The House on the Borderland, William Hope Hodgson [best biographies to read TXT] 📗

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 rumour, 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 utilised 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 centre 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 afterwards, he had ridden back, taking the track by which he had come, towards 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 onwards, 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 towards 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 for ever.

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 upwards, and blends—in my sleep—with other and lower noises; while, over all, hangs the eternal shroud of spray.

GRIEF (*)

“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!”

(*) These stanzas I found, in pencil, upon a piece of foolscap gummed in behind the fly-leaf of the MS. They have all the appearance of having been written at an earlier date than the Manuscript.—Ed.