knife to her breast, wid a divilish intintion of makin' her give the
best of atin' an' dhrinkin' the house afforded?"
"She got the victuals, to a sartinty," replied Bartley, "and
'overlooked' my woman for her pains; for she's not the picture of
herself since."
Everyone now told some magnified and terrible circumstance, illustrating
the formidable power of the _Lianhan Shee_.
When they had finished, the sarcastic lip of the priest curled into an
expression of irony and contempt; his brow, which was naturally black
and heavy, darkened; and a keen, but rather a ferocious-looking, eye
shot forth a glance, which, while it intimated disdain for those to whom
it was directed, spoke also of a dark and troubled spirit in himself.
The man seemed to brook with scorn the degrading situation of a
religious quack, to which some uncontrollable destiny had doomed him.
"I shall see your wife to-morrow," said he to Bartley; "and after
hearing the plain account of what happened, I will consider what is best
to be done with this dark, perhaps unhappy, perhaps guilty character;
but whether dark, or unhappy, or guilty, I, for one, should not, and
will not, avoid her. Go, and bring me word to-morrow evening when I can
see her on the following day. Begone!"
When they withdrew, Father Philip paced his room for some time in
silence and anxiety.
"Ay," said he, "infatuated people! sunk in superstition and ignorance,
yet, perhaps, happier in your degradation than those who, in the pride
of knowledge, can only look back upon a life of crime and misery. What
is a sceptic? What is an infidel? Men who, when they will not submit to
moral restraint, harden themselves into scepticism and infidelity,
until, in the headlong career of guilt, that which was first adopted to
lull the outcry of conscience, is supported by the pretended pride of
principle. Principle in a sceptic! Hollow and devilish lie! Would _I_
have plunged into scepticism, had I not first violated the moral
sanctions of religion? Never. I became an infidel, because I first
became a villain! Writhing under a load of guilt, that which I wished
might be true, I soon forced myself to think true: and now"--he here
clenched his hands and groaned--"now--ay, now--and hereafter--oh, _that_
hereafter! Why can I not shake the thoughts of it from my conscience?
Religion! Christianity! With all the hardness of an infidel's heart, I
feel your truth; because, if every man were the villain that infidelity
would make him, then indeed might every man curse God for the existence
bestowed upon him--as I would, but dare not do. Yet why can I not
believe? Alas! why should God accept an unrepentant heart? Am I not a
hypocrite, mocking Him by a guilty pretension to His power, and leading
the dark into thicker darkness? Then these hands--blood!--broken
vows!--ha! ha! ha! Well, go--let misery have its laugh, like the light
that breaks from the thunder-cloud. Prefer Voltaire to Christ; sow the
wind, and reap the whirlwind, as I have done--ha, ha, ha! Swim,
world--swim about me! I have lost the ways of Providence, and am dark!
_She_ awaits me; but I broke the chain that galled us: yet it still
rankles--still rankles!"
The unhappy man threw himself into a chair in a paroxysm of frenzied
agony. For more than an hour he sat in the same posture, until he became
gradually hardened into a stiff, lethargic insensibility, callous and
impervious to feeling, reason, or religion--an awful transition from a
visitation of conscience so terrible as that which he had just suffered.
At length he arose, and by walking moodily about, relapsed into his
usual gloomy and restless character.
When Bartley went home, he communicated to his wife Father Philip's
intention of calling on the following day, to hear a correct account of
the _Lianhan Shee_.
"Why, thin," said she, "I'm glad of it, for I intinded myself to go to
him, any way, to get my new scapular consecrated. How-an'-ever, as he's
to come, I'll get a set of gospels for the boys an' girls, an' he can
consecrate all when his hand's in. Aroon, Bartley, they say that man's
so holy that he can do anything--ay, melt a body off the face o' the
earth, like snow off a ditch. Dear me, but the power they have is
strange all out!"
"There's no use in gettin' him anything to ate or dhrink," replied
Bartley; "he wouldn't take a glass o' whisky once in seven years.
Throth, myself thinks he's a little too dhry; sure he might be holy
enough, an' yet take a sup of an odd time. There's Father Felix, an'
though we all know he's far from bein' so blessed a man as him, yet he
has friendship an' neighbourliness in him, an' never refuses a glass in
rason."
"But do you know what I was tould about Father Philip, Bartley?"
"I'll tell you that afther I hear it, Mary, my woman; you won't expect
me to tell what I don't know?--ha, ha, ha!"
"Behave, Bartley, an' quit your jokin' now, at all evints; keep it till
we're talkin' of somethin' else, an' don't let us be committin' sin,
maybe, while we're spakin' of what we're spakin' about; but they say
it's as thrue as the sun to the dial:--the Lent afore last itself it
was,--he never tasted mate or dhrink durin' the whole seven weeks! Oh,
you needn't stare! it's well known by thim that has as much sinse as
you--no, not so much as you'd carry on the point o' this
knittin'-needle. Well, sure the housekeeper an' the two sarvants
wondhered--faix, they couldn't do less--an' took it into their heads to
watch him closely; an' what do you think--blessed be all the saints
above!--what do you think they _seen_?"
"The Goodness above knows; for me--I don't."
"Why, thin, whin he was asleep they seen a small silk thread in his
mouth, that came down through the ceilin' from heaven, an' he suckin'
it, just as a child would his mother's breast whin the crathur 'ud be
asleep: so that was the way he was supported by the angels! An' I
remimber myself, though he's a dark, spare, yallow man at all times, yet
he never looked half so fat an' rosy as he did the same Lent!"
"Glory be to Heaven! Well, well--_it is_ sthrange the power they have!
As for him, I'd as _lee_ meet St Pether, or St Pathrick himself, as him;
for one can't but fear him, somehow."
"Fear him! Och, it 'ud be the pity o' thim that 'ud do anything to vex
or anger that man. Why, his very look 'ud wither thim, till there
wouldn't be the thrack o' thim on the earth; an' as for his curse, why
it 'ud scorch thim to ashes!"
As it was generally known that Father Philip was to visit Mrs Sullivan
the next day, in order to hear an account of the mystery which filled
the parish with such fear, a very great number of the parishioners were
assembled in and about Bartley's long before he made his appearance. At
length he was seen walking slowly down the road, with an open book in
his hand, on the pages of which he looked from time to time. When he
approached the house, those who were standing about it assembled in a
body, and, with one consent, uncovered their heads, and asked his
blessing. His appearance bespoke a mind ill at ease; his face was
haggard, and his eyes bloodshot. On seeing the people kneel, he smiled
with his usual bitterness, and, shaking his hand with an air of
impatience over them, muttered some words, rather in mockery of the
ceremony than otherwise. They then rose, and, blessing themselves, put
on their hats, rubbed the dust off their knees, and appeared to think
themselves recruited by a peculiar accession of grace.
On entering the house the same form was repeated; and when it was over,
the best chair was placed for him by Mary's own hands, and the fire
stirred up, and a line of respect drawn, within which none was to
intrude, lest he might feel in any degree incommoded.
"My good neighbour," said he to Mrs Sullivan, "what strange woman is
this, who has thrown the parish into such a ferment? I'm told she paid
you a visit? Pray sit down."
"I humbly thank your Reverence," said Mary, curtseying lowly, "but I'd
rather not sit, sir, if you, plase. I hope I know what respect manes,
your Reverence. Barny Bradagh, I'll thank you to stand up, if you plase,
an' his Reverence to the fore, Barny."
"I ax your Reverence's pardon, an' yours, too, Mrs Sullivan; sure we
didn't mane the disrespect, anyhow, sir, plase your Reverence."
"About this woman, and the _Lianhan Shee_," said the priest, without
noticing Barny's apology. "Pray what do you precisely understand by a
_Lianhan Shee_?"
"Why, sir," replied Mary, "some sthrange bein' from the good people, or
fairies, that sticks to some persons. There's a bargain, sir, your
Reverence, made atween thim; an' the divil, sir, that is, the ould
boy--the saints about us!--has a hand in it. The _Lianhan Shee_, your
Reverence, is never seen only by thim it keeps wid; but--hem!--it
always, wid the help of the ould boy, conthrives, sir, to make the
person brake the agreement, an' thin it has _thim_ in _its_ power; but
if they _don't_ brake the agreement, thin _it's_ in _their_ power. If
they can get anybody to put in their place, they may get out o' the
bargain; for they can, of a sartainty, give oceans o' money to people,
but can't take any themselves, plase your Reverence. But sure, where's
the use o' me to be tellin' your Reverence what you know betther nor
myself?--an' why shouldn't you, or any one that has the power you have?"
He smiled again at this in his own peculiar manner, and was proceeding
to inquire more particularly into the nature of the interview between
them, when the noise of feet, and sounds of general alarm, accompanied
by a rush of people into the house, arrested his attention, and he
hastily inquired into the cause of the commotion. Before he could
receive a reply, however, the house was almost crowded; and it was not
without considerable difficulty that, by the exertions of Mrs Sullivan
and Bartley, sufficient order and quiet were obtained to hear distinctly
what was said.
"Plase your Reverence," said several voices at once, "they're comin',
hot-foot, into the very house to us! Was ever the likes seen! an' they
must know right well, sir, that you're widin it."
"Who are coming?" he inquired.
"Why, the woman, sir, an' her _good pet_, the _Lianhan Shee_, your
Reverence!"
"Well," said he, "but why should you all appear so blanched with terror?
Let her come in, and we shall see how far she is capable of injuring her
fellow-creatures: some maniac," he muttered, in a low soliloquy, "whom
the villainy of the world has driven into derangement--some victim to a
hand like m----. Well, they say there _is_ a Providence, yet such things
are permitted!"
"He's sayin' a prayer now," observed one of them; "haven't we a good
right to be thankful that he's in the place wid us while she's in it, or
dear knows what harm she might do us--maybe _rise_ the wind!"
As the latter speaker concluded, there was a dead silence. The persons
about the door crushed each other backwards, their feet set out before
them, and their shoulders laid with violent pressure against those who
stood behind, for each felt anxious to avoid all danger of contact with
a being against whose power even a blessed priest found it necessary to
guard himself by a prayer.
At length a low murmur ran among the people--"Father O'Rourke!--here's
Father O'Rourke!--he has turned the corner after her, an' they're both
comin' in." Immediately they entered, but it was quite evident, from the
manner of the worthy priest, that he was unacquainted with the person of
this singular being. When they crossed the threshold, the priest
advanced, and expressed his surprise at the throng of people assembled.
"Plase your Reverence," said Bartley, "_that's_ the woman," nodding
significantly towards her as he spoke, but without looking at her
person, lest the evil eye he dreaded so much might meet his, and give
him "the blast."
The dreaded female, on seeing the house in such a crowded state,
started, paused, and glanced with some terror at the persons assembled.
Her dress was not altered since her last visit; but her countenance,
though more meagre and emaciated, expressed but little of the unsettled
energy which then flashed from her eyes, and distorted her features by
the depth of that mysterious excitement by which she had been agitated.
Her countenance was still muffled as before, the awful protuberance rose
from her shoulders, and the same band which Mrs Sullivan had alluded to
during their interview, was bound about the upper part of her forehead.
She had already stood upwards of two minutes, during which the fall of a
feather might be heard, yet none bade God bless her--no kind hand was
extended to greet her--no heart warmed in affection towards her; on the
contrary, every eye glanced at her, as a being marked with enmity
towards God. Blanched faces and knit brows, the signs of fear and
hatred, were turned upon her; her breath was considered pestilential,
and her touch paralysis. There she stood, proscribed, avoided, and
hunted like a tigress, all fearing to encounter, yet wishing to
exterminate her! Who could she be?--or what had she done, that the
finger of the Almighty marked her out for such a fearful weight of
vengeance?
Father Philip rose and advanced a few steps, until he stood confronting
her. His person was tall, his features dark, severe, and solemn: and
when the nature of the investigation about to take place is considered,
it need not be wondered at, that the moment was, to those present, one
of deep and impressive interest--such as a visible conflict between a
supposed champion of God and a supernatural being was calculated to
excite.
"Woman," said he, in his deep stern voice, "tell me who and what you
are, and why you assume a character of such a repulsive and mysterious
nature, when it can entail only misery, shame, and persecution on
yourself? I conjure you, in the name of Him after whose image you are
created, to speak truly!"
He paused, and the tall figure stood mute before him. The silence was
dead as death--every breath was hushed--and the persons assembled stood
immovable as statues! Still she spoke not; but the violent heaving of
her breast evinced the internal working of some dreadful struggle. Her
face before was pale--it was now ghastly; her lips became blue, and her
eyes vacant.
"Speak!" said he; "I conjure you in the name of the power by whom you
live!"
It is probable that the agitation under which she laboured was produced
by the severe effort made to sustain the unexpected trial she had to
undergo.
For some minutes her struggle continued; but having begun at its highest
pitch, it gradually subsided until it settled in a calmness which
appeared fixed and awful as the resolution of despair. With breathless
composure she turned round, and put back that part of her dress which
concealed her face, except the band on her forehead, which she did not
remove; having done this, she turned again, and walked calmly towards
Father Philip, with a deadly smile upon her thin lips. When within a
step of where he stood, she paused, and, riveting her eyes upon him,
exclaimed,--
"Who and what am I? The victim of infidelity and you, the bearer of a
cursed existence, the scoff and scorn of the world, the monument of a
broken vow and a guilty life, a being scourged by the scorpion lash of
conscience, blasted by periodical insanity, pelted by the winter's
storm, scorched by the summer's heat, withered by starvation, hated by
man, and touched into my inmost spirit by the anticipated tortures of
future misery. I have no rest for the sole of my foot, no repose for a
head distracted by the contemplation of a guilty life; I am the unclean
spirit which walketh to seek rest and findeth none; I am--_what you have
made me_! Behold," she added, holding up the bottle, "this failed, and I
live to accuse you. But no, you are my husband--though our union was
but a guilty form, and I will bury that in silence. You thought me dead,
and you flew to avoid punishment; did you avoid it? No; the finger of
God has written pain and punishment upon your brow. I have been in all
characters, in all shapes, have spoken with the tongue of a peasant,
moved in my natural sphere, but my knees were smitten, my brain
stricken, and the wild malady which banishes me from society has been
upon me for years. Such I am, and such, I say, have you made me. As for
you, kind-hearted woman, there was nothing in this bottle but pure
water. The interval of reason returned this day, and having remembered
glimpses of our conversation, I came to apologise to you, and to explain
the nature of my unhappy distemper, and to beg a little bread, which I
have not tasted for two days. I at times conceive myself attended by an
evil spirit, shaped out by a guilty conscience, and this is the only
familiar which attends me, and by it I have been dogged into madness
through every turning of life. Whilst it lasts I am subject to spasms
and convulsive starts which are exceedingly painful. The lump on my back
is the robe I wore when innocent in my peaceful convent."
The intensity of general interest was now transferred to Father Philip;
every face was turned towards him, but he cared not. A solemn stillness
yet prevailed among all present. From the moment she spoke, her eye drew
his with the power of a basilisk. His pale face became like marble, not
a muscle moved; and when she ceased speaking, his bloodshot eyes were
still fixed upon her countenance with a gloomy calmness like that which
precedes a tempest. They stood before each other, dreadful counterparts
in guilt, for truly his spirit was as dark as hers.
At length he glanced angrily around him:--"Well," said he, "what is it
now, ye poor infatuated wretches, to trust in the sanctity _of man_?
Learn from me to place the same confidence _in God_ which you place in
His _guilty creatures_, and you will not lean on a broken reed. Father
O'Rourke, you, too, witness my disgrace, but not my punishment. It is
pleasant, no doubt, to have a topic for conversation at your
Conferences; enjoy it. As for you, Margaret, if society lessen misery,
we may be less miserable. But the band of your order, and the
remembrance of your vow is on your forehead, like the mark of Cain--tear
it off, and let it not blast a man who is the victim of prejudice still,
nay, of superstition, as well as of guilt; tear it from my sight." His
eyes kindled fearfully as he attempted to pull it away by force.
She calmly took it off, and he immediately tore it into pieces, and
stamped upon the fragments as he flung them on the ground.
"Come," said the despairing man--"come--there is a shelter for you, _but
no peace_!--food, and drink, and raiment, but _no peace_!--NO
PEACE!" As he uttered these words, in a voice that sank to its
deepest pitch, he took her hand, and they both departed to his own
residence.
The amazement and horror of those who were assembled in Bartley's house
cannot be described. Our readers may be assured that they deepened in
character as they spread through the parish. An undefined fear of this
mysterious pair seized upon the people, for their images were associated
in their minds with darkness and crime, and supernatural communion. The
departing words of Father Philip rang in their ears: they trembled, and
devoutly crossed themselves, as fancy again repeated the awful
exclamation of the priest--"No peace! no peace!"
When Father Philip and his unhappy associate went home, he instantly
made her a surrender of his small property; but with difficulty did he
command sufficient calmness to accomplish even this. He was
distracted--his blood seemed to have been turned to fire--he clenched
his hands, and he gnashed his teeth, and exhibited the wildest symptoms
of madness. About ten o'clock he desired fuel for a large fire to be
brought into the kitchen, and got a strong cord, which he coiled, and
threw carelessly on the table. The family were then ordered to bed.
About eleven they were all asleep; and at the solemn hour of twelve he
heaped additional fuel upon the living turf, until the blaze shone with
scorching light upon everything around. Dark and desolating was the
tempest within him, as he paced, with agitated steps, before the
crackling fire.
"She is risen!" he exclaimed--"the spectre of all my crimes is risen to
haunt me through life! I _am_ a murderer--yet she lives, and my guilt is
not the less! The stamp of eternal infamy is upon me--the finger of
scorn will mark me out--the tongue of reproach will sting me like that
of the serpent--the deadly touch of shame will cover me like a
leper--the laws of society will crush the murderer, not the less that
his wickedness in blood has miscarried: after that comes the black and
terrible tribunal of the Almighty's vengeance--of His fiery indignation!
Hush!--What sounds are those? They deepen--they deepen! Is it thunder?
It cannot be the crackling of the blaze! It _is_ thunder!--but it speaks
only to _my_ ear! Hush!--Great God, there is a change in my voice! It is
hollow and supernatural! Could a change have come over me? Am I living?
Could I have--Hah!--Could I have departed? and am I now at length given
over to the worm that never dies? If it be at my heart, I may feel it.
God!--I am damned! Here is a viper twined about my limbs, trying to dart
its fangs into my heart! Hah!--there are feet pacing in the room, too,
and I hear voices! I am surrounded by evil spirits! Who's there?--What
are you?--Speak!--They are silent!--There is no answer! Again comes the
thunder! But perchance this is not my place of punishment, and I will
try to leave these horrible spirits!"
He opened the door, and passed out into a small green field that lay
behind the house. The night was calm, and the silence profound as death.
Not a cloud obscured the heavens;--the light of the moon fell upon the
stillness of the scene around him, with all the touching beauty of a
moonlit midnight in summer. Here he paused a moment, felt his brow, then
his heart, the palpitations of which fell audibly upon his ear. He
became somewhat cooler; the images of madness which had swept through
his stormy brain disappeared, and were succeeded by a lethargic vacancy
of thought, which almost deprived him of the consciousness of his own
identity. From the green field he descended mechanically to a little
glen which opened beside it. It was one of those delightful spots to
which the heart clingeth. Its sloping sides were clothed with patches of
wood, on the leaves of which the moonlight glanced with a soft lustre,
rendered more beautiful by their stillness. That side on which the light
could not fall, lay in deep shadow, which occasionally gave to the rocks
and small projecting precipices an appearance of monstrous and unnatural
life. Having passed through the tangled mazes of the glen, he at length
reached its bottom, along which ran a brook, such as, in the description
of the poet,--
"In the leafy month of June,
Unto the sleeping woods all night,
Singeth a quiet tune."
Here he stood, and looked upon the green winding margin of the
streamlet--but its song he heard not. With the workings of a guilty
conscience, the beautiful in nature can have no association. He looked
up the glen, but its picturesque windings, soft vistas, and wild
underwood mingling with grey rocks and taller trees, all mellowed by the
moon-beams, had no charms for him. He maintained a profound silence--but
it was not the silence of peace or reflection. He endeavoured to recall
the scenes of the past day, but could not bring them back to his
memory. Even the fiery tide of thought, which, like burning lava, seared
his brain a few moments before, was now cold and hardened. He could
remember nothing. The convulsion of his mind was over, and his faculties
were impotent and collapsed.
In this state he unconsciously retraced his steps, and had again reached
the paddock adjoining his house, when, as he thought, the figure of his
paramour stood before him. In a moment his former paroxysm returned, and
with it the gloomy images of a guilty mind, charged with the extravagant
horrors of brain-struck madness.
"What!" he exclaimed, "the band still on your forehead! Tear it off!"