“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 nothin' bad will happen, any way. Feel my face, Nanny,”
she added, addressing one of her daughters, “it's as cowld an' wet as a
lime-stone--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 any one 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!”*
* This short form is supposed to be a safeguard against
the Fairies. The particular day must be always named.
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 neighborhood,
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 colors 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 neighbors; 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,
familiarized 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 feature
of horror which this circumstance super-added 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 humor, 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
characterize “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.”
“But didn't the _Lianhan Shee_,” said one of them, “put a sharp-pointed
knife to her breast, wid a divilish intintion of makin' her give the
best of aitin' 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.”
Every one 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 incontrollable 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 his 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' whiskey once in seven years.
Throth, myself thinks he's a little too dry; 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' neighborliness 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 fee meet St. Pettier, 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!”
* Track, foot-mark, put for life
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 neighbor,” 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, any how, 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, with 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 any body 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 in 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 villany 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.
* It is generally supposed by the people, that persons
who have entered into a compact with Satan can raise
the wind by calling him up, and that it cannot be laid
unless by the death of a black cock, a black dog, or an
unchristened child.
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.