“For some time afterwards there was great talk of the old witch and her curse, and the ‘wierd’ pronounced against Blairvie; but by degrees the whole thing died away. The lands of Lanbryde were fertile, for much of the soil was old and rich; the sheep, cattle, and orchards were beyond anything for excellence. The place, a great big house, square to the winds, lay back in a bay between two big horns of shingle—but the whole beach was covered with beautiful sand, so fine that it could run through an hourglass.
“By gradual degrees, it was noticed that the sea was encroaching; huge mounds of sands had accumulated—some of them one hundred feet in height—and the sand seemed scarcely ever at rest. In strong westerly gales it drifted about, and seemed so violent and tormented, one might have supposed that the furies were locked in mortal combat. The size and increase of the dunes were so imperceptibly stealthy, that it was scarcely noticed by those who lived in the neighbourhood, but chiefly spoken of by people who had been absent for some time. By and by, the old coast-line began to break up, the sea made extensive inroads, and there was a certain wasting of the fore-shore. These high banks of sand afforded but a feeble barrier to the power of storms from the north—which forced them further and further inshore; and still no one minded, for a gale from the south usually blew them back to their former position.
“One November night a fearful gale descended on the coast. A sand-flood overwhelmed the fields, the orchards, the gardens of Lanbryde—here was a deluge that nothing could arrest. Ghostly clouds of white sand, falling and whirling, above, below—in short, everywhere. The torrent seemed to be a living force; it poured over the mansion, and down its chimneys, burst the doors and windows, and blocked the stairs. The storm was as sudden as it was violent—it approached with a howling, mighty wind, sheets and clouds of a thin, white substance, tons—millions of tons—of sand. The people of the house had barely time to escape with their lives, before the doors and stairs were choked. The young heir—who happened to be home on leave—as he rushed out last, bethought himself of the family sword—in short, of me! He ran back, fought his way to the fireplace, while the wind roared and the sand poured, wrenched me from the wall, and sped forth. But in the doorway a blast met him and knocked him prostrate—the cruel sand fell on him, and choked him where he lay; he struggled and fought—it was like being in the heart of a quick-sand. After desperate efforts he gave up the ghost, and so perished miserably—and there he and I rested together for eighty long years. By midday, after the gale, such was the result of shifting dunes, that the very situation of the mansion was lost—and the whole property, a vast expanse of sand, was pointed out to newcomers as the grave of the house, and estates, of Lanbryde.
“At last, after nearly a century had elapsed, a furious western hurricane suddenly altered the figures of many sandhills. Another violent storm arose, a whirlwind equal to the first, and it raged all night with a ruthless force. At sunrise, when the folk began to stir, they rubbed their eyes, and wondered if they were still asleep. Then they recalled the story of Lanbryde. The mansion had reappeared—had arisen, like a great, gaunt skeleton, from the mass of sand in which it had been entombed, its rows of empty windows, like eyeless sockets, dominating the scene.
“Naturally the news spread, and Lanbryde was immediately visited, and, as far as possible, entered. But the interior was still choked. The body of the unfortunate heir was discovered—that is to say, his bones—and I, who lay unscathed in my scabbard, was carried away as prize by a searcher, and sold for a few shillings to an armourer in Inverness, who sent me south, where I fetched, as I deserved, a noble price. Great efforts were made to recover furniture and pictures that were known to be in Lanbryde, but beyond a few silver spoons and the whorls of a distaff, nothing could be reclaimed, for before any active steps could be taken, another furious sand-drift struck the coast, and the ancient mansion of Lanbryde disappeared for ever.
“When the last owner’s daughter died in poverty abroad, the family became extinct, and of their great fame, and high place in the world, nothing now remains but an old Italian sword.—Good-night!”
XV
THE KING’S SHILLING
It was a melancholy afternoon early in November, and a cold pitiless rain was streaming down the library windows of Clonallon, the Irish residence of Sir Domnick Donnelly, Bart., J.P., D.L.
At the other side of the wet panes, a pretty young face gazed out upon the falling dusk and fallen leaves, with an expression of hopeless boredom. Clonallon was one of those solid box-shaped mansions that arose in the country two centuries ago: spacious and comfortable, with fine lofty rooms for the family, and gloomy caverns for their retainers; it boasted a prolific garden, a fine demesne, and a long and imposing avenue. On the other hand, it was ten miles from a station, did not possess a bathroom, and could only count upon one post a day.
Sir Domnick and his wife (an elderly, childless couple) were entirely satisfied with their abode—and themselves; they maintained a certain amount of state and formality, and processed about the neighbourhood in an open carriage with two men-servants and a pair of steppers. Recently a powerful motor had displaced the landau, and the owners were so exuberantly proud of their new possession that one would almost suppose it was the very first car that had ever been landed in Ireland!