A Chapter in the History of a Tyrone Family

"A Chapter in the History of a Tyrone Family" is a novella by Joseph Thomas Sheridan Le Fanu, first published in 1863. The story is set in the Irish countryside and explores themes of family legacy, memory, and the supernatural. It follows the experiences of the narrator as he uncovers the haunting past of a noble family in County Tyrone. The narrative intertwines elements of gothic horror with social commentary, vividly capturing the eerie atmosphere of the Irish landscape and the darker aspects of familial history. Through its rich storytelling and psychological depth, the work reflects Le Fanu's mastery of the gothic genre.

• Horror
• Novel
• Short story

								
     Being a Tenth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis
     Purcell, P.P. of Drumcoolagh.

INTRODUCTION.

In the following narrative, I have endeavoured to give as nearly as
possible the ipsissima verba of the valued friend from whom I received
it, conscious that any aberration from HER mode of telling the tale of
her own life would at once impair its accuracy and its effect.

Would that, with her words, I could also bring before you her animated
gesture, her expressive countenance, the solemn and thrilling air and
accent with which she related the dark passages in her strange story;
and, above all, that I could communicate the impressive consciousness
that the narrator had seen with her own eyes, and personally acted in
the scenes which she described; these accompaniments, taken with the
additional circumstance that she who told the tale was one far too
deeply and sadly impressed with religious principle to misrepresent
or fabricate what she repeated as fact, gave to the tale a depth of
interest which the events recorded could hardly, themselves, have
produced.

I became acquainted with the lady from whose lips I heard this narrative
nearly twenty years since, and the story struck my fancy so much that
I committed it to paper while it was still fresh in my mind; and should
its perusal afford you entertainment for a listless half hour, my labour
shall not have been bestowed in vain.

I find that I have taken the story down as she told it, in the first
person, and perhaps this is as it should be.

She began as follows:

My maiden name was Richardson,(1) the designation of a family of some
distinction in the county of Tyrone. I was the younger of two daughters,
and we were the only children. There was a difference in our ages of
nearly six years, so that I did not, in my childhood, enjoy that close
companionship which sisterhood, in other circumstances, necessarily
involves; and while I was still a child, my sister was married.

     (1) I have carefully altered the names as they appear in the
     original MSS., for the reader will see that some of the
     circumstances recorded are not of a kind to reflect honour
     upon those involved in them; and as many are still living,
     in every way honoured and honourable, who stand in close
     relation to the principal actors in this drama, the reader
     will see the necessity of the course which we have adopted.

The person upon whom she bestowed her hand was a Mr. Carew, a gentleman
of property and consideration in the north of England.

I remember well the eventful day of the wedding; the thronging
carriages, the noisy menials, the loud laughter, the merry faces, and
the gay dresses. Such sights were then new to me, and harmonised ill
with the sorrowful feelings with which I regarded the event which was to
separate me, as it turned out, for ever from a sister whose tenderness
alone had hitherto more than supplied all that I wanted in my mother's
affection.

The day soon arrived which was to remove the happy couple from Ashtown
House. The carriage stood at the hall-door, and my poor sister kissed me
again and again, telling me that I should see her soon.

The carriage drove away, and I gazed after it until my eyes filled with
tears, and, returning slowly to my chamber, I wept more bitterly and, so
to speak, more desolately, than ever I had done before.

My father had never seemed to love or to take an interest in me. He had
desired a son, and I think he never thoroughly forgave me my unfortunate
sex.

My having come into the world at all as his child he regarded as a kind
of fraudulent intrusion, and as his antipathy to me had its origin in
an imperfection of mine, too radical for removal, I never even hoped to
stand high in his good graces.

My mother was, I dare say, as fond of me as she was of anyone; but
she was a woman of a masculine and a worldly cast of mind. She had no
tenderness or sympathy for the weaknesses, or even for the affections,
of woman's nature and her demeanour towards me was peremptory, and often
even harsh.

It is not to be supposed, then, that I found in the society of my
parents much to supply the loss of my sister. About a year after her
marriage, we received letters from Mr. Carew, containing accounts of my
sister's health, which, though not actually alarming, were calculated
to make us seriously uneasy. The symptoms most dwelt upon were loss of
appetite and cough.

The letters concluded by intimating that he would avail himself of my
father and mother's repeated invitation to spend some time at Ashtown,
particularly as the physician who had been consulted as to my sister's
health had strongly advised a removal to her native air.

There were added repeated assurances that nothing serious was
apprehended, as it was supposed that a deranged state of the liver was
the only source of the symptoms which at first had seemed to intimate
consumption.

In accordance with this announcement, my sister and Mr. Carew arrived in
Dublin, where one of my father's carriages awaited them, in readiness to
start upon whatever day or hour they might choose for their departure.

It was arranged that Mr. Carew was, as soon as the day upon which they
were to leave Dublin was definitely fixed, to write to my father, who
intended that the two last stages should be performed by his own horses,
upon whose speed and safety far more reliance might be placed than
upon those of the ordinary post-horses, which were at that time, almost
without exception, of the very worst order. The journey, one of about
ninety miles, was to be divided; the larger portion being reserved for
the second day.

On Sunday a letter reached us, stating that the party would leave Dublin
on Monday, and, in due course, reach Ashtown upon Tuesday evening.

Tuesday came the evening closed in, and yet no carriage; darkness came
on, and still no sign of our expected visitors.

Hour after hour passed away, and it was now past twelve; the night was
remarkably calm, scarce a breath stirring, so that any sound, such
as that produced by the rapid movement of a vehicle, would have been
audible at a considerable distance. For some such sound I was feverishly
listening.

It was, however, my father's rule to close the house at nightfall, and
the window-shutters being fastened, I was unable to reconnoitre the
avenue as I would have wished. It was nearly one o'clock, and we began
almost to despair of seeing them upon that night, when I thought I
distinguished the sound of wheels, but so remote and faint as to make
me at first very uncertain. The noise approached; it became louder and
clearer; it stopped for a moment.

I now heard the shrill screaming of the rusty iron, as the avenue-gate
revolved on its hinges; again came the sound of wheels in rapid motion.

'It is they,' said I, starting up; 'the carriage is in the avenue.'

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