Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Read online

  The Complete Works of

  SHERIDAN LE FANU

  (1814-1873)

  Contents

  The Novels

  THE COCK AND ANCHOR

  THE FORTUNES OF COLONEL TORLOGH O’BRIEN

  THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD

  WYLDER’S HAND

  UNCLE SILAS

  GUY DEVERELL

  ALL IN THE DARK

  THE TENANTS OF MALORY

  A LOST NAME

  HAUNTED LIVES

  THE WYVERN MYSTERY

  CHECKMATE

  THE ROSE AND THE KEY

  WILLING TO DIE

  The Shorter Fiction

  THE PURCELL PAPERS

  GHOST STORIES AND TALES OF MYSTERY

  GHOSTLY TALES

  CHRONICLES OF GOLDEN FRIARS

  IN A GLASS DARKLY

  SPALATRO

  A STABLE FOR NIGHTMARES

  UNCOLLECTED TALES

  The Tales

  LIST OF TALES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

  LIST OF TALES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

  The Poems

  THE POETRY OF SHERIDAN LE FANU

  The Criticism

  A FORGOTTEN CREATOR OF GHOSTS: JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU by Edna Kenton

  SHERIDAN LE FANU by E. F. Benson

  The Memoir

  MEMOIR OF JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU

  © Delphi Classics 2013

  Version 1

  The Complete Works of

  SHERIDAN LE FANU

  By Delphi Classics, 2013

  Interested in Le Fanu and Gothic literature?

  Then you’ll love these eBooks…

  For the first time in publishing history, Delphi Classics is proud to present the complete works of these three writers. Bierce’s supernatural tales, Radcliffe’s genre-shaping novels and Shelley’s gothic genius will provide perfect supplements to the reading of Le Fanu’s ghostly tales.

  www.delphiclassics.com

  The Novels

  Lower Dominick Street, Dublin. Le Fanu was born at No. 45, which is now demolished.

  The Royal Hibernian Military School in the Phoenix Park area of Dublin, where Le Fanu’s family moved shortly after his birth and where his father, Thomas Philip Le Fanu, was Chaplain.

  THE COCK AND ANCHOR

  BEING A CHRONICLE OF OLD DUBLIN CITY

  The Cock and Anchor, being a chronicle of old Dublin, was J. Sheridan Le Fanu’s first novel, published anonymously in 1845 in three volumes by Curry and Co. in Ireland and by Longmans in England. As was common with mid-nineteenth-century fiction, the novel was first serialised in a periodical – in this case the Dublin University Magazine, to which Le Fanu was a frequent contributor. The title refers to an inn in eighteenth-century Dublin, the time and place in which the historical novel is set.

  The narrative concerns the adventures of Edmond O’Connor as he attempts to rescue his beloved Mary Ashwoode from the clutches of her wicked father and his rival in love, the villainous Sir Henry. This early work is heavily influenced by the ‘Waverley’ novels of Sir Walter Scott and it was praised by many contemporary reviewers as an authentic historical snapshot of life amidst the turmoil and difficulties of eighteenth-century Ireland. At the same time, the dark and thrilling story and the characteristic theme of an oppressed young woman who is the victim of a devastating plot also hint at the Gothic vein of Le Fanu’s more celebrated writings. In 1873, the novel was reissued with minor revisions by Chapman and Hall, under the title Morley Court.

  Title page of the 1895 edition of the novel, illustrated by Le Fanu’s son, Brinsley

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I.

  CHAPTER II.

  CHAPTER III.

  CHAPTER IV.

  CHAPTER V.

  CHAPTER VI.

  CHAPTER VII.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  CHAPTER IX.

  CHAPTER X.

  CHAPTER XI.

  CHAPTER XII.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  CHAPTER XV.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  CHAPTER XX.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  CHAPTER XXX.

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  CHAPTER XXXVIII.

  CHAPTER XXXIX.

  CHAPTER XL.

  CHAPTER XLI.

  CHAPTER XLII.

  CHAPTER XLIII.

  CHAPTER XLIV.

  CHAPTER XLV.

  CHAPTER XLVI.

  CHAPTER XLVII.

  CHAPTER XLVIII.

  CHAPTER XLIX.

  CHAPTER L.

  CHAPTER LI.

  CHAPTER LII.

  CHAPTER LIII.

  CHAPTER LIV.

  CHAPTER LV.

  CHAPTER LVI.

  CHAPTER LVII.

  CHAPTER LVIII.

  CHAPTER LIX.

  CHAPTER LX.

  CHAPTER LXI.

  CHAPTER LXII.

  CHAPTER LXIII.

  CHAPTER LXIV.

  CHAPTER LXV.

  CHAPTER LXVI.

  CHAPTER LXVII.

  CHAPTER LXVIII.

  CHAPTER LXIX.

  CHAPTER LXX.

  CHAPTER LXXI.

  CHAPTER LXXII.

  CHAPTER LXXIII.

  CONCLUSION.

  Illustration by Brinsley Le Fanu, accompanying Chapter 28 in an 1895 edition of the novel

  CHAPTER I.

  THE “COCK AND ANCHOR” — TWO HORSEMEN — AND A SUPPER BY THE INN FIRE.

  Some time within the first ten years of the last century, there stood in the fair city of Dublin, and in one of those sinuous and narrow streets which lay in the immediate vicinity of the Castle, a goodly and capacious hostelry, snug and sound, and withal carrying in its aspect something staid and aristocratic, and perhaps in nowise the less comfortable that it was rated, in point of fashion, somewhat obsolete. Its structure was quaint and antique; so much so, that had its counterpart presented itself within the precincts of “the Borough,” it might fairly have passed itself off for the genuine old Tabard of Geoffry Chaucer.

  The front of the building, facing the street, rested upon a row of massive wooden blocks, set endwise, at intervals of some six or eight feet, and running parallel at about the same distance, to the wall of the lower story of the house, thus forming a kind of rude cloister or open corridor, running the whole length of the building.

  The spaces between these rude pillars were, by a light framework of timber, converted into a succession of arches; and by an application of the same ornamental process, the ceiling of this extended porch was made to carry a clumsy but not unpicturesque imitation of groining. Upon this open-work of timber, as we have already said, rested the second story of the building; protruding beyond which again, and supported upon beams whose projecting ends were carved into the semblance of heads hideous as the fantastic monsters of heraldry, arose the third story, presenting a series of tall and fancifully-shaped gables, decorated, like the rest of the building, with an abundance of grotesque timber-work. A wide passage, opening under the corridor which we have described, gave admission into the inn-yard, surrounded partly by the building itsel
f, and partly by the stables and other offices connected with it. Viewed from a little distance, the old fabric presented by no means an unsightly or ungraceful aspect: on the contrary, its very irregularities and antiquity, however in reality objectionable, gave to it an air of comfort and almost of dignity to which many of its more pretending and modern competitors might in vain have aspired. Whether it was, that from the first the substantial fabric had asserted a conscious superiority over all the minor tenements which surrounded it, or that they in modest deference had gradually conceded to it the prominence which it deserved — whether, in short, it had always stood foremost, or that the street had slightly altered its course and gradually receded, leaving it behind, an immemorial and immovable landmark by which to measure the encroachments of ages — certain it is, that at the time we speak of, the sturdy hostelry stood many feet in advance of the line of houses which flanked it on either side, narrowing the street with a most aristocratic indifference to the comforts of the pedestrian public, thus forced to shift for life and limb, as best they might, among the vehicles and horses which then thronged the city streets — no doubt, too, often by the very difficulties which it presented, entrapping the over-cautious passenger, who preferred entering the harbour which its hospitable and capacious doorway offered, to encountering all the perils involved in doubling the point.

  Such as we have attempted to describe it, the old building stood more than a century since; and when the level sunbeams at eventide glinted brightly on its thousand miniature window panes, and upon the broad hanging panel, which bore, in the brightest hues and richest gilding, the portraiture of a Cock and Anchor; and when the warm, discoloured glow of sunset touched the timeworn front of the old building with a rich and cheery blush, even the most fastidious would have allowed that the object was no unpleasing one.

  A dark autumnal night had closed over the old city of Dublin, and the wind was blustering in hoarse gusts through the crowded chimney-stacks — careening desolately through the dim streets, and occasionally whirling some loose tile or fragment of plaster from the house tops. The streets were silent and deserted, except when occasionally traversed by some great man’s carriage, thundering and clattering along the broken pavement, and by its passing glare and rattle making the succeeding darkness and silence but the more dreary. None stirred abroad who could avoid it; and with the exception of such rare interruptions as we have mentioned, the storm and darkness held undisputed possession of the city. Upon this ungenial night, and somewhat past the hour of ten, a well-mounted traveller rode into the narrow and sheltered yard of the “Cock and Anchor;” and having bestowed upon the groom who took the bridle of his steed such minute and anxious directions as betokened a kind and knightly tenderness for the comforts of his good beast, he forthwith entered the public room of the inn — a large and comfortable chamber, having at the far end a huge hearth overspanned by a broad and lofty mantelpiece of stone, and now sending forth a warm and ruddy glow, which penetrated in genial streams to every recess and corner of the room, tinging the dark wainscoting of the walls, glinting red and brightly upon the burnished tankards and flagons with which the cupboard was laden, and playing cheerily over the massive beams which traversed the ceiling. Groups of men, variously occupied and variously composed, embracing all the usual company of a well frequented city tavern — from the staid and sober man of business, who smokes his pipe in peace, to the loud disputatious, half-tipsy town idler, who calls for more flagons than he can well reckon, and then quarrels with mine host about the shot — were disposed, some singly, others in social clusters, in cosy and luxurious ease at the stout oak tables which occupied the expansive chamber. Among these the stranger passed leisurely to a vacant table in the neighbourhood of the good fire, and seating himself thereat, doffed his hat and cloak, thereby exhibiting a finely proportioned and graceful figure, and a face of singular nobleness and beauty. He might have seen some thirty summers — perhaps less — but his dark and expressive features bore a character of resolution and melancholy which seemed to tell of more griefs and perils overpast than men so young in the world can generally count.

  The newcomer, having thrown his hat and gloves upon the table at which he had placed himself, stretched his stalwart limbs toward the fire in the full enjoyment of its genial influence, and advancing the heels of his huge jack boots nearly to the bars, he seemed for a time wholly lost in the comfortable contemplation of the red embers which flickered, glowed, and shifted before his eyes. From his quiet reverie he was soon recalled by mine host in person, who, with all courtesy, desired to know “whether his honour wished supper and a bed?” Both questions were promptly answered in the affirmative: and before many minutes the young horseman was deep in the discussion of a glorious pasty, flanked by a flagon of claret, such as he had seldom tasted before. He had scarcely concluded his meal, when another traveller, cloaked, booted, and spurred, and carrying under his arm a pair of long horse-pistols, and a heavy whip, entered the apartment, walked straight up to the fireplace, and having obtained permission of the cavalier already established there to take share of his table, he deposited thereon the formidable weapons which he carried, cast his hat, gloves, and cloak upon the floor, and threw himself luxuriously into a capacious leather-bottomed chair which confronted the cheery fire.

  “A bleak night, sir, and a dark, for a ride of twenty miles,” observed the stranger, addressing the younger guest.

  “I can the more readily agree with you, sir,” replied the latter, “seeing that I myself have ridden nigh forty, and am but just arrived.”

  “Whew! that beats me hollow,” cried the other, with a kind of self-congratulatory shrug. “You see, sir, we never know how to thank our stars for the luck we have until we come to learn what luck we might have had. I rode from Wicklow — pray, sir, if it be not too bold a question, what line did you travel?”

  “The Cork road.”

  “Ha! that’s an ugly line they say to travel by night. You met with no interruption?”

  “Troth, but I did, sir,” replied the young man, “and none of the pleasantest either. I was stopped, and put in no small peril, too.”

  “How! stopped — stopped on the highway! By the mass, you outdo me in every point! Would you, sir, please to favour me, if ‘twere not too much trouble, with the facts of the adventure — the particulars?”

  “Faith, sir,” rejoined the young man, “as far as my knowledge serves me, you are welcome to them all. When I was still about twelve miles from this, I was joined from a by-road by a well mounted, and (as far as I could discern) a respectable-looking traveller, who told me he rode for Dublin, and asked to join company by the way. I assented; and we jogged on pleasantly enough for some two or three miles. It was very dark — — “

  “As pitch,” ejaculated the stranger, parenthetically.

  “And what little scope of vision I might have had,” continued the younger traveller, “was well nigh altogether obstructed by the constant flapping of my cloak, blown by the storm over my face and eyes. I suddenly became conscious that we had been joined by a third horseman, who, in total silence, rode at my other side.”

  “How and when did he come up with you?”

  “I can’t say,” replied the narrator— “nor did his presence give me the smallest uneasiness. He who had joined me first, all at once called out that his stirrup strap was broken, and halloo’d to me to rein in until he should repair the accident. This I had hardly done, when some fellow, whom I had not seen, sprang from behind upon my horse, and clasped my arms so tightly to my body, that so far from making use of them, I could hardly breathe. The scoundrel who had dismounted caught my horse by the head and held him firmly, while my hitherto silent companion clapped a pistol to my ear.”

  “The devil!” exclaimed the elder man, “that was checkmate with a vengeance.”

  “Why, in truth, so it turned out,” rejoined his companion; “though I confess my first impulse was to balk the gentlemen of the road at any hazard; and w
ith this view I plied my spurs rowel deep, but the rascal who held the bridle was too old a hand to be shaken off by a plunge or two. He swung with his whole weight to the bit, and literally brought poor Rowley’s nose within an inch of the road. Finding that resistance was utterly vain, and not caring to squander what little brains I have upon so paltry an adventure, I acknowledged the jurisdiction of the gentleman’s pistol, and replied to his questions.”

  “You proved your sound sense by so doing,” observed the other. “But what was their purpose?”

  “As far as I could gather,” replied the younger man, “they were upon the look-out for some particular person, I cannot say whom; for, either satisfied by my answers, or having otherwise discovered their mistake, they released me without taking anything from me but my sword, which, however, I regret much, for it was my father’s; and having blown the priming from my pistols, they wished me the best of good luck, and so we parted, without the smallest desire on my part to renew the intimacy. And now, sir, you know just as much of the matter as I do myself.”

  “And a very serious matter it is, too,” observed the stranger, with an emphatic nod. “Landlord! a pint of mulled claret — and spice it as I taught you — d’ye mind? A very grave matter — do you think you could possibly identify those men?”

  “Identify them! how the devil could I? — it was dark as pitch — a cat could not have seen them.”

  “But was there no mark — no peculiarity discernible, even in the dense obscurity — nothing about any of them, such as you might know again?”

  “Nothing — the very outline was indistinct. I could merely pee that they were shaped like men.”

  “Truly, truly, that is much to be lamented,” said the elder gentleman; “though fifty to one,” he added, devoutly, “they’ll hang one day or another — let that console us. Meantime, here comes the claret.”