The Story of Bawn | Page 4

of brothers.
I have not said before that he is a soldier. What else should he be but a
soldier? Since there have always been soldiers in the family, and my
grandfather could not have borne him to be anything else.
Dear Theobald, how brave and simple and kind he was!
I have said nothing about the ghosts of Aghadoe Abbey, but it has
many ghosts, or it had.
First and foremost there is the Lord St. Leger, who was killed in a
Dublin street brawl a hundred years ago, who will come driving home
at midnight headless in his coach, and the coachman driving him also
headless, carrying his head under his arm. That is not a very pleasant
thing to see enter as the gates swing open of themselves to let the ghost

through.
Then there is the ghost of the woman who cries outside in the
shrubbery. I have seen her myself in a glint of the moonlight, her black
hair covering her face as she bends to the earth, incessantly seeking
something among the dead leaves, which she cannot discover, and for
which she cries.
And again, there is the lady who goes down the stairs, down, down,
through the underground passage, and yet lower to the well that lies
under the house, and is seen no more. A new maid once saw her in
broad daylight--or at least in the grey of the morning--and followed her
down the stairs, thinking that it was one of the family ill perhaps, who
needed some attention. She could tell afterwards the very pattern of the
lace on the fine nightgown, and describe how the fair curls clustered on
the lady's neck. It was only when the lady disappeared before her, a
white shimmer down the darkness of the underground corridor, that the
poor thing realized she had seen a ghost, and fell fainting, with a clatter
of her dustpan and brush which brought her help.
I could make a long list of the ghosts, for they are many, but I will not,
lest I should be tedious. Only Aghadoe Abbey was eerie at night,
especially in winter storms, since my cousin Theobald went away. I
have often thought that the curious formation of the house, which has
as many rooms beneath the ground as above it, helped to give it an
eerie feeling, for one could not but imagine those downstair rooms
filled with ghosts. I had seen the rooms lit dimly once or twice, but for
a long time we had not used them, the expense of lighting them with a
thousand wax candles glimmering in glittering chandeliers being too
great.
But in the days before Cousin Theobald left us I was not afraid. He
slept across the corridor from my room, and I had only to cry out and I
knew he would fly to my assistance.
His sword was new at that time, and he was very proud of it. He turned
it about, making it flash in the sunlight, and, said he, "Cousin Bawn,
fear nothing; for if anything were to frighten you, either ghost or mortal,

I would run it through with my sword. At your least cry I should wake,
and I have always the sword close to my hand. Very often I lie awake
when you do not think it to watch over you."
It gave me great comfort at the time, though looking back on it now I
think my cousin, being so healthy and in the air all day, must have slept
very soundly. Yet I am sure he thought he woke.
And, indeed, after he left the ghosts were worse than ever. I used to
take my little dog into my arms for company, and, hiding my head
under the bedclothes, I used to lie quaking because of the crying of the
ghosts. It was a wild winter when Theobald left us, and they cried every
night. It is a sound I have never grown used to, though I have heard it
every winter I can remember. And also the swish of the satin as it went
by my door, and the tap of high-heeled shoes. They cried more that
winter than I ever heard them, except in the winter after Uncle Luke
went away (but then I was little, and had the company of Maureen
Kelly, my nurse); and in a winter which was yet to be.
But at that time I was happy despite the ghosts, and had no idea that the
world held any fate for me other than to be always among such gentle,
high-minded people as were my grandfather and grandmother, my
cousin Theobald, and my dear godmother. For ghosts, especially of
one's own blood, are gentle and little likely to harm one, and must