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47 pages

English

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Regarded by many as the unsurpassed master of the Victorian ghost story, Sheridan Le Fanu combines keen insight into the culture of his native Ireland with tried and true conventions of the genre. This volume contains two of Le Fanu's novellas, A Chapter in the History of a Tyrone Family and The Murdered Cousin, both of which unfold against the backdrop of large, insular, eccentric Irish families.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 septembre 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776586516
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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TWO GHOSTLY MYSTERIES
A CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY OF A TYRONE FAMILY AND THE MURDERED COUSIN
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SHERIDAN LE FANU

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Two Ghostly Mysteries A Chapter in the History of a Tyrone Family and The Murdered Cousin First published in 1851 Epub ISBN 978-1-77658-651-6 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77658-652-3 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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A Chapter in the History of a Tyrone Family The Murdered Cousin Endnotes
A Chapter in the History of a Tyrone Family
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Being a Tenth Extract from the Legacy of the Late Francis Purcell,P.P. of Drumcoolagh
INTRODUCTION. In the following narrative, I have endeavoured to giveas nearly as possible the " ipsissima verba " of the valued friendfrom whom I received it, conscious that any aberration from her modeof telling the tale of her own life, would at once impair its accuracyand its effect. Would that, with her words, I could also bring beforeyou her animated gesture, her expressive countenance, the solemn andthrilling air and accent with which she related the dark passagesin her strange story; and, above all, that I could communicate theimpressive consciousness that the narrator had seen with her owneyes, and personally acted in the scenes which she described; theseaccompaniments, taken with the additional circumstance, that shewho told the tale was one far too deeply and sadly impressed withreligious principle, to misrepresent or fabricate what she repeated asfact, gave to the tale a depth of interest which the events recordedcould hardly, themselves, have produced. I became acquainted withthe lady from whose lips I heard this narrative, nearly twenty yearssince, and the story struck my fancy so much, that I committed itto paper while it was still fresh in my mind, and should its perusalafford you entertainment for a listless half hour, my labour shall nothave been bestowed in vain. I find that I have taken the story down asshe told it, in the first person, and, perhaps, this is as it shouldbe. She began as follows.
My maiden name was Richardson, [1] the designation of a family ofsome distinction in the county of Tyrone. I was the younger of twodaughters, and we were the only children. There was a difference inour ages of nearly six years, so that I did not, in my childhood,enjoy that close companionship which sisterhood, in othercircumstances, necessarily involves; and while I was still a child, mysister was married. The person upon whom she bestowed her hand, was aMr. Carew, a gentleman of property and consideration in the northof England. I remember well the eventful day of the wedding; thethronging carriages, the noisy menials, the loud laughter, the merryfaces, and the gay dresses. Such sights were then new to me, andharmonized ill with the sorrowful feelings with which I regarded theevent which was to separate me, as it turned out, for ever, from asister whose tenderness alone had hitherto more than supplied all thatI wanted in my mother's affection. The day soon arrived which was toremove the happy couple from Ashtown-house. The carriage stood at thehall-door, and my poor sister kissed me again, and again, telling methat I should see her soon. The carriage drove away, and I gazedafter it until my eyes filled with tears, and, returning slowly to mychamber, I wept more bitterly, and so, to speak more desolately, thanever I had done before. My father had never seemed to love, or totake an interest in me. He had desired a son, and I think he neverthoroughly forgave me my unfortunate sex. My having come into theworld at all as his child, he regarded as a kind of fraudulentintrusion, and, as his antipathy to me had its origin in animperfection of mine, too radical for removal, I never even hoped tostand high in his good graces. My mother was, I dare say, as fond ofme as she was of any one; but she was a woman of a masculine anda worldly cast of mind. She had no tenderness or sympathy for theweaknesses, or even for the affections of woman's nature, and herdemeanour towards me was peremptory, and often even harsh. It is notto be supposed, then, that I found in the society of my parents muchto supply the loss of my sister. About a year after her marriage, wereceived letters from Mr. Carew, containing accounts of my sister'shealth, which, though not actually alarming, were calculated tomake us seriously uneasy. The symptoms most dwelt upon, were loss ofappetite and cough. The letters concluded by intimating that he wouldavail himself of my father and mother's repeated invitation to spendsome time at Ashtown, particularly as the physician who had beenconsulted as to my sister's health had strongly advised a removalto her native air. There were added repeated assurances that nothingserious was apprehended, as it was supposed that a deranged state ofthe liver was the only source of the symptoms which seemed to intimateconsumption. In accordance with this announcement, my sister and Mr.Carew arrived in Dublin, where one of my father's carriages awaitedthem, in readiness to start upon whatever day or hour they mightchoose for their departure. It was arranged that Mr. Carew was, assoon as the day upon which they were to leave Dublin was definitelyfixed, to write to my father, who intended that the two last stagesshould be performed by his own horses, upon whose speed and safetyfar more reliance might be placed than upon those of the ordinary post-horses , which were, at that time, almost without exception, ofthe very worst order. The journey, one of about ninety miles, was tobe divided; the larger portion to be reserved for the second day. OnSunday, a letter reached us, stating that the party would leave Dublinon Monday, and, in due course, reach Ashtown upon Tuesday evening.Tuesday came: the evening closed in, and yet no carriage appeared;darkness came on, and still no sign of our expected visitors. Hourafter hour passed away, and it was now past twelve; the night wasremarkably calm, scarce a breath stirring, so that any sound, suchas that produced by the rapid movement of a vehicle, would havebeen audible at a considerable distance. For some such sound I wasfeverishly listening. It was, however, my father's rule to close thehouse at nightfall, and the window-shutters being fastened, I wasunable to reconnoitre the avenue as I would have wished. It was nearlyone o'clock, and we began almost to despair of seeing them upon thatnight, when I thought I distinguished the sound of wheels, but soremote and faint as to make me at first very uncertain. The noiseapproached; it become louder and clearer; it stopped for a moment. Inow heard the shrill screaking of the rusty iron, as the avenuegate revolved on its hinges; again came the sound of wheels in rapidmotion.
"It is they," said I, starting up, "the carriage is in the avenue." Weall stood for a few moments, breathlessly listening. On thunderedthe vehicle with the speed of a whirlwind; crack went the whip, andclatter went the wheels, as it rattled over the uneven pavement ofthe court; a general and furious barking from all the dogs about thehouse, hailed its arrival. We hurried to the hall in time to hearthe steps let down with the sharp clanging noise peculiar to theoperation, and the hum of voices exerted in the bustle of arrival. Thehall-door was now thrown open, and we all stepped forth to greet ourvisitors. The court was perfectly empty; the moon was shining broadlyand brightly upon all around; nothing was to be seen but the talltrees with their long spectral shadows, now wet with the dews ofmidnight. We stood gazing from right to left, as if suddenly awakenedfrom a dream; the dogs walked suspiciously, growling and snuffingabout the court, and by totally and suddenly ceasing their formerloud barking, as also by carrying their tails between their legs,expressing the predominance of fear. We looked one upon the otherin perplexity and dismay, and I think I never beheld more pale facesassembled. By my father's direction, we looked about to find anythingwhich might indicate or account for the noise which we had heard; butno such thing was to be seen—even the mire which lay upon the avenuewas undisturbed. We returned to the house, more panic struck thanI can describe. On the next day, we learned by a messenger, who hadridden hard the greater part of the night, that my sister was dead. OnSunday evening, she had retired to bed rather unwell, and, on Monday,her indisposition declared itself unequivocally to be malignantfever. She became hourly worse, and, on Tuesday night, a little aftermidnight, she expired. [2] I mention this circumstance, because it wasone upon which a thousand wild and fantastical reports were founded,though one would have thought that the truth scarcely required to beimproved upon; and again, because it produced a strong and lastingeffect upon my spirits, and indeed, I am inclined to think, upon mycharacter. I was, for several years after this occurrence, long afterthe violence of my grief subsided, so wretchedly low-spirited andnervous, that I could scarcely be said to live, and during this time,habits of indecision, arising out of a listless acquiescence in thewill of others, a fear of encountering even the slightest opposition,and a disposition to shrink from what are commonly called amusements,grew upon me so strongly, that I have scarcely even yet, altogetherovercome them. We saw nothing more of Mr. Carew. He returned toEngland as soon as the me