
But in regard to the money--hem!--why, if it could be managed without
havin' act or part wid _that thing_, people would do anything in reason
and fairity."
"You have this day been kind to me," replied the woman, "and that's what
I can't say of many--dear help me!--husht! Every door is shut in my
face! Does not every cheek get pale when I am seen? If I meet a
fellow-creature on the road, they turn into the field to avoid me; if I
ask for food, it's to a deaf ear I speak; if I am thirsty, they send me
to the river. What house would shelter me? In cold, in hunger, in
drought, in storm, and in tempest, I am alone and unfriended, hated,
feared, an' avoided; starving in the winter's cold, and burning in the
summer's heat. All this is my fate here; and--oh! oh! oh!--have mercy,
tormentor--have mercy! I will not lift my thoughts _there_--I'll keep
the paction--but spare me _now_!"
She turned round as she spoke, seeming to follow an invisible object,
or, perhaps, attempting to get a more complete view of the mysterious
being which exercised such a terrible and painful influence over her.
Mrs Sullivan, also, kept her eye fixed upon the lump, and actually
believed that she saw it move. Fear of incurring the displeasure of what
it contained, and a superstitious reluctance harshly to thrust a person
from her door who had eaten of her food, prevented her from desiring the
woman to depart.
"In the name of Goodness," she replied, "I will have nothing to do wid
your gift. Providence, blessed be His name, has done well for me an'
mine; an' it mightn't be right to go beyant what it has pleased _Him_ to
give me."
"A rational sentiment!--I mean there's good sense in what you say,"
answered the stranger: "but you need not be afraid," and she accompanied
the expression by holding up the bottle and kneeling. "Now," she added,
"listen to me, and judge for yourself, if what I say, when I swear it,
can be a lie." She then proceeded to utter oaths of the most solemn
nature, the purport of which was to assure Mrs Sullivan that drinking of
the bottle would be attended with no danger.
"You see this little bottle? Drink it. Oh, for my sake and your own,
drink it; it will give wealth without end to you and to all belonging to
you. Take one-half of it before sunrise, and the other half when he goes
down. You must stand while drinking it, with your face to the east, in
the morning; and at night, to the west. Will you promise to do thus?"
"How would drinkin' the bottle get me money?" inquired Mrs Sullivan, who
certainly felt a strong tendency of heart to the wealth.
"That I can't tell you now, nor would you understand it, even if I
could; but you will know all when what I say is complied with."
"Keep your bottle, dacent woman. I wash my hands out of it: the saints
above guard me from the timptation! I'm sure it's not right, for as I'm
a sinner, 'tis gettin' stronger every minute widin me! Keep it! I'm loth
to bid any one that _ett_ o' my bread to go from my hearth, but if you
go, I'll make it worth your while. Saints above! what's comin' over me?
In my whole life I never had such a hankerin' afther money! Well, well,
but it's quare entirely!"
"Will you drink it?" asked her companion. "If it does hurt or harm to
you or yours, or anything but good, may what is hanging over me be
fulfilled!" and she extended a thin, but, considering her years, not
ungraceful arm, in the act of holding out the bottle to her kind
entertainer.
"For the sake of all that's good and gracious, take it without
scruple--it is not hurtful, a child might drink every drop that's in it.
Oh, for the sake of all you love, and of all that love you, take it!"
and as she urged her the tears streamed down her cheeks.
"No, no," replied Mrs Sullivan, "it'll never cross my lips; not if it
made me as rich as ould Hendherson, that airs his guineas in the sun,
for fraid they'd get light by lyin' past."
"I entreat you to take it," said the strange woman.
"Never, never!--once for all--I say, I won't; so spare your breath."
The firmness of the good housewife was not, in fact, to be shaken; so,
after exhausting all the motives and arguments with which she could urge
the accomplishment of her design, the strange woman, having again put
the bottle into her bosom, prepared to depart.
She had now once more become calm, and resumed her seat with the languid
air of one who has suffered much exhaustion and excitement. She put her
hand upon her forehead for a few moments, as if collecting her
faculties, or endeavouring to remember the purport of their previous
conversation. A slight moisture had broken through her skin, and
altogether, notwithstanding her avowed criminality in entering into an
unholy bond, she appeared an object of deep compassion.
In a moment her manner changed again, and her eyes blazed out once more,
as she asked her alarmed hostess,--
"Again, Mary Sullivan, will you take the gift that I have it in my power
to give you? ay or no? speak, poor mortal, if you know what is for your
own good."
Mrs Sullivan's fears, however, had overcome her love of money,
particularly as she thought that wealth obtained in such a manner could
not prosper; her only objection being to the means of acquiring it.
"Oh!" said the stranger, "am I doomed never to meet with anyone who will
take the promise off me by drinking of this bottle. Oh! but I am
unhappy! What it is to fear--ah! ah!--and keep _His_ commandments. Had
_I_ done so in my youthful time, I wouldn't now--ah--merciful mother, is
there no relief? kill me, tormentor; kill me outright, for surely the
pangs of eternity cannot be greater than those you now make me suffer.
Woman," said she, and her muscles stood out in extraordinary
energy--"woman, Mary Sullivan--ay, if you should kill me--blast
me--where I stand, I will say the word--woman--you have daughters--teach
them--to fear----" Having got so far, she stopped--her bosom heaved up
and down--her frame shook dreadfully--her eyeballs became lurid and
fiery--her hands were clenched, and the spasmodic throes of inward
convulsion worked the white froth up to her mouth; at length she
suddenly became like a statue, with this wild supernatural expression
intense upon her, and with an awful calmness, by far more dreadful than
excitement could be, concluded by pronouncing in deep husky tones the
name of God.
Having accomplished this with such a powerful struggle, she turned round
with pale despair in her countenance and manner, and with streaming eyes
slowly departed, leaving Mrs Sullivan in a situation not at all to be
envied.
In a short time the other members of the family, who had been out at
their evening employments, returned. Bartley, her husband, having
entered somewhat sooner than his three daughters from milking, was the
first to come in; presently the girls followed, and in a few minutes
they sat down to supper, together with the servants, who dropped in one
by one, after the toil of the day. On placing themselves about the
table, Bartley as usual took his seat at the head; but Mrs Sullivan,
instead of occupying hers, sat at the fire in a state of uncommon
agitation. Every two or three minutes she would cross herself devoutly,
and mutter such prayers against spiritual influences of an evil nature
as she could compose herself to remember.
"Thin, why don't you come to your supper, Mary," said the husband,
"while the sowans are warm? Brave and thick they are this night, any
way."
His wife was silent, for so strong a hold had the strange woman and her
appalling secret upon her mind, that it was not till he repeated his
question three or four times--raising his head with surprise, and
asking, "Eh, thin, Mary, what's come over you--is it unwell you
are?"--that she noticed what he said.
"Supper!" she exclaimed; "unwell! 'tis a good right I have to be
unwell,--I hope nothing bad will happen, any way. Feel my face, Nannie,"
she added, addressing one of her daughters; "it's as cowld an' wet as a
limestone--ay, an' if you found me a corpse before you, it wouldn't be
at all strange."
There was a general pause at the seriousness of this intimation. The
husband rose from his supper, and went up to the hearth where she sat.
"Turn round to the light," said he; "why, Mary dear, in the name of
wondher, what ails you? for you're like a corpse sure enough. Can't you
tell us what has happened, or what put you in such a state? Why,
childhre, the cowld sweat's teemin' off her!"
The poor woman, unable to sustain the shock produced by her interview
with the stranger, found herself getting more weak, and requested a
drink of water; but before it could be put to her lips, she laid her
head upon the back of the chair and fainted. Grief, and uproar, and
confusion followed this alarming incident. The presence of mind, so
necessary on such occasions, was wholly lost; one ran here, and another
there, all jostling against each other, without being cool enough to
render her proper assistance. The daughters were in tears, and Bartley
himself was dreadfully shocked by seeing his wife apparently lifeless
before him.
She soon recovered, however, and relieved them from the apprehension of
her death, which they thought had actually taken place. "Mary," said the
husband, "something quare entirely has happened, or you wouldn't be in
this state!"
"Did any of you see a strange woman lavin' the house a minute or two
before ye came in?" she inquired.
"No," they replied, "not a stim of anyone did we see."
"Wurrah dheelish! No?--now is it possible ye didn't?" She then described
her, but all declared they had seen no such person.
"Bartley, whisper," said she, and beckoning him over to her, in a few
words she revealed the secret. The husband grew pale and crossed
himself. "Mother of Saints! childhre," said he, "a _Lianhan Shee_!" The
words were no sooner uttered than every countenance assumed the
pallidness of death; and every right hand was raised in the act of
blessing the person, and crossing the forehead. "_The Lianhan Shee!!_"
all exclaimed in fear and horror--"This day's Friday; God betwixt us an'
harm!"
It was now after dusk, and the hour had already deepened into the
darkness of a calm, moonless, summer night; the hearth, therefore, in a
short time, became surrounded by a circle, consisting of every person in
the house; the door was closed and securely bolted;--a struggle for the
safest seat took place; and to Bartley's shame be it spoken, he lodged
himself on the hob within the jamb, as the most distant situation from
the fearful being known as the _Lianhan Shee_. The recent terror,
however, brooded over them all; their topic of conversation was the
mysterious visit, of which Mrs Sullivan gave a painfully accurate
detail; whilst every ear of those who composed her audience was set, and
every single hair of their heads bristled up, as if awakened into
distinct life by the story. Bartley looked into the fire soberly, except
when the cat, in prowling about the dresser, electrified him into a
start of fear, which sensation went round every link of the living chain
about the hearth.
The next day the story spread through the whole neighbourhood,
accumulating in interest and incident as it went. Where it received the
touches, embellishments, and emendations, with which it was amplified,
it would be difficult to say: every one told it, forsooth, _exactly_ as
he heard it from another, but indeed it is not improbable that those
through whom it passed were unconscious of the additions it had received
at their hands. It is not unreasonable to suppose that imagination in
such cases often colours highly without a premeditated design of
falsehood. Fear and dread, however, accompanied its progress; such
families as had neglected to keep holy water in their houses borrowed
some from their neighbours; every old prayer which had become rusty
from disuse was brightened up--charms were hung about the necks of
cattle, and gospels about those of children--crosses were placed over
the doors and windows;--no unclean water was thrown out before sunrise
or after dusk--
"E'en those prayed now who never prayed before,
And those who always prayed, still prayed the more."
The inscrutable woman who caused such general dismay in the parish was
an object of much pity. Avoided, feared, and detested, she could find no
rest for her weary feet, nor any shelter for her unprotected head. If
she was seen approaching a house, the door and windows were immediately
closed against her; if met on the way she was avoided as a pestilence.
How she lived no one could tell, for none would permit themselves to
know. It was asserted that she existed without meat or drink, and that
she was doomed to remain possessed of life, the prey of hunger and
thirst, until she could get some one weak enough to break the spell by
drinking her hellish draught, to taste which, they said, would be to
change places with herself, and assume her despair and misery.
There had lived in the country about six months before her appearance in
it, a man named Stephenson. He was unmarried, and the last of his
family. This person led a solitary and secluded life, and exhibited
during the last years of his existence strong symptoms of eccentricity,
which for some months before his death assumed a character of
unquestionable derangement. He was found one morning hanging by a halter
in his own stable, where he had, under the influence of his malady,
committed suicide. At this time the public press had not, as now,
familiarised the minds of the people to that dreadful crime, and it was
consequently looked upon _then_ with an intensity of horror of which we
can scarcely entertain any adequate notion. His farm remained
unoccupied, for while an acre of land could be obtained in any other
quarter, no man would enter upon such unhallowed premises. The house was
locked up, and it was currently reported that Stephenson and the devil
each night repeated the hanging scene in the stable; and that when the
former was committing the "hopeless sin," the halter slipped several
times from the beam of the stable-loft, when Satan came, in the shape of
a dark-complexioned man with a hollow voice, and secured the rope until
Stephenson's end was accomplished.
In this stable did the wanderer take up her residence at night; and when
we consider the belief of the people in the night-scenes which were
supposed to occur in it, we need not be surprised at the new features of
horror which this circumstance superadded to her character. Her presence
and appearance in the parish were dreadful; a public outcry was soon
raised against her, which, were it not from fear of her power over their
lives and cattle, might have ended in her death. None, however, had
courage to grapple with her, or to attempt expelling her by violence,
lest a signal vengeance might be taken on any who dared to injure a
woman that could call in the terrible aid of the _Lianhan Shee_.
In this state of feeling they applied to the parish priest, who, on
hearing the marvellous stories related concerning her, and on
questioning each man closely upon his authority, could perceive that,
like most other reports, they were to be traced principally to the
imagination and fears of the people. He ascertained, however, enough
from Bartley Sullivan to justify a belief that there was something
certainly uncommon about the woman; and being of a cold, phlegmatic
disposition, with some humour, he desired them to go home, if they were
wise--he shook his head mysteriously as he spoke--"and do the woman no
injury, if they didn't wish"--and with this abrupt hint he sent them
about their business.
This, however, did not satisfy them. In the same parish lived a
suspended priest, called Father Philip O'Dallaghy, who supported
himself, as most of them do, by curing certain diseases of the
people--miraculously! He had no other means of subsistence, nor, indeed,
did he seem strongly devoted to life, or to the pleasures it afforded.
He was not addicted to those intemperate habits which characterise
"Blessed Priests" in general; spirits he never tasted, nor any food that
could be termed a luxury, or even a comfort. His communion with the
people was brief, and marked by a tone of severe contemptuous
misanthropy. He seldom stirred abroad except during morning, or in the
evening twilight, when he might be seen gliding amidst the coming
darkness, like a dissatisfied spirit. His life was an austere one, and
his devotional practices were said to be of the most remorseful
character. Such a man, in fact, was calculated to hold a powerful sway
over the prejudices and superstitions of the people. This was true. His
power was considered almost unlimited, and his life one that would not
disgrace the highest saint in the calendar. There were not wanting some
persons in the parish who hinted that Father Felix O'Rourke, the parish
priest, was himself rather reluctant to incur the displeasure, or
challenge the power of the _Lianhan Shee_, by driving its victim out of
the parish. The opinion of these persons was, in its distinct
unvarnished reality, that Father Felix absolutely showed the white
feather on this critical occasion--that he became shy, and begged leave
to decline being introduced to this intractable pair--seeming to
intimate that he did not at all relish adding them to the stock of his
acquaintances.
Father Philip they considered as a decided contrast to him on this
point. His stern and severe manner, rugged, and, when occasion demanded,
daring, they believed suitable to the qualities requisite for
sustaining such an interview. They accordingly waited on him; and after
Bartley and his friends had given as faithful a report of the
circumstances as, considering all things, could be expected, he told
Bartley he would hear from Mrs Sullivan's own lips the authentic
narrative. This was quite satisfactory, and what was expected from him.
As for himself, he appeared to take no particular interest in the
matter, further than that of allaying the ferment and alarm which had
spread through the parish.
"Plase your Reverence," said Bartley, "she came in to Mary, and she
alone in the house, and for the matther o' that, I believe she laid
hands upon her, and tossed and tumbled the crathur, and she but a sickly
woman, through the four corners of the house. Not that Mary lets an so
much, for she's afeard; but I know from her way, when she spakes about
her, that it's thruth, your Reverence."