“I think, Misther O'Flaherty, it's a dacent oath as it stands. Plase God, I'll swear to it some time to-morrow evenin'.”
“Dacent! Why I don't wish to become eulogistically addicted; but I'd back tha same oath, for both grammar and arithmetic, aginst any that ever was drawn up by a lawyer—ay, by the great Counsellor himself!—but faith, I'd not face him at a Vow, for all that; he's the greatest man at a Vow in the three kingdoms.”
“I'll tell you what I'm thinkin', Masther—as my hand's in, mightn't I as well take another wid an ould friend of mine, Owen Smith, of Lisbuy? He's a dacent ould residenther, an' likes it. It'll make the baker's or the long dozen.”
“Why, it's not a bad thought; but won't thirteen get into your head?”
“No, nor three more to the back o' that. I only begin to get hearty about seventeen, so that the long dozen, afther all, is best; for—God he knows, I've a regard for Owen Smith this many a year, an' I wouldn't wish to lave him out.”
“Very well,—I'll add it up to the other part of the oath.
Now I must make the total amount thirteen, an' all will be right.”
“Masther, have you a prayer-book widin?—bekase if you have, I may as well swear here, and you can witness it.”
“Katty, hand over the Spiritual Exercises—a book aquil to the Bible itself for piety an' devotion.”
“Sure they say, Masther, any book that, the name o' God's in, is good for an oath. Now, wid the help o' goodness, repate the words afore me, an' I'll sware thim.”
O'Flaherty hemmed two or three times, and complied with Peter's wishes, who followed him in the words until the oath was concluded. He then kissed the book, and expressed himself much at ease, as well, he said, upon the account of Ellish's soul, as for the sake of his children.
For some time after this, his oath was the standing jest of the neighborhood: even to this day, Peter Connell's oath against liquor is a proverb in that part of the country. Immediately after he had sworn, no one could ever perceive that he violated it in the slightest degree; indeed there could be no doubt as to literally fulfilling it. A day never passed in which he did not punctually pay a visit to those whose names wore dotted down, with whom he sat, pulled out his flask, and drank his quantum. In the meantime the poor man was breaking down rapidly; so much so, that his appearance generally excited pity, if not sorrow, among his neighbors. His character became simpler every day, and his intellect evidently more exhausted. The inoffensive humor, for which he had been noted, was also completely on the wane; his eye waxed dim, his step feeble, but the benevolence of his heart never failed him. Many acts of his private generosity are well known, and still remembered with gratitude.
In proportion as the strength of his mind and constitution diminished, so did his capacity for bearing liquor. When he first bound himself by the oath not to exceed the long dozen, such was his vigor, that the effects of thirteen tumblers could scarcely be perceived on him. This state of health, however, did not last. As he wore away, the influence of so much liquor was becoming stronger, until at length he found that it was more than he could bear, that he frequently confounded the names of the men, and the number of tumblers mentioned in the oath, and sometimes took in, in his route, persons and places not to be found in it at all. This grieved him, and he resolved to wait upon O'Flaherty for the purpose of having some means devised of guiding him during his potations.
“Masther,” said he, “we must thry an' make this oath somethin' plainer. You see when I get confused, I'm not able to remimber things as I ought. Sometimes, instid o' one tumbler, I take two at the wrong place; an' sarra bit o' me but called in an' had three wid ould Jack Rogers, that isn't in it at all. On another day I had a couple wid honest Barney Casey, an my way acrass to Bartle Gorman's. I'm not what I was, Masther, ahagm; so I'd thank you to dhraw it out more clearer, if you can, nor it was.”
“I see, Mr. Connell; I comprehend wid the greatest ase in life, the very plan for it. We must reduce the oath to Geography, for I'm at home there, bein' a Surveyor myself. I'll lay down a map o' the parish, an' draw the houses of your friends at their proper places, so that you'll never be out o' your latitude at all.”
“Faix, I doubt that, Masther—ha, ha, ha!” replied Peter; “I'm afeard I will, of an odd time, for I'm not able to carry what I used to do; but no matther: thry what you can do for me this time, any how. I think I could bear the long dozen still if I didn't make mistakes.”
O'Flaherty accordingly set himself to work; and as his knowledge, not only of the parish, but of every person and house in it, was accurate, he soon had a tolerably correct skeleton map of it drawn for Peter's use.
“Now,” said he, “lend me your ears.”
“Faix, I'll do no sich thing,” replied Peter—“I know a thrick worth two of it. Lend you my ears, inagh!—catch me at it! You have a bigger pair of your own nor I have—ha, ha, ha!”
“Well, in other words, pay attintion. Now, see this dot—that's your own house.”
“Put a crass there,” said Peter, “an' thin I'll know it's the Crass-roads.”
“Upon my reputation, you're right; an' that's what I call a good specimen of ingenuity. I'll take the hint from that, an' we'll make it a Hieroglyphical as well as a Geographical oath. Well, there's a crass, wid two tumblers. Is that clear?”
“It is, it is! faix”
“Now here we draw a line to your son Dan's. Let me see; he keeps a mill, an' sells cloth. Very good. I'll dhraw a mill-wheel an' a yard-wand. There's two tumblers. Will you know that?”
“I see it: go an, nothin' can be clearer. So far, I can't go asthray.”
“Well, what next? Two behind your own garden. What metaphor for the garden? Let me see!—let me cogitate! A dragon—the Hesperides! That's beyant you. A bit of a hedge will do, an' a gate.”
“Don't put a gate in, it's not lucky. You know, when a man takes to dhrink, they say he's goin' a gray gate, or a black gate, or a bad gate. Put that out, an' make the hedge longer, an' it'll do—wid the two tumblers, though.”
“They're down. One at the Reverend Father Mulcahy's. How will we thranslate the priest?”
“Faix, I doubt that will be a difficquilt business.”
“Upon my reputation, I agree wid you in that, especially whin he repates Latin. However, we'll see. He writes P.P. afther his name;—pee-pee is what we call the turkeys wid. What 'ud you think o' two turkeys?”
“The priest would like them roasted, but I couldn't undherstand that. No; put down the sign o' the horsewhip, or the cudgel; for he's handy, an' argues well wid both?”
“Good! I'll put down the horsewhip first, an' the cudgel alongside of it; then the tumbler, an' there'll be the sign o' the priest.”
“Ay, do, Masther, an' faix the priest 'll be complate—there can be no mistakin' him thin. Divil a one but that's a good thought!”
“There it is in black an' white. Who comes next? Frank M'Carroll. He's a farmer. I'll put down a spade an' a harrow. Well, that's done—two tumblers.”
“I won't mistake that, aither. It's clear enough.”
“Bartle Gorman's of Cargah. Bartle's a little lame, an' uses a staff wid a cross on the end that he houlds in his hand. I'll put down a staff wid a cross on it.”
“Would there be no danger of me mistakin' that for the priest's cudgel?”
“Divil the slightest. I'll pledge my knowledge of geography, they're two very different weapons.”
“Well, put it down—I'll know it.”
“Roger M'Gaugy of Nurchasy. What for him? Roger's a pig-driver. I'll put down pig. You'll comprehend that?”
“I ought; for many a pig I sould in my day. Put down the pig; an' if you could put two black spots upon his back, I'd know it to be one I sould him about four years agone—the fattest ever was in the country—it had to be brought home on a car, for it wasn't able to walk wid fat.”
“Very good; the spots are on it. The last is Owen Smith of Lisbuy. Now, do you see that I've drawn a line from place to place, so that you have nothing to do only to keep to it as you go. What for Owen?”
“Owen! Let me see—Owen! Pooh! What's come over me, that I've nothin' for Owen? Ah! I have it. He's a horse-jockey: put down a gray mare I sould him about five years agone.”
“I'll put down a horse; but I can't make a gray mare wid black ink.”
“Well, make a mare of her, any way.”
“Faith, an' that same puzzles me. Stop, I have it; I'll put a foal along wid her.”
“As good as the bank. God bless you, Misther O'Flaherty. I think this 'll keep me from mistakes. An' now, if you'll slip up to me afther dusk, I'll send you down a couple o' bottles and a flitch. Sure you desarve more for the throuble you tuck.”
Many of our readers, particularly of our English readers, will be somewhat startled to hear that, except the change of names and places, there is actually little exaggeration in the form of this oath; so just is the observation, that the romance of truth frequently exceeds that of fiction.
Peter had, however, over-rated his own strength in supposing that he could bear the long dozen in future; ere many months passed he was scarcely able to reach the half of that number without sinking into intoxication. Whilst in this state, he was in the habit of going to the graveyard in which his wife lay buried, where he sat, and wept like a child, sang her favorite songs, or knelt and offered up his prayers for the repose of her soul. None ever mocked him for this; on the contrary, there was always some kind person to assist him home. And as he staggered on, instead of sneers and ridicule, one might hear such expressions as these:—
“Poor Pether! he's nearly off; an' a dacent, kind neighbor he ever was. The death of the wife broke his heart—he never ris his head since.”
“Ay, poor man! God pity him! Hell soon be sleepin' beside her, beyant there, where she's lyin'. It was never known of Peter Connell that he offinded man, woman, or child since he was born, barrin' the gaugers, bad luck to thim, afore he was marrid—but that was no offince. Sowl, he was their match, any how. When he an' the wife's gone, they won't lave their likes behind them. The sons are bodaghs—gintlemen, now; an' it's nothin' but dinners an' company. Ahagur, that wasn't the way their hardworkin' father an' mother made the money that they're houldin' their heads up wid such consequence upon.”
The children, however, did not give Peter up as hopeless. Father Mulcahy, too, once-more assailed him on his weak side. One morning, when he was sober, nervous, and depressed, the priest arrived, and finding him at home, addressed him as follows:—
“Peter, I'm sorry, and vexed, and angry this morning; and you are the cause of it”
“How is that, your Reverence?” said Peter. “God help me,” he added, “don't be hard an me, sir, for I'm to be pitied. Don't be hard on me, for the short time I'll be here. I know it won't be long—I'll be wid her soon. Asthore machree, we'll' be together, I hope, afore long—an', oh! if it was the will o' God, I would be glad if it was afore night!”
The poor, shattered, heart-broken creature wept bitterly, for he felt somewhat sensible of the justice of the reproof which he expected from the priest, as well as undiminished sorrow for his wife.
“I'm not going to be hard on you,” said the good-natured priest; “I only called to tell you a dream that your son Dan had last night about you and his mother.”
“About Ellish! Oh, for heaven's sake what about her, Father, avourneen?”
“She appeared to him, last night,” replied Father Mulcahy, “and told him that your drinking kept her out of happiness.”
“Queen of heaven!” exclaimed Peter, deeply affected, “is that true? Oh,” said he, dropping on his knees, “Father, ahagur machree, pardon me—oh, forgive me! I now promise, solemnly and seriously, to drink neither in the house nor out of it, for the time to come, not one drop at all, good, bad, or indifferent, of either whiskey, wine, or punch—barrin' one glass. Are you now satisfied? an' do you think she'll get to happiness?”
“All will be well, I trust,” said the priest. “I shall mention this to Dan and the rest, and depend upon it, they, too, will be happy to hear it.”
“Here's what Mr. O'Flaherty an' myself made up,” said Peter: “burn it, Father; take it out of my sight, for it's now no use to me.”
“What is this at all?” said Mr. Mulcahy, looking into it. “Is it an oath?”
“It's the Joggraphy of one I swore some time ago; but it's now out of date—I'm done wid it.”
The priest could not avoid smiling when he perused it, and on getting from Peter's lips an explanation of the hieroglyphics, he laughed heartily at the ingenious shifts they had made to guide his memory.
Peter, for some time after this, confined himself to one glass, as he had promised; but he felt such depression and feebleness, that he ventured slowly, and by degrees, to enlarge the “glass” from which he drank. His impression touching the happiness of his wife was, that as he had for several months strictly observed his promise, she had probably during that period gone to heaven. He then began to exercise his ingenuity gradually, as we have said, by using, from time to time, a glass larger than the preceding one; thus receding from the spirit of his vow to the letter, and increasing the quantity of his drink from a small glass to the most capacious tumbler he could find. The manner in which he drank this was highly illustrative of the customs which prevail on this subject in Ireland. He remembered, that in making the vow, he used the words, “neither in the house nor out of it;” but in order to get over this dilemma, he usually stood with one foot outside the threshold, and the other in the house, keeping himself in that position which would render it difficult to determine whether he was either out or in. At other times, when he happened to be upstairs, he usually thrust one-half of his person out of the window, with the same ludicrous intention of keeping the letter of his vow.
Many a smile this adroitness of his occasioned to the lookers-on: but further ridicule was checked by his wobegone and afflicted look. He was now a mere skeleton, feeble and tottering.
One night, in the depth of winter, he went into the town where his two sons resided; he had been ill in mind and body during the day, and he fancied that change of scene and society might benefit him. His daughter and son-in-law, in consequence of his illness, watched him so closely, that he could not succeed in getting his usual “glass.” This offended him, and he escaped without their knowledge to the son who kept the inn. On arriving there, he went upstairs, and by a douceur to the waiter, got a large tumbler filled with spirits. The lingering influences of a conscience that generally felt strongly on the side of a moral duty, though poorly instructed, prompted him to drink it in the usual manner, by keeping one-half of his body, as, nearly as he could guess, out of the window, that it might be said he drank it neither in nor out of the house. He had scarcely finished his draught, however, when he lost his balance, and was precipitated upon the pavement. The crash of his fall was heard in the bar, and his son, who had just come in, ran, along with several others, to ascertain what had happened. They found him, however, only severely stunned. He was immediately brought in, and medical aid sent for; but, though he recovered from the immediate effects of the fall, the shock it gave to his broken constitution, and his excessive grief, carried him off in a few months afterwards. He expired in the arms of his son and daughter, and amidst the tears of those who knew his simplicity of character, his goodness of heart, and his attachment to the wife by whose death that heart had been broken.
Such was the melancholy end of the honest and warm-hearted Peter Connell, who, unhappily, was not a solitary instance of a man driven to habits of intoxication and neglect of business by the force of sorrow, which time and a well-regulated mind might otherwise have overcome. We have held him up, on the one hand, as an example worthy of imitation in that industry and steadiness which, under the direction of his wife, raised him from poverty to independence and wealth; and, on the other, as a man resorting to the use of spirituous liquors that he might be enabled to support affliction—a course which, so far from having sustained him under it, shattered his constitution, shortened his life, and destroyed his happiness. In conclusion, we wish our countrymen of Peter's class would imitate him in his better qualities, and try to avoid his failings.
One summer evening Mary Sullivan was sitting at her own well-swept hearthstone, knitting feet to a pair of sheep's gray stockings for Bartley, her husband. It was one of those serene evenings in the month of June, when the decline of day assumes a calmness and repose, resembling what we might suppose to have irradiated Eden, when our first parents sat in it before their fall. The beams of the sun shone through the windows in clear shafts of amber light, exhibiting millions of those atoms which float to the naked eye within its mild radiance. The dog lay barking in his dreams at her feet, and the gray cat sat purring placidly upon his back, from which even his occasional agitation did not dislodge her.
Mrs. Sullivan was the wife of a wealthy farmer, and niece to the Rev. Felix O'Rourke; her kitchen was consequently large, comfortable, and warm. Over where she sat, jutted out the “brace” well lined with bacon; to the right hung a well-scoured salt-box, and to the left was the jamb, with its little gothic paneless window to admit the light. Within it hung several ash rungs, seasoning for flail-sooples, or boulteens, a dozen of eel-skins, and several stripes of horse-skin, as hangings for them. The dresser was a “parfit white,” and well furnished with the usual appurtenances. Over the door and on the “threshel,” were nailed, “for luck,” two horse-shoes, that had been found by accident. In a little “hole” in the wall, beneath the salt-box, lay a bottle of holy water to keep the place purified; and against the cope-stone of the gable, on the outside, grew a large lump of house-leek, as a specific for sore eyes and other maladies.
In the corner of the garden were a few stalks of tansy “to kill the thievin' worms in the childhre, the crathurs,” together with a little Rose-noble, Solomon's Seal, and Bu-gloss, each for some medicinal purpose. The “lime wather” Mrs. Sullivan could make herself, and the “bog bane” for the Unh roe, (* Literally, red water) or heart-burn, grew in their own meadow drain; so that, in fact, she had within her reach a very decent pharmacopoeia, perhaps as harmless as that of the profession itself. Lying on the top of the salt-box was a bunch of fairy flax, and sewed in the folds of her own scapular was the dust of what had once been a four-leaved shamrock, an invaluable specific “for seein' the good people,” if they happened to come within the bounds of vision. Over the door in the inside, over the beds, and over the cattle in the outhouses, were placed branches of withered palm, that had been consecrated by the priest on Palm Sunday; and when the cows happened to calve, this good woman tied, with her own hands, a woollen thread about their tails, to prevent them from being overlooked by evil eyes, or elf-shot* by the fairies, who seem to possess a peculiar power over females of every species during the period of parturition. It is unnecessary to mention the variety of charms which she possessed for that obsolete malady the colic, the toothache, headache, or for removing warts, and taking motes out of the eyes; let it suffice to inform our readers that she was well stocked with them; and that, in addition to this, she, together with her husband, drank a potion made up and administered by an herb-doctor, for preventing forever the slightest misunderstanding or quarrel between man and wife. Whether it produced this desirable object or not our readers may conjecture, when we add, that the herb-doctor, after having taken a very liberal advantage of their generosity, was immediately compelled to disappear from the neighborhood, in order to avoid meeting with Bartley, who had a sharp lookout for him, not exactly on his own account, but “in regard,” he said, “that it had no effect upon Mary, at all, at all;” whilst Mary, on the other hand, admitted its efficacy upon herself, but maintained, “that Bartley was worse nor ever afther it.”
Such was Mary Sullivan, as she sat at her own hearth, quite alone, engaged as we have represented her. What she may have been meditating on we cannot pretend to ascertain; but after some time, she looked sharply into the “backstone,” or hob, with an air of anxiety and alarm. By and by she suspended her knitting, and listened with much earnestness, leaning her right ear over to the hob, from whence the sounds to which she paid such deep attention proceeded. At length she crossed herself devoutly, and exclaimed, “Queen of saints about us!—is it back ye are? Well sure there's no use in talkin', bekase they say you know what's said of you, or to you—an' we may as well spake yez fair.—Hem—musha, yez are welcome back, crickets, avourneenee! I hope that, not like the last visit ye ped us, yez are comin' for luck now! Moolyeen (* a cow without horns) died, any way, soon afther your other kailyee, (* short visit) ye crathurs ye. Here's the bread, an' the salt, an' the male for yez, an' we wish ye well. Eh?—saints above, if it isn't listenin' they are jist like a Christhien! Wurrah, but ye are the wise an' the quare crathurs all out!”
She then shook a little holy water over the hob, and muttered to herself an Irish charm or prayer against the evils which crickets are often supposed by the peasantry to bring with them, and requested, still in the words of the charm, that their presence might, on that occasion, rather be a presage of good fortune to man and beast belonging to her.
“There now, ye dhonans (* a diminuitive, delicate little thing) ye, sure ye can't say that ye're ill-thrated here, anyhow, or ever was mocked or made game of in the same family. You have got your hansel, an' full an' plenty of it; hopin' at the same time that you'll have no rason in life to cut our best clothes from revinge. Sure an' I didn't desarve to have my brave stuff long body (* an old-fashioned Irish gown) riddled the way it was, the last time ye wor here, an' only bekase little Barny, that has but the sinse of a gorsoon, tould yez in a joke to pack off wid yourself somewhere else. Musha, never heed what the likes of him says; sure he's but a caudy, (* little boy) that doesn't mane ill, only the bit o' divarsion wid yez.”
She then resumed her knitting, occasionally stopping, as she changed her needles, to listen, with her ear set, as if she wished to augur from the nature of their chirping, whether they came for good or for evil. This, however, seemed to be beyond her faculty of translating their language; for—after sagely shaking her head two or three times, she knit more busily than before.*
At this moment, the shadow of a person passing the house darkened the window opposite which she sat, and immediately a tall female, of a wild dress and aspect, entered the kitchen.
“Gho manhy dhea ghud, a ban chohr! the blessin' o' goodness upon you, dacent woman,” said Mrs. Sullivan, addressing her in those kindly phrases so peculiar to the Irish language.
Instead of making her any reply, however, the woman, whose eye glistened with a wild depth of meaning, exclaimed in low tones, apparently of much anguish, “Husht, husht', dherum! husht, husht, I say—let me alone—I will do it—will you husht? I will, I say—I will—there now—that's it—be quiet, an' I will do it—be quiet!” and as she thus spoke, she turned her face back over her left shoulder, as if some invisible being dogged her steps, and stood bending over her.
“Gho manhy dhea ghud, a ban chohr, dherhum areesh! the blessin' o' God on you, honest woman, I say again,” said Mrs. Sullivan, repeating that sacred form of salutation with which the peasantry address each other. “'Tis a fine evenin', honest woman, glory be to him that sent the same, and amin! If it was cowld, I'd be axin' you to draw your chair in to the fire: but, any way, won't you sit down?”
As she ceased speaking, the piercing eye of the strange woman became riveted on her with a glare, which, whilst it startled Mrs. Sullivan, seemed full of an agony that almost abstracted her from external life. It was not, however, so wholly absorbing as to prevent it from expressing a marked interest, whether for good or evil, in the woman who addressed her so hospitably.
“Husht, now—husht,” she said, as if aside—“husht, won't you—sure I may speak the thing to her—you said it—there now, husht!” And then fastening her dark eyes on Mrs. Sullivan, she smiled bitterly and mysteriously.
“I know you well,” she said, without, however, returning the blessing contained in the usual reply to Mrs. Sullivan's salutation—“I know you well, Mary Sullivan—husht, now, husht—yes, I know you well, and the power of all that you carry about you; but you'd be better than you are—and that's well enough now—if you had sense to know—ah, ah, ah!—what's this!” she exclaimed abruptly, with three distinct shrieks, that seemed to be produced by sensations of sharp and piercing agony.
“In the name of goodness, what's over you, honest woman?” inquired Mrs. Sullivan, as she started from her chair, and ran to her in a state of alarm, bordering on terror—“Is it sick you are?”
The woman's face had got haggard, and its features distorted; but in a few minutes they resumed their peculiar expression of settled wildness and mystery. “Sick!” she replied, licking her parched lips, “awirck, awirek! look! look!” and she pointed with a shudder that almost convulsed her whole frame, to a lump that rose on her shoulders; this, be it what it might, was covered with a red cloak, closely pinned and tied with great caution about her body—“'tis here! I have it!”
“Blessed mother!” exclaimed Mrs. Sullivan, tottering over to her chair, as finished a picture of horror as the eye could witness, “this day's Friday: the saints stand betwixt me an' all harm! Oh, holy Mary protect me! Nhanim an airh,” in the name of the Father, etc., and she forthwith proceeded to bless herself, which she did thirteen times in honor of the blessed virgin and the twelve apostles.
“Ay, it's as you see!” replied the stranger, bitterly. “It is here—husht, now—husht, I say—I will say the thing to her, mayn't I? Ay, indeed, Mary Sullivan, 'tis with me always—always. Well, well, no, I won't. I won't—easy. Oh, blessed saints, easy, and I won't.”
In the meantime Mrs. Sullivan had uncorked a bottle of holy water, and plentifully bedewed herself with it, as a preservative against this mysterious woman and her dreadful secret.
“Blessed mother above!” she ejaculated, “the Lianhan Shee” And as she spoke, with the holy water in the palm of her hand, she advanced cautiously, and with great terror, to throw it upon the stranger and the unearthly thing she bore.
“Don't attempt it!” shouted the other, in tones of mingled fierceness and terror, “do you want to give me pain without keeping yourself anything at all safer? Don't you know it doesn't care about your holy water? But I'd suffer for it, an' perhaps so would you.”
Mrs. Sullivan, terrified by the agitated looks of the woman, drew back with affright, and threw the holy water with which she intended to purify the other on her own person.
“Why thin, you lost crathur, who or what are you at all?—don't, don't—for the sake of all the saints and angels of heaven, don't come next or near me—keep your distance—but what are you, or how did you come to get that 'good thing' you carry about wid you?”
“Ay, indeed!” replied the woman bitterly, “as if I would or could tell you that! I say, you woman, you're doing what's not right in asking me a question you ought not let to cross your lips—look to yourself, and what's over you.”
The simple woman, thinking her meaning literal, almost leaped off her seat with terror, and turned up her eyes to ascertain whether or not any dreadful appearance had approached her, or hung over her where she sat.
“Woman,” said she, “I spoke you kind an' fair, an' I wish you well—but”—
“But what?” replied the other—and her eyes kindled into deep and profound excitement, apparently upon very slight grounds.
“Why—hem—nothin' at all sure, only”—
“Only what?” asked the stranger, with a face of anguish that seemed to torture every feature out of its proper lineaments.
“Dacent woman,” said Mrs. Sullivan, whilst the hair began to stand with terror upon her head, “sure it's no wondher in life that I'm in a perplexity, whin a Lianhan Shee is undher the one roof wid me. 'Tisn't that I want to know anything' at all about it—the dear forbid I should; but I never hard of a person bein' tormented wid it as you are. I always used to hear the people say that it thrated its friends well.”
“Husht!” said the woman, looking wildly over her shoulder, “I'll not tell: it's on myself I'll leave the blame! Why, will you never pity me? Am I to be night and day tormented? Oh, you're wicked an' cruel for no reason!”
“Thry,” said Mrs. Sullivan, “an' bless yourself; call on God.”
“Ah!” shouted the other, “are you going to get me killed?” and as she uttered the words, a spasmodic working which must have occasioned great pain, even to torture, became audible in her throat: her bosom heaved up and down, and her head was bent repeatedly on her breast, as if by force.
“Don't mention that name,” said she, “in my presence, except you mean to drive me to utter distraction. I mean,” she continued, after a considerable effort to recover her former tone and manner—“hear me with attention—I mean, woman—you, Mary Sullivan—that if you mention that holy name, you might as well keep plunging sharp knives into my heart! Husht! peace to me for one minute, tormentor! Spare me something, I'm in your power!”
“Will you ate anything?” said Mrs. Sullivan; “poor crathur, you look like hunger an' distress; there's enough in the house, blessed be them that sent it! an' you had betther thry an' take some nourishment, any way;” and she raised her eyes in a silent prayer of relief and ease for the unhappy woman, whose unhallowed association had, in her opinion, sealed her doom.
“Will I?—will I?—oh!” she replied, “may you never know misery for offering it! Oh, bring me something—some refreshment—some food—for I'm dying with hunger.”
Mrs. Sullivan, who, with all her superstition, was remarkable for charity and benevolence, immediately placed food and drink before her, which the stranger absolutely devoured—taking care occasionally to secrete under the protuberance which appeared behind her neck, a portion of what she ate. This, however, she did, not by stealth, but openly; merely taking means to prevent the concealed thing, from being, by any possible accident discovered.
When the craving of hunger was satisfied, she appeared to suffer less from the persecution of her tormentor than, before; whether it was, as Mrs. Sullivan thought, that the food with which she plied it, appeased in some degree its irritability, or lessened that of the stranger, it was difficult to say; at all events, she became more composed; her eyes resumed somewhat of a natural expression; each sharp ferocious glare, which shot, from them! with such intense and rapid flashes, partially disappeared; her knit brows dilated, and part of a forehead, which had once been capacious and handsome, lost the contractions which deformed it by deep wrinkles. Altogether the change was evident, and very-much relieved Mrs. Sullivan, who could not avoid observing it.
“It's not that I care much about it, if you'd think it not right o' me, but it's odd enough for you to keep the lower part of your face muffled up in that black cloth, an' then your forehead, too, is covered down on your face a bit? If they're part of the bargain,”—and she shuddered at the thought—“between you an' anything that's not good—hem!—I think you'd do well to throw thim off o' you, an' turn to thim that can protect you from everything that's bad. Now a scapular would keep all the divils in hell from one; an' if you'd”—
On looking at the stranger she hesitated, for the wild expression of her eyes began to return.
“Don't begin my punishment again,” replied the woman; “make no allus—don't make mention in my presence of anything that's good. Husht,—husht,—it's beginning—easy now—easy! No,” said she, “I came to tell you, that only for my breakin' a vow I made to this thing upon me, I'd be happy instead of miserable with it. I say, it's a good thing to have, if the person will use this bottle,” she added, producing one, “as I will direct them.”
“I wouldn't wish, for my part,” replied Mrs. Sullivan, “to have anything to do wid it—neither act nor part;” and she crossed herself devoutly, on contemplating such an unholy alliance as that at which her companion hinted.
“Mary Sullivan,” replied the other, “I can put good fortune and happiness in the way of you and yours. It is for you the good is intended; if you don't get both, no other can,” and her eyes kindled as she spoke, like those of the Pythoness in the moment of inspiration.
Mrs. Sullivan looked at her with awe, fear, and a strong mixture of curiosity; she had often heard that the Lianhan Shee had, through means of the person to whom it was bound, conferred wealth upon several, although it could never render this important service to those who exercised direct authority over it. She therefore experienced something like a conflict between her fears and a love of that wealth, the possession of which was so plainly intimated to her.
“The money,” said she, “would be one thing, but to have the Lianhan Shee planted over a body's shouldher—och; the saints preserve us!—no, not for oceans' of hard goold would I have it in my company one minnit. But in regard to the money—hem!—why, if it could be managed widout havin' act or part wid that thing, people would do anything in rason and fairity.”
“You have this day been kind to me,” replied the woman, “and that's what I can't say of many—dear help me!—husht! Every door is shut in my face! Does not every cheek get pale when I am seen? If I meet a fellow-creature on the road, they turn into the field to avoid me; if I ask for food, it's to a deaf ear I speak; if I am thirsty, they send me to the river. What house would shelter me? In cold, in hunger, in drought, in storm, and in tempest, I am alone and unfriended, hated, feared, an' avoided; starving in the winter's cold, and burning in the summer's heat. All this is my fate here; and—oh! oh! oh!—have mercy, tormentor—have mercy! I will not lift my thoughts there—I'll keep the paction—but spare me now!”
She turned round as she spoke, seeming to follow an invisible object, or, perhaps, attempting to get a more complete view of the mysterious being which exercised such a terrible and painful influence over her. Mrs. Sullivan, also, kept her eye fixed upon the lump, and actually believed that she saw it move. Fear of incurring the displeasure of what it contained, and a superstitious reluctance harshly to thrust a person from her door who had eaten of her food, prevented her from desiring the woman to depart.
“In the name of Goodness,” she replied, “I will have nothing to do wid your gift. Providence, blessed be his name, has done well for me an' mine, an' it mightn't be right to go beyant what it has pleased him to give me.”
“A rational sentiment!—I mean there's good sense in what you say,” answered the stranger: “but you need not be afraid,” and she accompanied the expression by holding up the bottle and kneeling: “now,” she added, “listen to me, and judge for yourself, if what I say, when I swear it, can be a lie.” She then proceeded to utter oaths of the most solemn nature, the purport of which Was to assure Mrs. Sullivan that drinking of the bottle would be attended with no danger. “You see this little bottle, drink it. Oh, for my sake and your own drink it; it will give wealth without end to you and to all belonging to you. Take one-half of it before sunrise, and the other half when he goes down. You must stand while drinking it, with your face to the east, in the morning; and at night, to the west. Will you promise to do this?”
“How would drinkin' the bottle get me money?” inquired Mrs. Sullivan, who certainly felt a strong tendency of heart to the wealth.
“That I can't tell you now, nor would you understand it, even if I could; but you will know all when what I say is complied with.”
“Keep your bottle, dacent woman. I wash my hands of it: the saints above guard me from the timptation! I'm sure it's not right, for as I'm a sinner, 'tis getting stronger every minute widin me? Keep it! I'm loth to bid any one that ett o' my bread to go from my hearth, but if you go, I'll make it worth your while. Saints above, what's comin' over me. In my whole life I never had such a hankerin' afther money! Well, well, but it's quare entirely!”
“Will you drink it?” asked her companion. “If it does hurt or harm to you or yours, or anything but good, may what is hanging over me be fulfilled!” and she extended a thin, but, considering her years, not ungraceful arm, in the act of holding out the bottle to her kind entertainer.
“For the sake of all that's good and gracious take it without scruple—it is not hurtful, a child might drink every drop that's in it. Oh, for the sake of all you love, and of all that love you, take it!” and as she urged her, the tears streamed down her cheeks.
“No, no,” replied Mrs. Sullivan, “it'll never cross my lips; not if it made me as rich as ould Hendherson, that airs his guineas in the sun, for fraid they'd get light by lyin' past.”
“I entreat you to take it?” said the strange woman.
“Never, never!—once for all—I say, I won't; so spare your breath.”
The firmness of the good housewife was not, in fact to be shaken; so, after exhausting all the motives and arguments with which she could urge the accomplishments of her design, the strange woman, having again put the bottle into her bosom, prepared to depart.
She had now once more become calm, and resumed her seat with the languid air of one who has suffered much exhaustion and excitement. She put her hand upon her forehead for a few moments, as if collecting her faculties, or endeavoring to remember the purport of their previous conversation. A slight moisture had broken through her skin, and altogether, notwithstanding her avowed criminality in entering into an unholy bond, she appeared an object of deep compassion.
In a moment her manner changed again, and her eyes blazed out once more, as she asked her alarmed hostess:—
“Again, Mary Sullivan, will you take the gift that I have it in my power to give you? ay or no? speak, poor mortal, if you know what is for your own good?”
Mrs. Sullivan's fears, however, had overcome her love of money, particularly as she thought that wealth obtained in such a manner could not prosper; her only objection being to the means of acquiring it.
“Oh!” said the stranger, “am I doomed never to meet with any one who will take the promise off me by drinking of this bottle? Oh! but I am unhappy! What it is to fear—ah! ah!—and keep his commandments. Had I done so in my youthful time, I wouldn't now—ah—merciful mother, is there no relief? kill me, tormentor; kill me outright, for surely the pangs of eternity cannot be greater than those you now make me suffer. Woman,” said she, and her muscles stood out in extraordinary energy— “woman, Mary Sullivan—ay, if you should kill me—blast me—where I stand, I will say the word—woman—you have daughters—teach them—to fear-”
Having got so far, she stopped—her bosom heaved up and down—her frame shook dreadfully—her eyeballs became lurid and fiery—her hands were clenched, and the spasmodic throes of inward convulsion worked the white froth up to her mouth; at length she suddenly became like a statue, with this wild, supernatural expression intense upon her, and with an awful calmness, by far more dreadful than excitement could be, concluded by pronouncing, in deep, husky tones, the name of God.
Having accomplished this with such a powerful struggle, she turned round, with pale despair in her countenance and manner, and with streaming eyes slowly departed, leaving Mrs. Sullivan in a situation not at all to be envied.
In a short time the other members of the family, who had been out at their evening employments, returned. Bartley, her husband, having entered somewhat sooner than his three daughters from milking, was the first to come in; presently the girls followed, and in a few minutes they sat down to supper, together with the servants, who dropped in one by one, after the toil of the day. On placing themselves about the table, Bartley, as usual, took his seat at the head; but Mrs. Sullivan, instead of occupying hers, sat at the fire in a state of uncommon agitation. Every two or three minutes she would cross herself devoutly, and mutter such prayers against spiritual influences of an evil nature, as she could compose herself to remember.
“Thin, why don't you come to your supper, Mary,” said the husband, “while the sowans are warm? Brave and thick they are this night, any way.”
His wife was silent; for so strong a hold had the strange woman and her appalling secret upon her mind, that it was not till he repeated his question three or four times—raising his head with surprise, and asking, “Eh, thin, Mary, what's come over you—is it unwell you are?”—that she noticed what he said.
“Supper!” she exclaimed, “unwell! 'tis a good right I have to be unwell,—I hope 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!”*