The Macabre Megapack. Lafcadio Hearn
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suspicion, fear, and horror. The child still lives whose infancy was scarred by the ill-omened name; and the man of science can still remember the derisive curl of his lip, while it syllable the word;—but he will not dare to deny, that with derision there was at times mingled doubt, and that his eye, while it instinctively sought the recesses of his library, was lighted up for an instant with the same species of enthusiasm which guided the speculations of that singular race.
It is to accident that I am indebted for my knowledge of the little I do know on the subject. Dr. S—, of B—, was supposed to be the only person capable of un-riddling the mystery; but his obstinate silence, while it added fuel to the public curiosity, baffled it completely. That gentleman is now dead, and I see no good reason why I should conceal what he at length disclosed to me; indeed, I can assign no probable reason for his own secrecy, unless it were a fear of the world’s ridicule. For my part, I have no feelings of the sort—and I profess myself to be in a state of a most unhappy ignorance on every subject not immediately connected with the Belles Lettres. Let it be remembered at the same time, that I only “say the tale as ’twas told to me.” Dr. S—’s character, as a man of honor, will bear out it’s truth with those who knew him; and those who did not, will, perhaps, be inclined to waive a part of their skepticism, on being informed, that the facts were communicated to me on the solemn and affecting occasion of the death of his only daughter, who had accompanied him in his interview with the last of the Ormonds, and whose early fate was usually attributed to that cause.
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The house occupied by the Ormands was situated about two miles from the small town of B—, at a short distance from the main road. As a tall building, it was distinguished only by its extreme irregularity, for whatever might have been its original form was entirely obscured by the various additions that had from that time been patched to it, apparently without view to a general plan. The odd shapes of these additions, constructed without the slightest regard to the usual arrangements of architecture, and the huddled appearance of the whole mass, gave it a very remarkable, though unsightly, aspect; and few travelers passed the road without inquiring whether they beheld a human dwelling, and if so, what were the names and avocations of its inhabitants.
The replies to such inquiries varied with the ages and dispositions of the informers—but in general they were dark and unsatisfactory. The house had been occupied, from a period as distant as the memory or traditions of the district extended, by a succession of individuals of the same name. An old female servant was the only inmate except for the proprietor, who himself lived in a peaceable seclusion for a length of time, varying from twenty to thirty years; and at his death, was instantaneously replaced by a successor, whose appearance was only known in the neighborhood by his attendance at church.
There was something singular even in this meagre outline; but when the picture was duly filled up with the suspicions and surmises of the narrator, it presented an appearance that made some smile—some shudder—and some cross themselves. It was averred that lights were seen in the house at all hours of the night; that smoke was detected issuing from many parts of the roof, besides its only legitimate channel, the chimney; and that strange noises were heard by the benighted hind, who had the misfortune to pass the place at an hour when all noises, except that of sleeping aloud, are deemed incongruous and equivocal. Besides these suspicious circumstances, the new heir was generally unlike his predecessor, and of an age too far advanced to admit the idea of his being the son of the latter; while his sudden avatar, independent, as it seemed, of the usual means and modes of traveling, was enough of itself to strike the observer with astonishment.
On these occasions—the death and accession of an Ormand—the whole countryside was in a state of ferment. In the more distant periods of society, when superstition held its sway over the higher as well as the lower classes, the popular excitation, encouraged by patrician wisdom, more than once threatened to annihilate the accursed race; and there is still in preservation a curious document, professing to be a petition to the government, for the removal of so pestilent a nest of sorcerers from a peaceable and religious neighborhood. Even the area of ground surrounding the house for a considerable space, felt the effects of its bad character; and a pond, or rather small lake in its vicinity known by the name of the Devil’s Well, whose waters were as black as night from the shadow of the encompassing rocks,—and which, besides, lay under the imputation of being bottomless—was put under a ban, as the abode of denizens more unholy than trouts or perches. In later times a coroner’s inquest was talked of, although I cannot find out upon what grounds, as the declining health of the Ormonds was perceived long before their demise. They attended church regularly; and for months before the mortal hour arrived, the process of decay was visible to every spectator. Although not one of them, in the calculation of human time, reached sixty years, the approaches of age were seen in distinct footsteps; week after week the hair grew whiter—the face more thin and sallow—and the step slower and feebler; then a Sunday would come without bringing its accustomed worshipper: then another would arrive, and present him tottering on his cane, and turning his drenched eyes in vain towards the symbols of his redemption; and on the next, a new face would be seen in the family pew of the Ormonds.
But time, which never deepens an impression, except in poetry—
‘As streams their channels deeper wear—’
gradually softened the acerbity of public opinion, if it did not bring about an entire revolution. The calm deportment, unmeddling habits, and philosophic abstraction of Ormond, disarmed the suspicion of his neighbours, and almost won their respect. The shrewder part of the young, who were in want of a patron or legacy, moved their hats to him as he passed, or picked up his cane when he let it fall; overtures (always rejected, however), were made to him by the fathers upon the subject of neighbourly communication; and at last, spinsters, trembling on the very verge of forty, would begin to wonder whether the man were married. The more adventurous of the boys, in process of time, even sought the haunted well for the purpose of angling; and their mothers although shaking their heads at their sons’ temerity, would not refuse to dress the spoil, and in some instances were even prevailed on to eat of the fish, which in their own time, had borne so equivocal a character.
Matters had assumed this placable aspect at the time my story refers to; but the Ormond of that period did not seem destined to enjoy long the benefit of his neighbour’s moderation. His health began seriously to decline; and the appearance of old age fell with a spectred suddenness on its usual prey, a broken constitution. Week after week he dragged his emaciated form to the house of God; and very week, although lighter in itself, it was the heavier for him to drag; his eyes, formerly bright and burning, became dim and spiritless—his hand shook as it undid the clasp of the prayer-book—his voice was thin and broken, and his step feeble and unsteady: he was dying. In common cases the tongue of malice is mute, the finger of scorn dropped, and the frown of hatred relaxed in the presence of Death; but this was the precise period when the operation of all three,—and of fifty other base and foolish passions,—was commonly directed against the ill-fated representative of “The Strange Ormonds.” Every forgotten story that superstition had imagined, and bigotry believed, was drawn up in dreadful array against him; and although among the better-informed classes, compassion for the forlorn and deserted condition of the dying man, might have been the more powerful feeling; yet the old leaven of evil predominated as usual in the feelings of the mass. Dr. S— had watched with medical curiosity and interest his singularly rapid decay; and being of the number of those whose curiosity was blended with compassion, he resolved, about the time when he thought the last sands of fate were almost run, to venture of a visit of mercy, and smooth, since he could not retard, his passage to the grave. “Come Emily,” said he one day, pushing the decanter away from him, after dinner; “the poor old man must not die without somebody to wet his lips and smooth his pillow: the sight will do you no harm, and the lesson it conveys may do you good; besides, a woman never looks so well—not at the most splendid ball—not on her wedding day, all smiles and tears and blushes, as by the bedside of the sick or dying, ministering with a tender and skillful hand to their necessities, and whispering love and comfort to their souls.” Miss S—’s heart and imagination were touched by the picture which her father had intentionally presented; and conquering the more easily her natural timidity, she threw her shawl over her shoulders and putting her arm within his, they sallied forth