Chapter V: Act III (3)

I shared in my mother’s anxiety; but on the next day my father seemed so much better, and joined so very heartily in all we did, that in the bustle and excitement of expectation I almost forgot the conversation of the preceding evening. At last the carriages began to arrive, and the merry-making commenced. Everybody was in high spirits, for the weather was just the right sort for the season, with the snow thick upon the ground, and the difficulties in the journey to our house had made some fun for the guests, and put them in the cue for more. My father was as merry as any of us, and warmly welcomed each arrival; and when the music struck up for a set of quadrilles, he accepted the challenge of my mother, and danced with her. I could not help noticing, however, that when he was not engaged in conversation, his countenance fell, and a look of pain came on his pale face; but he recovered himself almost instantaneously, and was at once himself again. Merrily flew the hours, and never were charades played with greater spirit, or dances whizzed through with more delight. It was nearly supper time, and I went to find my father, who, on a plea of head-ache, had withdrawn for a little while into the study. But he had left the study, and so, fearing that he was really unwell, I went to his bedroom, but found that he was not there. For a moment a horrible undefined dread came over me; I trembled in every limb, and cold perspiration dropped down my face. There was no reason for this; there were twenty places where my father might be; it was not at all an unusual thing for him to seclude himself when he felt unwell, but for all that I could not divest myself of the strange feeling that came over me that something wrong had happened. I ran hastily through all the bedrooms, and then looked into every room down stairs, but he was not there. Old Williams, the gardener, was in the hall, and I asked him if he had seen my father? “Yes, Master John; he was here about half-an-hour ago. He put on a stout pair of boots, and his top coat, and said he should go into the stable to wish the horses and old Carlo a merry Christmas.” I went at once to the stables and called to him, but no answer came in reply. A lantern was in the loft, and, lighting it, I walked round the place to see if I could trace whether, by his footprints, he had been there. The snow marked his steps distinctly, but they were turned from the stable towards the paddock. Again that horrible dread, which had seized me in the bedroom, returned, for I knew that at the bottom of the paddock ran the river, swollen by the recent snows! Mechanically I followed the footprints, which led directly to the river. I tried to call out, but a suffocating feeling like night-mare rendered me speechless. I fell down on my knees in the snow, and cried with my whole heart to the merciful Father in heaven to avert the evil I so intensely dreaded. Strength came to me with the necessity; my voice came back to me, and I made the silent night ring with my father’s name. But no answer came, and now I stood at the edge of the rushing river, and the marks of the footprints had ceased! There was no time to be lost; the snow, which before had been falling gently, now began to descend in a storm, and every moment would serve to obliterate the tracks of his steps, if there were any more that might be found. With a cry to heaven to give me strength for all that remained to be done, I flew back to the house. Nelly was the first to meet me upon my return, and my face betrayed to her my anxiety. “My darling Nell, be calm and strong. I fear something has happened to father. Comfort mother while I and some of the friends are away. Go first to Williams, and tell him to come here with all the lanterns he can get, and then bid him saddle both the horses without delay.” A brave little woman was my sister Nell! I can see her pale face, and her white hands clenched together, as she stood beside me that night in her pretty evening dress, and heard my hurried news. In less than ten minutes I had a party of eight trusty men around me, to whom I told my suspicions, and begged their help. Among them was Captain Wray, an old friend of my father’s; he saw with a military instinct the position, and at once took the command of the expedition. “Let four follow each other through the paddock to the river,” said he, “and then divide, two to the right, and two to the left. John, Andrew Morris, Williams, and I, will go across the bridge, and adopt the same plan on the other side of the river. Now let us be off, and may God grant us success.”

A deep and earnest amen followed, and we started off.

I will not give you a history of that terrible time; in vain we searched for footprints, in vain we dragged the river; messengers were sent into every village round about, letters were sent to all the principal posting stations along the high roads, information was given to the London constabulary, rewards were offered for any clue of the missing one; and every effort failed.

Had it not been for my good friend Andrew Morris, I do not know how I should have gone through the fatigue and anxiety of those days. He never seemed to tire; he was determined not to encourage a feeling of despair; at one moment he was devising some fresh scheme, and the next comforting my mother and Nelly with hope. At last Andrew and I, when we found every endeavour in our neighbourhood fruitless, determined to go up to London and seek for _him_ there. We journeyed from street to street, gazing earnestly in the face of every passer by; we went from workhouse to workhouse, from shipping place to shipping place; and at last, worn out with fatigue, we returned to Marantby disappointed and distressed.

Time wore away; Andrew Morris went home to engage in business, and I returned no more to school, for the management of my father’s affairs now devolved in a great measure upon me. The spring time came, with its songs of birds and perfume of flowers; the glad summer sunshine played upon the murmuring waters of Marantby; the red leaves of autumn fell in gorgeous showers, and the silver traceries of frost sparkled in the wintry nights, but still our home was desolate; and so it came to pass that Christmas Day became a day full of painful memories.

Six years passed, and time, the great physician for the wounded heart, had taken the sting of our sorrow away. Our good Father in heaven never allows a sorrow to come into this world unless He sends a joy to counterbalance it; life would be a stunted and deformed thing, if, when the night enveloped it, the bright sunshine of morning did not as surely follow; and the law which regulates the outer world has its counterpart in the inner, that “while the earth remaineth, seed time and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night, shall not cease.” Well, Christmas Day was coming round again, and we determined that we would spend it in London, with Andrew Morris. It was a cosy little party we made on Christmas Eve—I and my mother, and Captain Wray, Mr. and Mrs. Morris, sen., and Andrew and Nelly, and the baby. Whose baby? Why Nelly’s, to be sure, and never was there a prettier and prouder little mother, or a handsomer and happier young husband, than Nelly and Andrew Morris. There was no boisterous fun or merriment, but there was a great deal of quiet enjoyment amongst us as we sat at the table after dinner and played round games, or as Nelly and Andrew sang duets, while baby crowed a chorus. There was an air of homeliness, too, and comfort about the house, and that was increased tenfold from the fact that the night was bitterly cold. The wind roared along the streets, and every now and then the hail came down in a perfect cataract. The evening slipped rapidly away, and, as Martha came in at about ten o’clock to lay the cloth for supper, a pause in the rattle of the conversation within, and a pause in the rattle of hailstones without, enabled us to hear voices somewhere along the street joined in very good harmony, singing a Christmas carol. By-and-bye they came opposite our window, and struck up that fine old carol—

“When Christ was born of Mary free,
In Bethlehem, in that fair citie,
Angels sang then with mirth and glee,
In Excelsis Gloria.”

Now I confess I never had a passion for street music, but this was much beyond the average of merit. It was a part of my education to love and venerate old customs, and it was a part of my creed always at Christmas time to relieve, as far as lay in my power, those who were excluded from the privileges which are enjoyed by those who have been more highly favoured by a kind providence. So, putting on my hat, I went to the door with a jug of foaming ale and a glass, and Andrew followed me with a good many shining pieces of silver in his hand, which he had collected in the room. As soon as I opened the door, an old man, with a lantern in one hand and his hat in the other, stood before us to receive the contribution. Just as Andrew was putting the money into his hat the light flashed up into his face. A spasm of joy and fear shot through me; I staggered back, and should have fallen, had not Andrew held me. _The old man was my father!_ Wrinkled as the face was, white as the hair had grown, bent as was that once graceful figure, I was absolutely certain that I was not mistaken. In a moment my self-possession returned, and in that moment I realized the meaning of the phrase, “quick as thought.” For I remembered that I was only a boy when my father went away, and he could not recognise me. I remembered that a sudden shock of joy might deprive me of my mother, the very while it restored to me my father. I understood that Andrew had ascertained the meaning of my sudden emotion, for he had adroitly screened me from the gaze of my father and the minstrels, and was beginning to pour out the ale for them. I thought, too, that a sudden revelation of myself to my father might be injurious to him; and not knowing the state of his mind, it might be the most fatal thing to surprise him. So at once my plans were made; and all this happened in a moment! I whispered to Andrew, “Be spokesman, for my voice may betray me. Invite them to supper at the ‘King’s Arms’ in an hour, on condition that they will sing some carols. Say they shall be well paid. Follow them till then, and don’t let your eyes be off my father for an instant. I will gently prepare them indoors.”

“All right,” said Andrew, “but come inside with me first, while I get my coat, and tell them I am going. I will not damage your plan.”

There was great surprise when Andrew called for his coat, and said to his wife, “Nelly, my dear, I must leave you and our good friends for a little while. I know you will pardon me, but I have just seen an old friend who I knew in my school days, and he seems in distress. I can’t ask him in here to-night, but I will see him into the hotel at the end of the street; and, John, come for me in half-an-hour to release me, if I am detained so long.”

Without waiting longer than to give Nelly a kiss he was off, and the street door closed upon him. Then began an attack of questions which puzzled my ingenuity to parry. There was something remarkably strange in the event, and their curiosity was strongly excited. There was not much time to lose, and the questions were working me towards the subject. At last Nelly said, “Cannot you guess, John, at all, who this stranger is, or what he wants with Andrew.” And then I said, “I did not mean to tell you, or to awaken sad memories, especially to-night, but I think the stranger will be able to tell him something of the fate of father!”

I had said enough and seen enough to know that I might safely carry out my plan. Affected as my mother was by the news, she was perfectly calm. She did not weep, or dream of fainting, or going into hysterics, but a holy joy lighted up her face, and her very smile was a thanksgiving. Brave little Nell clasped her hands together (it was just the attitude she used on that _other_ Christmas Eve), and said, “Thank God.” For a minute or two there was a dead silence in the room, only broken by Captain Wray, who took snuff violently.

“John,” said my mother, at length, and her voice faltered just a very little, “John, you know more than you have told; let me hear it all. I am more than strong enough to bear it; I have waited for years in preparation of this hour. Tell me, when did it happen, and where?”

I sat down between her and Nelly, and said, as calmly as I could, “Now, my dearest mother, be brave and cheery, father is still alive. It would not be well for you to see him for some time, but he is in London, and well.”

The tears came at last; not a dry eye was in the room; but when I left them to go with Captain Wray to the “King’s Arms” (for he could not remain inactive), a voice had said to the storm of feeling, “Peace, be still;” and there was a great calm.

My story is nearly ended. That night I made myself known to my father, and the shock of feeling at seeing me and learning that my mother and sister were alive and near him, instead of doing him injury, effected a good that probably nothing else could have done. His was a strange wild history, and it was only little by little, and that extending over a long time, as the powers of mind and memory gradually returned, that I learnt it. When he left his home it was under the terrible delusion that nothing but the workhouse was before him, and he could not bear to see the distress that would come upon his family. He took ship to America, and on the voyage his mind gave way. Arrived in that country, he was placed in proper care by the authorities, but in all the wanderings of his mind he never divulged his name or residence. Several times his reason became temporarily restored, but then the thought of his deserted wife and home was too terrible for him ever to think resolutely of returning thither. Years passed in this way, and during his rational periods he had to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. At last he so far recovered that his determination to return to his native land, and at least ascertain what had become of his family, was carried into effect. Penniless when he arrived, and the season cold and inclement, he had to endure severe hardships. Circumstances brought him into the company of a band of carol singers, to whom he engaged himself as money collector, and he had resolved to work his way to Marantby as soon as he was able.

The best medical advice that could be had in London was obtained for him, and, by the blessing of God, his health of body and mind was restored. I will not attempt to describe the meeting with my mother, for no eye saw it. The effect was not injurious, on the contrary, from that day his old habits and spirits began to return, and for many years his life was one of unmingled peace and happiness.

And so it came to pass that Christmas Day ceased to be a day of painful memories, for we could say, “He was dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found.” Now his body rests beside that of my mother in the little churchyard at Marantby, and their spirits are in the bright world, where, perhaps, the angels are singing again this night that beautiful song they sang years ago, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace and goodwill towards men.”

CASTLE CONNOR.

_By MONA B. BICKERSTAFFE, Author of “Begin Well, End Well;” “Araki, the Damio,” &c._

Christmas was always a merry season at Castle Connor, and not less merry than usual was the Christmas time of which I am going to tell you. The house was as full as it could hold, and added to the usual number of guests were three English cousins, who had come over to pay their first visit to their Irish relatives. At the public school from which they came, they were known as Max, Major, and Minor, and so we shall name them here. Max (whose real name was Dick Lindsaye) was in his seventeenth year, and only famous at K⸺ for being the biggest dunce, the biggest bully, and the biggest boaster in the school; for, while careful to avoid every kind of danger, he was prone to forge Falstaffian tales of the dangers he had surmounted, when no one was there to see him. Tom and Harold Cunliffe were his step-brothers; the former was a soft-faced boy, about thirteen years of age, with curly, brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a countenance beaming with good nature and good temper, but evidently a being more capable of enjoying the _dolce far niente_ than any state of life in which he might be expected to be an active or energetic member of society. Yes, a quiet, easy-going youth was Tom, very different from the twelve-year-old Harry, a wiry, springy young fellow, who, while living in great awe of his big brother, was always laying plots for fun at his expense.

Major and Minor were great favourites wherever they went, while no one could endure Max’s snobbish conceit and self-importance. To have a speck of mud upon his highly polished boots, or a grain of dust upon his ever-glossy clothes, was to spoil his pleasure for the day, while his young brothers, unfortunately, went off to the opposite extreme, and were only too regardless of their personal appearance.

The family at Castle Connor consisted of the father, mother, two daughters, and three sons. The latter were manly, warm-hearted youths, quick-tempered and quick-witted, first rate horsemen, masters of all field sports, but not very polished in their manners. They had never been to any school, but were brought up at home, under the care of a tutor, whom they managed just as they pleased, and who found himself in too snug a berth at Castle Connor, to venture to make it less agreeable by complaints that his pupils too often preferred sporting to Latin. He (Mr. Moriarty) was at Christmas time always absent, enjoying the holidays at his own home, so the youths were then left entirely to their own devices, which generally led them to play tricks of all kinds upon the rest of the household.

Directly they saw Max, they (as Major said) “twigged him at once,” and came to the conclusion that he was fair game for fun. He soon adopted a patronizing manner to Dennis Connor, most aggravating to that high-spirited youth, who cast about in his very fertile mind as to how he might, once for all, humble the self-conceit of his lofty cousin; and finding that his father was to be away from home for a day or two, he laid his plans accordingly. They were standing together in the drawing-room, waiting for dinner, when he turned abruptly to Max, and asked him if he had seen the dungeons of Castle Connor?

“The dungeons! no. I never knew there were any.”

Mrs. Connor did not appear to know it either, for she looked up in astonishment, but a look from her son silenced her.

“Don’t say anything now,” said Dennis, mysteriously; “I’ll tell you all about it after dinner.”

After dinner, accordingly, Dennis took him aside, and told him that he never mentioned the dungeons before his father or mother, for “fact is,” said he, “they are a great source of annoyance and discomfort to them, and all of us. Dark deeds have been done down there, in the times of the fights between the O’Connors and the Condons. Weird sounds come from them in the night time, especially on certain nights, when one Con Condon, the headless, is said to come to look for his head, which centuries ago was taken from him by our ancestor, Modha O’Connor, who married a daughter of Oilioll Olum,[3] King of Munster. Oilioll had carried off a beautiful lady, Modweena Condon, but somehow she contrived to escape from the place where he had locked her up, and seeing him sleeping, she in revenge bit off his ear while he slept, whereon Oilioll, roused by the pain, seized a spear, and thrust it through her with such force that he flattened the point against a stone in the wall. Drawing forth the spear, regardless of his victim’s agonies, he tried to straighten the point with his teeth, but it had been poisoned, and from that moment his teeth became jet black. I only tell you this in case you should notice the dark colour of father’s teeth, for the blackness still runs in the family; but, as I was saying, Modha O’Connor took the Condon prisoner, brought him to his castle here, shut him up in the dungeon, and coolly cut off his head. When the clan heard of it, they assembled in great force, stormed the castle, broke into the dungeons, and found the body of their chief, but nowhere could they find his head. The body was buried with all funeral honours, when the earth fell over it, wild unearthly voices sang the _Dahtan Da mort_, _Augustha Cadine_; but the spirit of Con can never rest easy until the head is found. The circumstance I have told you occurred in the second century, so, of course, the head must now be a skull, but though we have, generation after generation, sought for it, it has never been found. Well, some time ago an old crone passed this way (she was for all the world like a banshee), and, pointing up at the house, she said she would come again soon after the arrival of a certain youth, of whom it has been predicted that _he alone_ can find Con Condon’s head. They say she has been seen about the place to-day. Have you seen her, Major?”

“Look!” said Minor. “Isn’t there something dark sitting under the great arbutus tree? Yes; surely there is. Look, Max.”

Max looked, and while he did so, the moon, breaking through a cloud, lighted up the carriage drive in front of the house; while its rays, falling upon an arbutus tree, distinctly revealed a dark figure crouched beside it. It seemed to be a very old woman, sitting, Irish fashion, with her chin resting on her knees, while she rocked herself to and fro, and crooned out a wailing Irish keen. Her face (which was very dark coloured) was turned towards the boys, and her large features and long grey hair gave her a very uncanny appearance. Seeing Dennis, she beckoned to him. “Come with me, Max,” said he; “I’m awfully frightened.” “I’ll go, too,” said Harry. “And I.” “And I.” So they all stepped through the open window, and were soon standing round the old crone.

“Save ye,” said Dennis.

“Save _you_, kindly,” said she.

“Are you the grana?” asked Dennis.

“Yes, I’m grana, grana, of Carrigogunnel. I’m come from St. Patrick’s purgatory, an’ there I left Con Condon the headless; an’ says he, ‘Grana,’ says he, ‘I’ve been here this tousandh year and more, an’ I’m tired of it entirely; but I can’t git out,’ says he, ‘till I find my head, which that thafe, Modha O’Connor, tuck from me. Good grana,’ says he, ‘go to Castle Connor an’ find it for me; for it is written,’ says he, ‘that there is wan there now that is Irish, an’ Scotch, an’ Sassenach, all in one, an’ ’tis he alone that can find me head.’ This is the message of Con Condon the headless; an’ _you_,” shrieked the hag, pointing her bony finger at Max, “you, whose mother was a Connor, yer father a Scotchman, an’ yerself a Sassenach, come with me an’ find Con Condon’s head!”

“Mercy,” said Max, aside, to Dennis; “what must I do; where must I go? I daren’t go a step with that terrible old woman.”

“Terrible old woman!” screamed the hag. “Yes, I’m terrible; I’m grana of Carrigogunnel, sister to the mighty Finn. Don’t cross me, young man, or ’twill be worse for ye.”

“What must I do?” pleaded Max, in real agony, and trembling in every limb. “Dennis, speak to her.”

Dennis spoke to the woman, and then turned to Max: “She insists that you go with her to the dungeons, but says we may go, too, as far as the door; so we shall be near you, and, perhaps, you won’t see Con the headless; being a Sassenach may break the spell.”

“See him,” said Max; “I should think not, _I_ don’t believe such superstitions as you Irish do.”

“Oh, very well,” said Dennis; “that being the case we can go on immediately.”

“Yes, come on,” said the hag, and she slowly rose from her crouching posture, and, to Max’s great horror, stood before him, nearly six feet five in height. “Come on,” she cried, “come on!” and on she went with long strides, while Max, frightened out of his seventeen senses, followed her, and the others came close behind. Suddenly the hag stopped: “Dennis O’Connor,” said she, “you lade the way until we come to the foot of the steps, thin the Sassenach must go on wid me alone.”

Well, on they went, round by the back door, through the kitchens (where, strange to say, not a servant was to be seen), until they came to the top of a flight of steep stone steps, to all appearances cut out of the solid rock.

“Bring a light,” said the hag; “bring two lights.”

Indeed even two lights failed to throw much light on the subject, only serving to show the horrors of the darkness before them, for here and there in the wall were narrow passages or crevices, and certain projections which cast deep shadows, and had a very fearful effect. The light emitted from two small tallow candles did not much improve the matter, for, though the shadows became less, the crevices remained as dark and darker than ever.

“Oh, I can’t go on,” said Max, turning very white, and looking as if he were going to faint.

“Here,” said the hag, drawing a flask from her bosom (very like a railway flask, but perhaps they use them in St. Patrick’s purgatory), “drink this,” said she; “’tis good an’ old, for ’tis it that sperrited Brien Boru when he fought that mighty battle, when meself saw 3,000 Danes lying dead together.”

“Drink,” said Dennis; “I’ll take a pull at it, too; ’twill keep your courage up, man.”

“Oh, ’tisn’t that I’m afraid,” said Max, but he drank at the flask, and finding it good, tried it again, and the colour came to his face, and down the stone steps he followed the grana, until they stood at a heavy oaken door.

“The kay,” said the grana, and Dennis handed her an ancient clumsy-looking key. She turned it in the lock, and pushed open the door with such force that it went back with a tremendous crash, causing a sudden gust of cold air that put out both the candles. But they were not in the dark! No; for there was a faint and ghastly light, just enough to show them that they were in a huge chamber hewn out of the rock. Max’s face became livid. He looked at his companions; their faces were livid too, and as for the grana, her countenance was something unearthly.

Presently there was a sound like the clanking of a heavy chain, and far away, somewhere in the depths of the vault, were alternately heard heavy despairing groans and a wailing cry, like “My head! my head!”

“That’s _him_,” said the grana. “Out, every mother’s son of ye, save the Sassenach an’ me. Quick, or the spell will be broken;” and seizing Max tight by the wrist, she pulled him on into the vault.

“Sassenach,” said she, “have ye iver read the Bratheim-hadth, the book of sacred judgment? Ye havn’t, more’s the pity, for from that book

‘The priest, the prince, the bard, the man of art,
An’ you, too, in this vault might larn yer part.’

Howsomiver, as yer ignorant of mystheries, ye must mind what I tell ye, an’ the first _white_ thing ye sees on the ground grab it up quick, afore the evil wan hides it agin. Whisht—”

She might well say “whisht,” for nearer and nearer, from the depths of the vault, came the clanking chain, and the hollow voice, crying, “My head, my head! ullagone, ullagone!”

Max, not knowing whether he was on his head or his heels, allowed himself to be dragged on by the grana. The faint blue light was becoming fainter and fainter; the wailing “ullagone” was drawing nearer and nearer, when his foot stumbled against something; he stooped to look at it—it was white; he took it up—it was a skull! Max fainted.

* * * * *

When he returned to consciousness, he found himself in a vault indeed, but neither skulls nor groans, nor ghastly blue lights shed their weird influence round him, but a cheerful glow, as of many candles, lighted up the place; and as he looked round he saw, not headless Con, but more than one hogs_head_, for the vault was, in fact, a spacious cellar, contrived with much care by Master Dennis Connor’s grandfather, for the accommodation of those choice wines from Burgundy and elsewhere, which he had “loved, not wisely, but too well.”

Max sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked about him: “Where am I,” said he; “and how did I come here?” Then, as memory returned, he asked, anxiously, “Where is she?”

“She’s here!” and before him stood Grana of Carrigogunnel, who, tearing off her long grey horsehair locks and the rest of her costume, appeared in the proper character of his decidedly gaunt, but not at all horrible, cousin Ned.

“Here I am, Max; I’ll wash off the walnut juice by-and-bye.”

“Serve you right if it won’t come off,” said his mother. “It was too bad of you all to frighten this poor fellow nearly out of his life. It is well for you your father is not at home.”

“’Tis so,” said the butler, who all the while had been privy to the joke; “they a’most kilt him intirely with fright. Niver mind ’em in there; ’twas only the skull of the ould white cow that ye tuck up! Ha, ha, ha! he, he, he!” and in spite of all their pity for the victim, Mrs. Connor and the girls could not help laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing.

“You see, mother,” said Dennis (to whom Mrs. Connor was administering a private lecture on practical jokes), “we’d never have done it, only he was such an awfully conceited chap. We told him some stories the other day, and he tossed up his nose and talked about Irish ignorance and superstition. I knew he was a hollow sham all the while; and you see, directly he heard the hag’s story he was carried away by his fright, and never stopped to reason about anything. He’ll never lord it over Major and Minor again, that’s one comfort; the former has twice his sense, and Harry’s a plucky little fellow, and will be sure, if he tries it, to give him a reminder about Con Condon the headless, and the white cow’s skull.”

[3] Oilioll Olum was king of Munster in the second century. He was a ferocious and powerful monarch. The story here told of him is recorded in the ancient annals of Ireland.

THE “BLACK DRAGOON.”

_By SIDNEY DARYL._

“Thro’ the black night that sits immense around,
Lash’d into foam the fierce contending brine,
Seems o’er a thousand raging waves to frown.”

_Thomson._

Somewhere under the cliffs, on the South Coast, lay the little fishing village of Gunnerstone, at least, if some dozen ricketty huts and a tumble-down jetty deserve the appellation. Isolated and cut off from anything like familiar intercourse with the rest of the world, its inhabitants led a wild, precarious existence, and some ugly stories were told of their predilection for plunder and wrecking. Many vessels had been known to go upon the Gunnerstone reef in comparatively calm weather, when all hands might have been saved with little difficulty, but by some unaccountable mishap or other none were ever known to survive, and by the time the Coastguard men arrived they were astonished to find how quickly the ship herself had gone to pieces. Nature had made Gunnerstone almost inaccessible from the sea, save to the natives of the place, to whom alone a certain narrow passage was known through which they could navigate their boats in safety up to the jetty. From the very edge of the beach to some half mile out to sea stretched a long reef of sunken rocks, which the blue jackets on board the revenue cutter were wont to call the real Gunnerstone fishing nets. Many and fatal had been the wrecks in this particular locality, and Homeward and Outward bound always wished themselves well past it. It became obvious that the establishment of a lighthouse here was absolutely necessary, and after the usual amount of official circumlocution, and the preparation of a great many surveys and plans, things at length took a business-like turn, and the building of a lighthouse was commenced on a large rock at the extremity of the reef, which rose abruptly out of the water as if specially intended by nature to assist in the work of humanity. The construction proceeded but slowly, what with the caprices of the weather and the opposition offered by the inhabitants of Gunnerstone, who regarded the innovation much in the same way as a burglar would the establishment of a huge gas-lamp just in front of a house he contemplates robbing. It was many months before the revolving beacon sent its dazzling rays flashing out over the sea to warn passers by of their propinquity to the ill-omened reef. When thoroughly finished, the lighthouse presented an appearance of strength and solidity that did infinite credit to the architect who had planned, and the contractor who had built it. The interior was arranged so as to be as roomy as possible, in order to accommodate the two keepers and the boy who had charge of it; and the lower part was divided into a sitting and sleeping-room. Outside, a couple of substantial outbuildings had been erected, which in the summertime were used as residences; while all round the upper surface of the rock huge blocks of granite had been raised one on the other, making a wall of tremendous thickness, which shielded the outbuildings, and left a considerable space protected, which, with marvellous ingenuity, had been turned into a garden, though I fear its productive powers were not of a very high order. Down one side of the rock was cut a rough staircase, by means of which the keepers were enabled to get into their boat, whenever they had occasion to take a trip to the shore. Their life was a very uneventful, and yet withal, a very stirring one; for, in winter time, when the storm was at work, the waves came dashing up against their house in wild confusion and noise as of thunder, racing one with the other as if to see which would send its flecks of foam nearest the lighthouse lantern.

On the 24th of December, 18—, about five o’clock in the afternoon, three people were standing in the little yard at Gunnerstone Lighthouse, looking out towards the sea. Above them the bright glare shot forth into the darkness from the lantern, and disclosed the white crests on the waves as they came rolling in grandly from mid ocean.

“It will blow hard afore morning, Bill,” said old Seth Lawrence, wiping from his cheek a great drop of salt spray as cold as an icicle, “the wind’s been a chopping and shifting about the last eight and forty hours, but he seems to have come to anchor in the right quarter at last, and he’s going to give us a taste of his quality, or I’m a lubber. It aint very cheerful for Christmas folks, specially them’s as at sea. Hallo, that’s a damper,” he added, as one wave more daring than its fellows ran up the side of the rock and sent a deluge of salt water hissing over the granite wall into the yard.

“I tell you what it is, Uncle Seth,” interrupted the younger member of the two he had addressed, who had come in for his share of wetting, “I’m not going to stand out here to get soaked to the skin. I have a regard for my constitution, if you haven’t, so allow me to wish you a very good evening.” The speaker at once suited the action to the word, and disappeared through the door into the lighthouse, and his example was speedily followed by his two companions. The exchange from the cold and wet outside to the warmth and comfort within was in every way agreeable, and in a little while tea was ready, and the party sat down fully prepared to enjoy it. While they are so engaged just a word or two about them.

Seth Lawrence was a fine, muscular man, who had seen plenty of rough service in his time, but appeared none the worse for the buffeting. He was the very “_beau ideal_” of an Englishman, cool, resolute, and indomitable, and in every way suited for the post in which we find him. Neither chick nor child had Seth, but his nephew Charlie was to him as a son, and the lad in his turn looked upon him in the light of a father. Gunnerstone Reef was scarcely the spot on which to spend Christmas Day as a matter of preference, but with these two, who had no ties of kindred or relationship on shore, it was just as good as any other. Not so was it with Bill Marston, he was anything but satisfied with the arrangements that compelled him to eat his plum pudding in the lighthouse, and had been making himself miserable for some time past about the hardness of his lot. But all the sulking in the world could not alter the state of affairs, and so he himself began to think, as he sat down to tea on the evening when we first make his acquaintance. He was short and somewhat squat in figure, and by the side of Seth presented very much the same appearance as does a steam-tug in the company of a screw frigate. But though Bill Marston was short in stature, he was an awkward customer to get to close quarters with, as a certain cheeky jack tar, who came with the revenue cutter to the lighthouse on one occasion, had good cause to remember. He was a singularly good hand with a rifle, and when the sea was calm, and no craft were in the way, would amuse himself practising. He had lately been giving Charlie lessons in shooting, and his pupil progressed with a rapidity that excited his hearty admiration. Just a word or two of that young gentleman, and then “_revenons à nos moutons_.” Charlie Fairfield was an orphan; his mother, Seth’s sister, had died when he was quite a baby, never having quite recovered from the shock her husband’s being lost at sea in a storm had occasioned her. With her last breath she bequeathed her blue-eyed baby boy to Seth, and he, with tears coursing down his brown cheeks, swore “that he’d stick to the kid through foul and fair weather, and as long as he’d a shilling in the locker the “young un” should have half.” And, as I have said before, no oath was ever more religiously kept. Charlie was put out to school and received a good sound commercial education, for which Seth found the money, and, at length, when he thought that he had had enough of his books he made a strong representation to his employers, and persuaded them to give Charlie a berth at the lighthouse, where we now find him. Story tellers have a dreadful habit of always making their favourite character very handsome, in fact, an admirable Crichton of the most approved type; and I am afraid that if I attempt to sketch a portrait of mine I shall lay the paint on too thick and spoil the effect. Therefore I leave the task to the imagination of my hearers, merely adding that Charlie was brave and true as steel, and loved Seth with his whole heart.

Tea was over and cleared away, and Seth had been upstairs to see that the lights were all right, and was now taking it easy in a comfortable arm-chair.

“Look here, Bill,” he said, performing that process which is known as washing the hands with imaginary soap, “as it’s Christmas Eve, we’ll treat ourselves to a drop of grog, and make ourselves cosy.”

“All right, mate,” answered Bill, evidently quite ready to enjoy himself after the prescription suggested; “here’s the bacca jar, and presently, if Charlie don’t mind, we’ll get him to spell out a bit of reading.”

“So we will, so we will, mate,” echoed Seth. “Fetch out the groceries, lad, and then I’m blowed if we shan’t be as square and ship-shape this here festive season as any of your land lubbers.”

Charlie bustled about, got out the rum and all the other necessary etceteras, and then made himself excessively comfortable on one of the lockers with the book, from which he was to hold forth for the delectation of the company. It was the ever-green “_Pickwick Papers_,” and soon the roar of the wind and storm outside was almost lost in the shouts of laughter that Sam Weller’s eccentricities and witticisms excited.

Charlie had been reading uninterruptedly for about half-an-hour, when Seth suddenly jumped up from his chair, exclaiming, “I could swear I heard some one moving in the yard outside.”

“Lor, mate, you must be a dreaming,” answered Bill; “we’re not likely to be troubled with visitors, let alone on such a night as this; but, as I’m nearest the door, I’ll just take a look out.”

Bill Marston rose from his seat and did as he said. The wind came driving into the room, rude, bitter, and searching, threatening to put out their lamp.

“Bless your heart,” continued he, shutting the door quickly, “there arn’t nobody, it was only fancy;” and with that the two resumed their seats and the reading continued.

But presently Bill Marston in his turn cried to Charlie to stop, and, putting his finger on his lips, crept once again to the door, whispering as he did so:—

“Seth, you’re right, mate, there’s some mischief up, and we’ve got company on the rock that we don’t know about yet.”

Seth Lawrence was up in a moment like a lion.

“Hold, Bill, a moment,” he cried, “don’t open the door till we’ve put the light out, and we’d best take a six-shooter a-piece, for we don’t quite know how many friends we may have to receive.”

“Ten to one it’s some of those thieving scoundrels from Gunnerstone, come to see if they can catch us asleep in order to play tricks with the lights, but they’ll find we’re up to their little games.”

Seth and Bill hastily pulled on their rough pea-jackets, invested their heads in their sou-westers, and, having looked at their revolvers to see that they were properly loaded, put out the lamp and opened the door. As they did so a dark object slid away from before it and was lost in the gloom.

“That cove’s been listening through the key-hole,” whispered Bill to his companion.

“Well, he didn’t hear much good of himself,” replied Seth; and then he added in a louder tone, “Now then, you skulks, come out and let’s see what you’re made of. I’ve got a nice taste of cold lead for each of you.”

“Two can play at that game, Seth Lawrence,” answered a deep voice from out of the darkness, “look to yourself.”

There was a flash, a report, and Bill Marston was standing by himself.

“You murdering dogs,” he cried, firing in the direction whence the voice had come, “good luck send this through one of your ugly heads.”

This wish seemed to have been fulfilled, for there was a yell of some one in pain. Meanwhile Charlie had run out at the first sound of fire-arms, and found his uncle lying on the ground. Seth whispered hoarsely to Bill when he fell:—

“Get back into the lighthouse, lad, their game is to douse the lights, and get some ship ashore in this storm; leave me here, they can’t do worse with me. Get thee back, get thee back, or there will be more lives lost before the morning.”

But Bill was not to be thus defeated, he would not go and leave his mate alone, but remained resolutely by him, prepared to fall by his side if necessary.

“Charlie, lad, go you inside,” he said hurriedly to the boy, “take you care of the lights, stick to them to the last, and die rather than give in.”

To hear was to obey; Charlie ran inside the lighthouse, closed the door, and turned the key. Not a minute too soon, for a moment after a strange hand was laid upon the latch, and a rough voice called for admission. He was startled for a moment, and his heart thumped against his side; but then he thought of his Uncle Seth, and how he would have behaved under like circumstances, while Bill Marston’s words rang in his ears: “Stick to them to the last, and die rather than give in.” In an instant fear was forgotten, and he was prepared to fight to the last, come what might. This he knew, that he had to contend with enemies who would show him no mercy. They were bent on extinguishing the lights, and they would not stop at murder if it were necessary to secure the successful prosecution of their nefarious enterprise.

It was for Charlie to defend them as long as life and strength were his! His eyes turned to the clock; it was only eight. What an age till daybreak!

To thoroughly barricade and fasten the door was his first consideration. It was well and strongly built of oak, strengthened here and there with iron ribs, and secured by three bolts and a huge bar that passed immediately across the centre. All these were duly pushed into their places by Charlie, regardless of the hammering and knocking that was going on outside. This done, he hurried up-stairs to see that the lights were burning all right; wick, oil, and reflectors, were all in perfect order, and might in the emergency be left to themselves. They would do their duty till morning if only the wreckers’ fingers could be kept at a respectful distance. Satisfied as to these particulars, Charlie hurried downstairs again to defend the door. How thankful did he now feel to Bill for the lessons he had given him in shooting! There was another revolver lying at the bottom of the locker, he took it up, loaded it carefully, and then prepared himself for the siege.

The wind still howled and whistled, while the thunder of the waves upon the rock was almost deafening, still Charlie was just able to catch the sound of voices outside during the intervals of cessation from knocking on the part of his besiegers. “Blow up,” and “pistol,” he distinctly heard, and then a hoarse cry from some one, evidently intended for him.

“If you don’t open the door we’ll blow it up.”

“Blow away, my hearties,” shouted he in reply, “and take care how you play with gunpowder, for it’s dangerous.”

A sound very much like a laugh followed this: and then the same voice that had addressed him before screamed out:—

“If you’ll give in, young ’un, we won’t hurt you. It’s no use your fighting against odds; we’ve cobbled your mates, and we shall have to do the same for you if you keep us out here much longer.”

To this Charlie vouchsafed no answer, and the battering at the door was resumed. The threat to blow him up was evidently an empty one, as nothing of the sort was attempted, but presently there was a loud report, and a bullet came crashing through the woodwork, passing disagreeably near to the lad’s head. Through the opening that had thus been made, five other bullets followed one another in close succession, evidently fired not so much with an intention of hitting as of alarming him. Charlie crept on his hands and knees up to the door, and, when the discharge had ended, quietly raised himself up, and, placing the muzzle of his revolver in the aperture, pulled the trigger. There was a groan, a smothered curse, and a heavy fall, and immediately after the hammering was resumed more savagely than ever. Charlie reloaded the empty chamber of his revolver, and drew himself a little on one side. Just then his eye noticed that the top bolt was giving way. At the same moment the sound as of blows dealt by an axe upon the door made itself audible, and warned him that, with an instrument such as that, his assailants would soon be able to cut their way through to him.

How slowly the hours, or, more properly speaking, minutes, dragged on. The hands of the clock seemed glued upon its face. The atmosphere of the room was stifling. “God help me,” murmured Charlie to himself: “the door wont stand much longer, and then there’s no help for it. They’d soon do for me. Oh! if I only had Uncle Seth or Bill Marston with me.” Alas! Charlie, you might as well have wanted the whole battalion of guards at your back; they whom you called were lying out in the storm and rain, sore stricken, and motionless!

By this time the wreckers were evidently infuriated at the resistance they had met with, and redoubled their efforts upon the door, which slowly but surely was giving way. The axe was doing its work only too well, and already a huge piece of the wooden framework had fallen in.

The barrier was now nearly broken down that protected him, and in a moment more the enemy would be upon him. In those few seconds that ensued the boy’s lips moved rapidly. With the shadow of death almost upon him, he had yet time to remember Him whose omnipotent arm could snatch him from out the jaws of death. Like the Puritan soldier of old, Charlie paused in the conflict to whisper a prayer. Then, resolute and undaunted, he prepared to meet the fate that he felt must inevitably fall upon him.

He had not to wait long; there was a crash, and then a rush of dark forms through the doorway; he had but time to aim his revolver and pull the trigger, then some heavy body fell against him and brought him to the ground. The darkness had saved him, for the wreckers did not wait to look for him, but hurried upward to the light room to extinguish the lights.