THE FORTUNES OF SIR ROBERT
ARDAGH.
Being a second Extract from the Papers of the late
Father Purcell.
`The earth hath bubbles as the water hath—
And these are of them.'
IN the south of Ireland, and on
the borders of the county of
Limerick, there lies a district of
two or three miles in length, which is
rendered interesting by the fact that it is
one of the very few spots throughout this
country, in which some vestiges of
aboriginal forest still remain. It has
little or none of the lordly character of
the American forest, for the axe has felled
its oldest and its grandest trees; but in
the close wood which survives, live all the
wild and pleasing peculiarities of nature:
its complete irregularity, its vistas, in
whose perspective the quiet cattle are
peacefully browsing; its refreshing glades,
where the grey rocks arise from amid the
nodding fern; the silvery shafts of the old
birch trees; the knotted trunks of the
hoary oak, the grotesque but graceful
branches which never shed their honours
under the tyrant pruning-hook; the soft
green sward; the chequered light and
shade; the wild luxuriant weeds; the lichen
and the moss—all, all are beautiful alike in
the green freshness of spring, or in the
sadness and sere of autumn. Their beauty
is of that kind which makes the heart full
with joy—appealing to the affections with
a power which belongs to nature only.
This wood runs up, from below the base,
to the ridge of a long line of irregular
hills, having perhaps, in primitive times,
formed but the skirting of some mighty
forest which occupied the level below.
But now, alas! whither have we drifted?
whither has the tide of civilisation borne
us? It has passed over a land unprepared
for it—it has left nakedness behind
it; we have lost our forests, but our
marauders remain; we have destroyed
all that is picturesque, while we have
retained everything that is revolting in
barbarism. Through the midst of this
woodland there runs a deep gully or glen,
where the stillness of the scene is broken in
upon by the brawling of a mountain-stream,
which, however, in the winter season,
swells into a rapid and formidable torrent.
There is one point at which the glen
becomes extremely deep and narrow; the
sides descend to the depth of some
hundred feet, and are so steep as to be
nearly perpendicular. The wild trees
which have taken root in the crannies and
chasms of the rock have so intersected
and entangled, that one can with difficulty
catch a glimpse of the stream, which
wheels, flashes, and foams below, as if
exulting in the surrounding silence and
solitude.
This spot was not unwisely chosen, as a
point of no ordinary strength, for the
erection of a massive square tower or keep,
one side of which rises as if in continuation
of the precipitous cliff on which it is based.
Originally, the only mode of ingress was
by a narrow portal in the very wall which
overtopped the precipice, opening upon a
ledge of rock which afforded a precarious
pathway, cautiously intersected, however,
by a deep trench cut with great labour
in the living rock; so that, in its original
state, and before the introduction of
artillery into the art of war, this tower
might have been pronounced, and that not
presumptuously, almost impregnable.
The progress of improvement and the
increasing security of the times had,
however, tempted its successive proprietors, if
not to adorn, at least to enlarge their
premises, and at about the middle of the
last century, when the castle was last
inhabited, the original square tower formed
but a small part of the edifice.
The castle, and a wide tract of the surrounding
country, had from time 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.
This man's personal appearance was, to
say the least of it, extremely odd; he was
low in stature; and this defect was
enhanced by a distortion of the spine, so
considerable as almost to amount to a hunch;
his features, too, had all that sharpness and
sickliness of hue which generally accompany
deformity; he wore his hair, which
was black as soot, in heavy neglected ringlets
about his shoulders, and always without
powder—a peculiarity in those days. There
was something unpleasant, too, in the
circumstance that he never raised his
eyes to meet those of another; this fact
was often cited as a proof of his being
something not quite right, and said to
result not from the timidity which is
supposed in most cases to induce this habit,
but from a consciousness that his eye
possessed a power which, if exhibited, would
betray a supernatural origin. Once, and
once only, had he violated this sinister
observance: it was on the occasion of Sir
Robert's hopes having been most bitterly
disappointed; his lady, after a severe and
dangerous confinement, gave birth to a
dead child. Immediately after the intelligence
had been made known, a servant,
having upon some business passed outside
the gate of the castle-yard, was met by
Jacque, who, contrary to his wont, accosted
him, observing, `So, after all the pother,
the son and heir is still-born.' This
remark was accompanied by a chuckling
laugh, the only approach to merriment
which he was ever known to exhibit.
The servant, who was really disappointed,
having hoped for holiday times, feasting and
debauchery with impunity during the
rejoicings which would have accompanied a
christening, turned tartly upon the little
valet, telling him that he should let Sir
Robert know how he had received the
tidings which should have filled any faithful
servant with sorrow; and having once
broken the ice, he was proceeding with
increasing fluency, when his harangue was
cut short and his temerity punished, by
the little man raising his head and treating
him to a scowl so fearful, half-demoniac,
half-insane, that it haunted his imagination
in nightmares and nervous tremors
for months after.
To this man Lady Ardagh had, at first
sight, conceived an antipathy amounting to
horror, a mixture of loathing and dread so
very powerful that she had made it a
particular and urgent request to Sir Robert,
that he would dismiss him, offering herself,
from that property which Sir Robert had
by the marriage settlements left at her own
disposal, to provide handsomely for him,
provided only she might be relieved from
the continual anxiety and discomfort
which the fear of encountering him induced.
Sir Robert, however, would not hear of
it; the request seemed at first to agitate
and distress him; but when still urged in
defiance of his peremptory refusal, he burst
into a violent fit of fury; he spoke darkly
of great sacrifices which he had made, and
threatened that if the request were at any
time renewed he would leave both her and
the country for ever. This was, however,
a solitary instance of violence; his general
conduct towards Lady Ardagh, though at
no time uxorious, was certainly kind and
respectful, and he was more than repaid
in the fervent attachment which she bore
him in return.
Some short time after this strange
interview between Sir Robert and Lady
Ardagh; one night after the family had
retired to bed, and when everything had
been quiet for some time, the bell of Sir
Robert's dressing-room rang suddenly and
violently; the ringing was repeated again
and again at still shorter intervals, and
with increasing violence, as if the person
who pulled the bell was agitated by the
presence of some terrifying and imminent
danger. A servant named Donovan was
the first to answer it; he threw on his
clothes, and hurried to the room.
Sir Robert had selected for his private
room an apartment remote from the bed-chambers
of the castle, most of which lay
in the more modern parts of the mansion,
and secured at its entrance by a double
door. As the servant opened the first of
these, Sir Robert's bell again sounded with
a longer and louder peal; the inner door
resisted his efforts to open it; but after
a few violent struggles, not having been
perfectly secured, or owing to the inadequacy
of the bolt itself, it gave way, and
the servant rushed into the apartment,
advancing several paces before he could
recover himself. As he entered, he heard
Sir Robert's voice exclaiming loudly—`Wait
without, do not come in yet;'
but the prohibition came too late. Near
a low truckle-bed, upon which Sir Robert
sometimes slept, for he was a whimsical
man, in a large armchair, sat, or rather
lounged, the form of the valet Jacque, his
arms folded, and his heels stretched
forward on the floor, so as fully to exhibit his
misshapen legs, his head thrown back, and
his eyes fixed upon his master with a look
of indescribable defiance and derision, while,
as if to add to the strange insolence of his
attitude and expression, he had placed upon
his head the black cloth cap which it was
his habit to wear.
Sir Robert was standing before him, at
the distance of several yards, in a posture
expressive of despair, terror, and what
might be called an agony of humility.
He waved his hand twice or thrice, as if
to dismiss the servant, who, however,
remained fixed on the spot where he had
first stood; and then, as if forgetting
everything but the agony within him, he pressed
his clenched hands on his cold damp brow,
and dashed away the heavy drops that
gathered chill and thickly there.
Jacque broke the silence.
`Donovan,' said he, `shake up that
drone and drunkard, Carlton; tell him
that his master directs that the travelling
carriage shall be at the door within half-an-hour.'
The servant paused, as if in doubt as to
what he should do; but his scruples were
resolved by Sir Robert's saying hurriedly,
`Go—go, do whatever he directs; his
commands are mine; tell Carlton the
same.'
The servant hurried to obey, and in
about half-an-hour the carriage was at the
door, and Jacque, having directed the
coachman to drive to B—n, a small
town at about the distance of twelve
miles—the nearest point, however, at
which post-horses could be obtained—stepped
into the vehicle, which accordingly
quitted the castle immediately.
Although it was a fine moonlight night,
the carriage made its way but very slowly,
and after the lapse of two hours the travellers
had arrived at a point about eight miles
from the castle, at which the road strikes
through a desolate and heathy flat, sloping
up distantly at either side into bleak
undulatory hills, in whose monotonous sweep
the imagination beholds the heaving of
some dark sluggish sea, arrested in its
first commotion by some preternatural
power. It is a gloomy and divested spot;
there is neither tree nor habitation near it;
its monotony is unbroken, except by here
and there the grey front of a rock peering
above the heath, and the effect is rendered
yet more dreary and spectral by the
exaggerated and misty shadows which the
moon casts along the sloping sides of the
hills.
When they had gained about the
centre of this tract, Carlton, the coachman,
was surprised to see a figure standing
at some distance in advance, immediately
beside the road, and still more so when,
on coming up, he observed that it was no
other than Jacque whom he believed to
be at that moment quietly seated in the
carriage; the coachman drew up, and
nodding to him, the little valet exclaimed:
`Carlton, I have got the start of you;
the roads are heavy, so I shall even take
care of myself the rest of the way. Do
you make your way back as best you can,
and I shall follow my own nose.'
So saying, he chucked a purse into the
lap of the coachman, and turning off at a
right angle with the road, he began to
move rapidly away in the direction of the
dark ridge that lowered in the distance.
The servant watched him until he was
lost in the shadowy haze of night; and
neither he nor any of the inmates of the
castle saw Jacque again. His disappearance,
as might have been expected, did not cause
any regret among the servants and dependants
at the castle; and Lady Ardagh
did not attempt to conceal her delight;
but with Sir Robert matters were different,
for two or three days subsequent to this
event he confined himself to his room, and
when he did return to his ordinary
occupations, it was with a gloomy indifference,
which showed that he did so more from
habit than from any interest he felt in
them. He appeared from that moment
unaccountably and strikingly changed, and
thenceforward walked through life as a
thing from which he could derive neither
profit nor pleasure. His temper, however,
so far from growing wayward or
morose, became, though gloomy, very—almost
unnaturally—placid and cold; but
his spirits totally failed, and he grew silent
and abstracted.
These sombre habits of mind, as might
have been anticipated, very materially
affected the gay house-keeping of the
castle; and the dark and melancholy
spirit of its master seemed to have
communicated itself to the very domestics,
almost to the very walls of the mansion.
Several years rolled on in this way, and
the sounds of mirth and wassail had long
been strangers to the castle, when Sir
Robert requested his lady, to her great
astonishment, to invite some twenty or
thirty of their friends to spend the Christmas,
which was fast approaching, at the
castle. Lady Ardagh gladly complied,
and her sister Mary, who still continued
unmarried, and Lady D— were of
course included in the invitations. Lady
Ardagh had requested her sisters to set
forward as early as possible, in order that
she might enjoy a little of their society
before the arrival of the other guests;
and in compliance with this request they
left Dublin almost immediately upon
receiving the invitation, a little more than
a week before the arrival of the festival
which was to be the period at which the
whole party were to muster.
For expedition's sake it was arranged
that they should post, while Lady D—'s
groom was to follow with her horses,
she taking with herself her own maid and
one male servant. They left the city
when the day was considerably spent, and
consequently made but three stages in
the first day; upon the second, at about
eight in the evening, they had reached the
town of K—k, distant about fifteen
miles from Castle Ardagh. Here, owing
to Miss F—d's great fatigue, she having
been for a considerable time in a very
delicate state of health, it was determined
to put up for the night. They, accordingly,
took possession of the best sitting-room
which the inn commanded, and Lady
D—remained in it to direct and urge
the preparations for some refreshment,
which the fatigues of the day had rendered
necessary, while her younger sister
retired to her bed-chamber to rest there
for a little time, as the parlour commanded
no such luxury as a sofa.
Miss F—d was, as I have already
stated, at this time in very delicate health;
and upon this occasion the exhaustion of
fatigue, and the dreary badness of the
weather, combined to depress her spirits.
Lady D— had not been left long to
herself, when the door communicating
with the passage was abruptly opened,
and her sister Mary entered in a state of
great agitation; she sat down pale and
trembling upon one of the chairs, and it
was not until a copious flood of tears had
relieved her, that she became sufficiently
calm to relate the cause of her excitement
and distress. It was simply this. Almost
immediately upon lying down upon the
bed she sank into a feverish and unrefreshing
slumber; images of all grotesque
shapes and startling colours flitted before
her sleeping fancy with all the rapidity and
variety of the changes in a kaleidoscope.
At length, as she described it, a mist
seemed to interpose itself between her
sight and the ever-shifting scenery which
sported before her imagination, and out
of this cloudy shadow gradually emerged
a figure whose back seemed turned
towards the sleeper; it was that of a lady,
who, in perfect silence, was expressing
as far as pantomimic gesture could, by
wringing her hands, and throwing her
head from side to side, in the manner of
one who is exhausted by the over indulgence,
by the very sickness and impatience
of grief; the extremity of misery. For a
long time she sought in vain to catch a
glimpse of the face of the apparition, who
thus seemed to stir and live before her.
But at length the figure seemed to move
with an air of authority, as if about to
give directions to some inferior, and in
doing so, it turned its head so as to
display, with a ghastly distinctness, the
features of Lady Ardagh, pale as death,
with her dark hair all dishevelled, and
her eyes dim and sunken with weeping.
The revulsion of feeling which Miss
F—d experienced at this disclosure—for
up to that point she had contemplated
the appearance rather with a sense of
curiosity and of interest, than of anything
deeper—was so horrible, that the shock
awoke her perfectly. She sat up in the
bed, and looked fearfully around the
room, which was imperfectly lighted by a
single candle burning dimly, as if she
almost expected to see the reality of her
dreadful vision lurking in some corner of
the chamber. Her fears were, however,
verified, though not in the way she
expected; yet in a manner sufficiently
horrible—for she had hardly time to
breathe and to collect her thoughts, when
she heard, or thought she heard, the
voice of her sister, Lady Ardagh, sometimes
sobbing violently, and sometimes
almost shrieking as if in terror, and
calling upon her and Lady D—, with the
most imploring earnestness of despair, for
God's sake to lose no time in coming to
her. All this was so horribly distinct,
that it seemed as if the mourner was
standing within a few yards of the spot
where Miss F—d lay. She sprang from
the bed, and leaving the candle in the
room behind her, she made her way in the
dark through the passage, the voice still
following her, until as she arrived at the
door of the sitting-room it seemed to die
away in low sobbing.
As soon as Miss F—d was tolerably
recovered, she declared her determination
to proceed directly, and without further
loss of time, to Castle Ardagh. It was
not without much difficulty that Lady
D— at length prevailed upon her to
consent to remain where they then were,
until morning should arrive, when it was
to be expected that the young lady would
be much refreshed by at least remaining
quiet for the night, even though sleep
were out of the question. Lady D—
was convinced, from the nervous and
feverish symptoms which her sister
exhibited, that she had already done too
much, and was more than ever satisfied of
the necessity of prosecuting the journey
no further upon that day. After some
time she persuaded her sister to return to
her room, where she remained with her
until she had gone to bed, and appeared
comparatively composed. Lady D— then
returned to the parlour, and not
finding herself sleepy, she remained sitting
by the fire. Her solitude was a second
time broken in upon, by the entrance of
her sister, who now appeared, if possible,
more agitated than before. She said that
Lady D— had not long left the room,
when she was roused by a repetition of
the same wailing and lamentations, accompanied
by the wildest and most agonized
supplications that no time should be lost
in coming to Castle Ardagh, and all in her
sister's voice, and uttered at the same
proximity as before. This time the voice
had followed her to the very door of the
sitting-room, and until she closed it,
seemed to pour forth its cries and sobs at
the very threshold.
Miss F—d now most positively
declared that nothing should prevent her
proceeding instantly to the castle, adding
that if Lady D— would not accompany
her, she would go on by herself.
Superstitious feelings are at all times more or
less contagious, and the last century
afforded a soil much more congenial to
their growth than the present. Lady
D— was so far affected by her sister's
terrors, that she became, at least, uneasy;
and seeing that her sister was immovably
determined upon setting forward immediately,
she consented to accompany her
forthwith. After a slight delay, fresh
horses were procured, and the two ladies
and their attendants renewed their journey,
with strong injunctions to the driver to
quicken their rate of travelling as much as
possible, and promises of reward in case of
his doing so.
Roads were then in much worse condition
throughout the south, even than
they now are; and the fifteen miles which
modern posting would have passed in little
more than an hour and a half, were not
completed even with every possible exertion
in twice the time. Miss F—d had
been nervously restless during the journey.
Her head had been constantly out of
the carriage window; and as they approached
the entrance to the castle
demesne, which lay about a mile from the
building, her anxiety began to communicate
itself to her sister. The postillion
had just dismounted, and was endeavouring
to open the gate—at that time a
necessary trouble; for in the middle of
the last century porter's lodges were not
common in the south of Ireland, and locks
and keys almost unknown. He had just
succeeded in rolling back the heavy oaken
gate so as to admit the vehicle, when a
mounted servant rode rapidly down the
avenue, and drawing up at the carriage,
asked of the postillion who the party were;
and on hearing, he rode round to the
carriage window and handed in a note,
which Lady D— received. By the
assistance of one of the coach-lamps they
succeeded in deciphering it. It was
scrawled in great agitation, and ran
thus:
`MY DEAR SISTER—MY DEAR SISTERS
BOTH,—In God's name lose no time, I am
frightened and miserable; I cannot explain
all till you come. I am too much terrified
to write coherently; but understand
me—hasten—do not waste a minute. I
am afraid you will come too late.
`E. A.'
The servant could tell nothing more
than that the castle was in great confusion,
and that Lady Ardagh had been crying
bitterly all the night. Sir Robert was
perfectly well. Altogether at a loss as to
the cause of Lady Ardagh's great distress,
they urged their way up the steep and
broken avenue which wound through the
crowding trees, whose wild and grotesque
branches, now left stripped and naked by the
blasts of winter, stretched drearily across
the road. As the carriage drew up in the
area before the door, the anxiety of the
ladies almost amounted to agony; and
scarcely waiting for the assistance of their
attendant, they sprang to the ground, and
in an instant stood at the castle door.
From within were distinctly audible the
sounds of lamentation and weeping, and
the suppressed hum of voices as if of those
endeavouring to soothe the mourner.
The door was speedily opened, and when
the ladies entered, the first object which
met their view was their sister, Lady
Ardagh, sitting on a form in the hall,
weeping and wringing her hands in deep
agony. Beside her stood two old, withered
crones, who were each endeavouring in
their own way to administer consolation,
without even knowing or caring what the
subject of her grief might be.
Immediately on Lady Ardagh's seeing
her sisters, she started up, fell on their
necks, and kissed them again and again
without speaking, and then taking them
each by a hand, still weeping bitterly, she
led them into a small room adjoining the
hall, in which burned a light, and, having
closed the door, she sat down between
them. After thanking them for the haste
they had made, she proceeded to tell them,
in words incoherent from agitation, that
Sir Robert had in private, and in the most
solemn manner, told her that he should die
upon that night, and that he had occupied
himself during the evening in giving minute
directions respecting the arrangements of
his funeral. Lady D— here suggested
the possibility of his labouring under the
hallucinations of a fever; but to this Lady
Ardagh quickly replied:
`Oh! no, no! Would to God I could
think it. Oh! no, no! Wait till you
have seen him. There is a frightful calmness
about all he says and does; and his
directions are all so clear, and his mind so
perfectly collected, it is impossible, quite
impossible.' And she wept yet more
bitterly.
At that moment Sir Robert's voice was
heard in issuing some directions, as he
came downstairs; and Lady Ardagh
exclaimed, hurriedly:
`Go now and see him yourself. He is
in the hall.'
Lady D— accordingly went out into
the hall, where Sir Robert met her; and,
saluting her with kind politeness, he said,
after a pause:
`You are come upon a melancholy mission—the
house is in great confusion, and
some of its inmates in considerable grief.'
He took her hand, and looking fixedly in
her face, continued: `I shall not live to
see to-morrow's sun shine.'
`You are ill, sir, I have no doubt,'
replied she; `but I am very certain we shall
see you much better to-morrow, and still
better the day following.'
`I am not ill, sister,' replied he.
`Feel my temples, they are cool; lay your finger
to my pulse, its throb is slow and
temperate. I never was more perfectly in
health, and yet do I know that ere three
hours be past, I shall be no more.'
`Sir, sir,' said she, a good deal startled,
but wishing to conceal the impression which
the calm solemnity of his manner had, in
her own despite, made upon her, `Sir, you
should not jest; you should not even speak
lightly upon such subjects. You trifle
with what is sacred—you are sporting with
the best affections of your wife—'
`Stay, my good lady,' said he; `if when
this clock shall strike the hour of three, I
shall be anything but a helpless clod, then
upbraid me. Pray return now to your
sister. Lady Ardagh is, indeed, much to
be pitied; but what is past cannot now be
helped. I have now a few papers to
arrange, and some to destroy. I shall see
you and Lady Ardagh before my death;
try to compose her—her sufferings distress
me much; but what is past cannot now be
mended.'
Thus saying, he went upstairs, and Lady
D— returned to the room where her
sisters were sitting.
`Well,' exclaimed Lady Ardagh, as she
re-entered, `is it not so?—do you still
doubt?—do you think there is any hope?"
Lady D— was silent.
`Oh! none, none, none,' continued she;
`I see, I see you are convinced.' And she
wrung her hands in bitter agony.
`My dear sister,' said Lady D—,
`there is, no doubt, something strange in
all that has appeared in this matter; but
still I cannot but hope that there may be
something deceptive in all the apparent
calmness of Sir Robert. I still must
believe that some latent fever has affected
his mind, or that, owing to the state of
nervous depression into which he has been
sinking, some trivial occurrence has been
converted, in his disordered imagination,
into an augury foreboding his immediate
dissolution.'
In such suggestions, unsatisfactory even
to those who originated them, and doubly
so to her whom they were intended to
comfort, more than two hours passed; and
Lady D— was beginning to hope that
the fated term might elapse without the
occurrence of any tragical event, when Sir
Robert entered the room. On coming in,
he placed his finger with a warning gesture
upon his lips, as if to enjoin silence; and
then having successively pressed the hands
of his two sisters-in-law, he stooped sadly
over the fainting form of his lady, and
twice pressed her cold, pale forehead, with
his lips, and then passed silently out of
the room.
Lady D—, starting up, followed to the
door, and saw him take a candle in the hall,
and walk deliberately up the stairs. Stimulated
by a feeling of horrible curiosity, she
continued to follow him at a distance. She
saw him enter his own private room, and
heard him close and lock the door after him.
Continuing to follow him as far as she
could, she placed herself at the door of the
chamber, as noiselessly as possible, where
after a little time she was joined by her
two sisters, Lady Ardagh and Miss F—d.
In breathless silence they listened to what
should pass within. They distinctly heard
Sir Robert pacing up and down the room
for some time; and then, after a pause, a
sound as if some one had thrown himself
heavily upon the bed. At this moment
Lady D—, forgetting that the door had
been secured within, turned the handle for
the purpose of entering; when some one from
the inside, close to the door, said, `Hush!
hush!' The same lady, now much alarmed,
knocked violently at the door; there was
no answer. She knocked again more violently,
with no further success. Lady
Ardagh, now uttering a piercing shriek,
sank in a swoon upon the floor. Three or
four servants, alarmed by the noise, now
hurried upstairs, and Lady Ardagh was
carried apparently lifeless to her own
chamber. They then, after having knocked
long and loudly in vain, applied themselves
to forcing an entrance into Sir Robert's
room. After resisting some violent efforts,
the door at length gave way, and all
entered the room nearly together. There
was a single candle burning upon a table at
the far end of the apartment; and stretched
upon the bed lay Sir Robert Ardagh. He
was a corpse—the eyes were open—no
convulsion had passed over the features, or
distorted the limbs—it seemed as if the
soul had sped from the body without a
struggle to remain there. On touching
the body it was found to be cold as clay—all
lingering of the vital heat had left it.
They closed the ghastly eyes of the corpse,
and leaving it to the care of those who
seem to consider it a privilege of their age
and sex to gloat over the revolting spectacle
of death in all its stages, they
returned to Lady Ardagh, now a widow.
The party assembled at the castle, but the
atmosphere was tainted with death. Grief
there was not much, but awe and panic
were expressed in every face. The guests
talked in whispers, and the servants walked
on tiptoe, as if afraid of the very noise of
their own footsteps.
The funeral was conducted almost with
splendour. The body, having been conveyed,
in compliance with Sir Robert's last
directions, to Dublin, was there laid within
the ancient walls of St. Audoen's Church
—where I have read the epitaph, telling
the age and titles of the departed dust.
Neither painted escutcheon, nor marble
slab, have served to rescue from oblivion
the story of the dead, whose very name
will ere long moulder from their tracery—
`Et sunt sua fata
sepulchris.'[1]
The events which I have recorded are
not imaginary. They are FACTS; and
there lives one whose authority none would
venture to question, who could vindicate
the accuracy of every statement which I
have set down, and that, too, with
all the circumstantiality of an
eye-witness.
[2]
[[1]]
This prophecy has since been realised; for the
aisle in which Sir Robert's remains were laid has been
suffered to fall completely to decay; and the tomb
which marked his grave, and other monuments more
curious, form now one indistinguishable mass of rubbish.
[[2]]
This paper, from a memorandum, I find to have
been written in 1803. The lady to whom allusion is
made, I believe to be Miss Mary F—d. She never
married, and survived both her sisters, living to a very
advanced age.