A Tale of the O’Hara Family.
I was sauntering in hot summer weather by a little stream that now scarce strayed over its deep and rocky bed, often obliged to glance and twine round some large stone, or the trunk of a fallen tree, as if exerting a kind of animated ingenuity to escape and pursue its course. It ran through a valley, receding in almost uniform perspective as far as the eye could reach, and shut up at its extremity by a lofty hill, sweeping directly across it. The sides of the valley bore no traces of cultivation. Briers and furze scantily clothed them; while, here and there, a frittered rock protruded its bald forehead through the thin copse. No shadow broke or relieved the monotonous sheet of light that spread over every object. The spare grass and wild bushes had become parched under its influence; the earth, wherever it was seen bare, appeared dry and crumbling into dust; the rocks and stones were partially bleached white, or their few patches of moss burnt black or deep red. The whole effect was fiercely brilliant, and so unbroken, that a sparrow could not have hopped, or a grass-mouse raced across, even in the distance, without being immediately detected as an intrusion upon the scene.
The desertion and silence of the place, sympathized well with its lethargic features. Not a single cabin met my eye through the range of the valley; over head, indeed, the gables of one or two peeped down, half hidden by their sameness of colour with the weather-tanned rocks on which they hung, or with the heather that thatched them; but they and their inmates were obviously unconnected with the solitude in which I stood, their fronts and windows being turned towards the level country, and thence the paths that led to them must also have diverged. No moving thing animated my now almost supernatural picture; no cow, horse, nor sheep, saunteringly grazed along the margin of my wizard stream. The very little birds flew over it, I conveniently thought, with an agitated rapidity, or if one of them alighted on the shrivelled spray, it was but to look round for a moment with a keen mistrustful eye; and then bound into its fields of air, leaving the wild branch slightly fluttered by his action. If a sound arose, it was but what its own whispering waters made; or the herdsboy’s whistle faintly echoed from far-off fields and meadows; or the hoarse and lonesome caw of the rook, as he winged his heavy flight towards more fertile places.
Amid all this light and silence, a very aged woman, wildly habited, appeared, I know not how, before me. Her approach had not been heralded by any accompanying noise, by any rustle among the bushes, or by the sound of a footstep; my eyes were turned from the direction in which she became visible, but again unconsciously recurring to it, fixed on the startling figure.
She was low in stature, emaciated, and embrowned by age, sun, or toil, as it might be; her lank white hair hung thickly at either side of her face; a short red mantle fell loosely to her knees; under it a green petticoat descended to within some inches of her ankles; and her arms, neck, head, and feet, were bare. There she remained, at the distance of only about twenty yards, her small grey eyes vacantly set on mine; and her brows strenuously knit, but, as I thought, rather to shadow her sight from the sun, than with any expression of anger or agitation. Her look had no meaning in it; no passion, no subject. It communicated nothing with which my heart or thought held any sympathy; yet it was long, and deep, and unwincing. After standing for some time, as if spell-bound by her gaze, I felt conscious of becoming uneasy and superstitious in spite of myself; yet my sensation was rather caused by excitement than by fear, and saluting the strange visitant, I advanced towards her. She stood on a broad slab in the centre of the bed of the stream, but which was now uncovered by the water. I had to step from stone to stone in my approach, and often wind round some unusually gigantic rock that impeded my direct course; one of them was, indeed, so large, that when I came up to it, my view of the old woman was completely impeded. This roused me more: I hastily turned the angle of the rock; looked again for her in the place she had stood—but she was gone.—My eye rapidly glanced round to detect the path she had taken. I could not see her.
Now I became more disturbed. I leaned my back against the rock, and for some moments gazed along the valley. In this situation, my eye was again challenged by her scarlet mantle glittering in the sunlight, at the distance of nearly a quarter of a mile from the spot where she first appeared. She was once more motionless, and evidently looked at me. I grew too nervous to remain stationary, and hurried after her up the stony bed of the stream.
A second time she disappeared; but when I gained her second resting-place, I saw her standing on the outline of the distant mountain, now dwindled almost to the size of a crow, yet, boldly relieved against the back-ground of white clouds, and still manifested to me by her bright red mantle. A moment, and she finally evaded my view, going off at the other side of the mountain. This was not to be borne: I followed, if not courageously, determinedly. By my watch, to which I had the curiosity and presence of mind to refer, it took me a quarter of an hour to win the summit of the hill; and she, an aged woman, feeble and worn, had traversed the same space in much less time. When I stood on the ridge of the hill, and looked abroad over a widely-spreading country, unsheltered by forest, thicket, or any other hiding-place, I beheld her not.
Cabins, or, to use the more poetical name, authorized by the exquisite bard of “O’Connor’s child,” sheelings, were now abundantly strewed around me, and men, women, and children, at work in the fields, one and all assured me no such person had, that day, met their notice, and added, it was impossible she could have crossed without becoming visible to them. I never again beheld (excepting in my dreams) that mysterious visitant, nor have ever been able to ascertain who or what she was.
After having spoken to the peasants, I continued my walk, descending the breast of the mountain which faced the valley, but now avoiding the latter, and sauntering against the thready current of the stream, with no other feeling that I can recollect, but an impatience to ascertain its hidden source. It led me all round the base of the hill. I had a book in my pocket, with which I occasionally sat down, in an inviting solitude; when tired of it, I threw pebbles into the water, or traced outlines on the clouds; and the day insensibly lapsed, while I thus rioted in the utter listlessness of, perhaps, a diseased imagination.
Evening fell. I found myself, in its deepest shades, once more on the side of the mountain opposite that which turned towards the valley. I sat upon a small knoll, surrounded by curves and bumps, wild and picturesque in their solitude. I was listening to the shrill call of the plover, which sounded far and faint along the dreary hills, when a vivid glow of lightning, followed by a clattering thundercrash, roused me from my reverie. I was glad to take shelter in one of the cabins, which I have described as rather numerously strewed in that direction.