Tonnison was grumpy, and I felt out of sorts. It was a somewhat dismal day, and there was a touch of chilliness in the air. There was no mention of going out fishing on either of our parts. We got dinner, and, after that, just sat and smoked in silence.
Presently, Tonnison asked for the Manuscript: I handed it to him, and he spent most of the afternoon in reading it through by himself.
It was while he was thus employed, that a thought came to me:--
"What do you say to having another look at--?" I nodded my head down stream.
Tonnison looked up. "Nothing!" he said, abruptly; and, somehow, I was less annoyed, than relieved, at his answer.
After that, I left him alone.
A little before teatime, he looked up at me, curiously.
"Sorry, old chap, if I was a bit short with you just now;" (just now, indeed! he had not spoken for the last three hours) "but I would not go there again," and he indicated with his head, "for anything that you could offer me. Ugh!" and he put down that history of a man's terror and hope and despair.
The next morning, we rose early, and went for our accustomed swim: we had partly shaken off the depression of the previous day; and so, took our rods when we had finished breakfast, and spent the day at our favorite sport.
After that day, we enjoyed our holiday to the utmost; though both of us looked forward to the time when our driver should come; for we were tremendously anxious to inquire of him, and through him among the people of the tiny hamlet, whether any of them could give us information about that strange garden, lying away by itself in the heart of an almost unknown tract of country.
At last, the day came, on which we expected the driver to come across for us. He arrived early, while we were still abed; and, the first thing we knew, he was at the opening of the tent, inquiring whether we had had good sport. We replied in the affirmative; and then, both together, almost in the same breath, we asked the question that was uppermost in our minds:--Did he know anything about an old garden, and a great pit, and a lake, situated some miles away, down the river; also, had he ever heard of a great house thereabouts?
No, he did not, and had not; yet, stay, he had heard a rumor, once upon a time, of a great, old house standing alone out in the wilderness; but, if he remembered rightly it was a place given over to the fairies; or, if that had not been so, he was certain that there had been something "quare" about it; and, anyway, he had heard nothing of it for a very long while--not since he was quite a gossoon. No, he could not remember anything particular about it; indeed, he did not know he remembered anything "at all, at all" until we questioned him.
"Look here," said Tonnison, finding that this was about all that he could tell us, "just take a walk 'round the village, while we dress, and find out something, if you can."
With a nondescript salute, the man departed on his errand; while we made haste to get into our clothes; after which, we began to prepare breakfast.
We were just sitting down to it, when he returned.
"It's all in bed the lazy divvils is, sor," he said, with a repetition of the salute, and an appreciative eye to the good things spread out on our provision chest, which we utilized as a table.
"Oh, well, sit down," replied my friend, "and have something to eat with us." Which the man did without delay.
After breakfast, Tonnison sent him off again on the same errand, while we sat and smoked. He was away some three-quarters of an hour, and, when he returned, it was evident that he had found out something. It appeared that he had got into conversation with an ancient man of the village, who, probably, knew more--though it was little enough--of the strange house, than any other person living.
The substance of this knowledge was, that, in the "ancient man's"
youth--and goodness knows how long back that was--there had stood a great house in the center of the gardens, where now was left only that fragment of ruin. This house had been empty for a great while; years before his--the ancient man's--birth. It was a place shunned by the people of the village, as it had been shunned by their fathers before them. There were many things said about it, and all were of evil. No one ever went near it, either by day or night. In the village it was a synonym of all that is unholy and dreadful.
And then, one day, a man, a stranger, had ridden through the village, and turned off down the river, in the direction of the House, as it was always termed by the villagers. Some hours afterward, he had ridden back, taking the track by which he had come, toward Ardrahan. Then, for three months or so, nothing was heard. At the end of that time, he reappeared; but now, he was accompanied by an elderly woman, and a large number of donkeys, laden with various articles. They had passed through the village without stopping, and gone straight down the bank of the river, in the direction of the House.
Since that time, no one, save the man whom they had chartered to bring over monthly supplies of necessaries from Ardrahan, had ever seen either of them: and him, none had ever induced to talk; evidently, he had been well paid for his trouble.
The years had moved onward, uneventfully enough, in that little hamlet; the man making his monthly journeys, regularly.
One day, he had appeared as usual on his customary errand. He had passed through the village without exchanging more than a surly nod with the inhabitants and gone on toward the House. Usually, it was evening before he made the return journey. On this occasion, however, he had reappeared in the village, a few hours later, in an extraordinary state of excitement, and with the astounding information, that the House had disappeared bodily, and that a stupendous pit now yawned in the place where it had stood.
This news, it appears, so excited the curiosity of the villagers, that they overcame their fears, and marched _en masse_ to the place. There, they found everything, just as described by the carrier.
This was all that we could learn. Of the author of the MS., who he was, and whence he came, we shall never know.
His identity is, as he seems to have desired, buried forever.
That same day, we left the lonely village of Kraighten. We have never been there since.
Sometimes, in my dreams, I see that enormous pit, surrounded, as it is, on all sides by wild trees and bushes. And the noise of the water rises upward, and blends--in my sleep--with other and lower noises; while, over all, hangs the eternal shroud of spray.
Grief[17]
Fierce hunger reigns within my breast, I had not dreamt that this whole world, Crushed in the hand of God, could yield Such bitter essence of unrest, Such pain as Sorrow now hath hurled Out of its dreadful heart, unsealed!
Each sobbing breath is but a cry, My heart-strokes knells of agony, And my whole brain has but one thought That nevermore through life shall I (Save in the ache of memory) Touch hands with thee, who now art naught!
Through the whole void of night I search, So dumbly crying out to thee; But thou are _not_; and night's vast throne Becomes an all stupendous church With star-bells knelling unto me Who in all space am most alone!
An hungered, to the shore I creep, Perchance some comfort waits on me From the old Sea's eternal heart; But lo! from all the solemn deep, Far voices out of mystery Seem questioning why we are apart!
"Where'er I go I am alone Who once, through thee, had all the world.
My breast is one whole raging pain For that which _was_, and now is flown Into the Blank where life is hurled Where all is not, nor is again!"
FOOTNOTES:
[1] An apparently unmeaning interpolation. I can find no previous reference in the MS. to this matter. It becomes clearer, however, in the light of succeeding incidents.--Ed.
[2] Here, the writing becomes undecipherable, owing to the damaged condition of this part of the MS. Below I print such fragments as are legible.--Ed.
[3] NOTE.--The severest scrutiny has not enabled me to decipher more of the damaged portion of the MS. It commences to be legible again with the chapter entitled "The Noise in the Night."--Ed.
[4] The Recluse uses this as an illustration, evidently in the sense of the popular conception of a comet.--Ed.
[5] Evidently referring to something set forth in the missing and mutilated pages. See _Fragments, Chapter 14_--Ed.
[6] No further mention is made of the moon. From what is said here, it is evident that our satellite had greatly increased its distance from the earth. Possibly, at a later age it may even have broken loose from our attraction. I cannot but regret that no light is shed on this point.--Ed.
[7] Conceivably, frozen air.--Ed.
[8] See previous footnote. This would explain the snow (?) within the room.--Ed.
[9] I am confounded that neither here, nor later on, does the Recluse make any further mention of the continued north and south movement (apparent, of course,) of the sun from solstice to solstice.--Ed.
[10] At this time the sound-carrying atmosphere must have been either incredibly attenuated, or--more probably--nonexistent. In the light of this, it cannot be supposed that these, or any other, noises would have been apparent to living ears--to hearing, as we, in the material body, understand that sense.--Ed.
[11] I can only suppose that the time of the earth's yearly journey had ceased to bear its present _relative_ proportion to the period of the sun's rotation.--Ed.
[12] A careful reading of the MS. suggests that, either the sun is traveling on an orbit of great eccentricity, or else that it was approaching the green star on a lessening orbit. And at this moment, I conceive it to be finally torn directly from its oblique course, by the gravitational pull of the immense star.--Ed.