Bridget and Nora began to climb up a very steep and narrow winding path. It was nothing more than a grass path in the midst of a lot of rock and underwood, but the girls were like young chamois, and leaped over such obstacles with the lightness of fawns. Presently they arrived at the back entrance of Cronane, the Murphys' decidedly dilapidated residence. They had to cross a courtyard covered with rough cobbles and in a sad state of neglect and mess. Some pigs were wallowing in the mire in one corner, and a rough pony was tethered to a post not far off; he was endeavoring, with painful insistence, to reach a clump of hay which was sticking out of a hayrick a foot or two away. Nora, seeing his wistful eyes, sprang forward, pulled a great handful of the hay, and held it to his mouth. The little creature almost whinnied with delight.
“There you are,” said Bridget. “What right have you to give our hay to that pony?”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Nora; “the heart in him was starving.” She flung her arms round the pony's neck, pressed a kiss on his forehead, and continued to cross the yard with Biddy. Two or three ragged urchins soon impeded their path; one of them was the redoubtable Neil, the other Mike.
“Is it to-morrow night you want the boat, Miss Biddy?” said Neil.
Bridget dropped her voice to a whisper.
“Look here, Neil,” she said, “mum's the word; you are not to let it out to a soul. You and Mike shall come with us, and Miss Nora is coming too.”
Neil cast a bashful and admiring glance at handsome Nora, as she stood very erect by Biddy's side.
“All right, miss,” he said.
“At ten o'clock,” said Bridget; “have the boat in the cove then, and we'll be down there and ready.”
“But they say, miss, that the Banshee is out on the nights when the moon is at the full.”
“The O'Shanaghgans' Banshee,” said Biddy, glancing at Nora, whose face did not change a muscle, although the brightness and wistfulness in her eyes were abundantly visible. She was saying to herself:
“I would give all the world to speak to the Banshee alone—to ask her to get father out of his difficulty.”
She was half-ashamed of these thoughts, although she knew and almost gloried in the fact that she was superstitious to her heart's core.
She and Biddy soon entered the house by the back entrance, and ran up some carpetless stairs to Biddy's own room. This was a huge bedroom, carpetless and nearly bare. A little camp-bed stood in one corner, covered by a colored counterpane; there was a strip of carpet beside the bed, and another tiny strip by a wooden washhand-stand. The two great parliament windows were destitute of any curtain or even blind; they stared blankly out across the lovely summer landscape as hideous as windows could be.
It was a perfect summer's evening; but even now the old frames rattled and shook, and gave some idea of how they would behave were a storm abroad.
Biddy, who was quite accustomed to her room and never dreamed that any maiden could sleep in a more luxurious chamber, crossed it to where a huge wooden wardrobe stood. She unlocked the door, and took from its depths a pale-blue skirt trimmed with quantities of dirty pink flounces.
“Oh, you are not going to put that on,” said Nora, whose own training had made her sensitive to incongruity in dress.
“Yes, I am,” said Biddy. “How can I see your lady-mother in this style of thing?”
She went and stood in front of Nora with her arms akimbo.
“Look,” she said, “my frock has a rent from here to here, and this petticoat is none of the best, and my stockings—well, I know it is my own fault, but I won't darn them, and there is a great hole just above the heel. Now, this skirt will hide all blemishes.”
“But what will your mother say?”
“Bless her!” said Biddy, “she won't even notice. Here, let's whip on the dress.”
She hastily divested herself of her ragged cotton skirt, and put on the pale blue with the dirty silk flounces.
“What are you looking so grave for?” she said, glancing up at Nora. “I declare you're too stately for anything, Nora O'Shanaghgan! You stand there, and I know you criticise me.”
“No; I love you too much,” replied Nora. “You are Biddy Murphy, one of my greatest friends.”
“Ah, it's sweet to hear her,” said Biddy.
“But, all the same,” continued Nora, “I don't like that dress, and it's terribly unsuitable. You don't look ladylike in it.”
“Ladylike, and I with the blood of——”
“Oh, don't begin that,” said Nora; “every time I see you you mention that fact. I have not the slightest doubt that the old kings were ruffians, and dressed abominably.”
“If you dare,” said Biddy. She rushed up to the bed, dragged out her pillow, and held it in a warlike attitude. “Another word about my ancestors, and this will be at your devoted head!” she cried.
Nora burst into a merry laugh.
“There, now, that's better,” said Biddy. She dropped the pillow and proceeded with her toilet. The dirty skirt with its tawdry flounces was surmounted by a bodice of the same material, equally unsuitable.
Biddy brushed out her mop of jet-black hair, which grew in thick curls all over her head and stood out like a mop round her shoulders. She was a plain girl, with small, very black eyes, a turned-up nose, and a wide mouth; but there was an irresistible expression of drollery in her face, and when she laughed, showing her milk-white teeth, there were people who even thought her attractive. Nora really loved her, although the two, standing side by side, were, as far as appearances were concerned, as the poles asunder.
“Now, come along,” said Biddy. “I know I look perfectly charming. Oh, what a sweet, sweet blue it is, and these ducky little flounces! It was Aunt Mary O'Flannagan sent me this dress at Christmas. She wore it at a fancy ball, and said it might suit me. It does, down to the ground. Let me drop a courtesy to you, Nora O'Shanaghgan. Oh, how proper we look! But I don't care! Now I'm not afraid to face anyone—why, the old kings would have been proud of me. Come along—do.”
She caught Nora's hand; they dashed down the wide, carpetless stairs, crossed a huge hall, and entered a room which was known as the drawing room at Cronane. It was an enormous apartment, but bore the same traces of neglect and dirt which the whole of the rest of the house testified to. The paper on the walls was moldy in patches, and in one or two places it had detached itself from the wall and fell in great sheets to the ground. One loose piece of paper was tacked up with two or three huge tacks, and bulged out, swaying with the slightest breeze. The carpet, which covered the entire floor, was worn threadbare; but, to make up for these defects, there were cabinets of the rarest and most exquisite old china, some of the pieces being worth fabulous sums. Vases of the same china adorned the tall marble mantelpiece, and stood on brackets here and there about the room. There were also some exquisite and wonderfully carved oak, a Queen Anne sofa, and several spindle-legged chairs. An old spinet stood in a distant window, and the drab moreen curtains had once been handsome.
Standing on the hearth, with his elbow resting on the marble mantelpiece close to a unique vase of antique design, stood Squire O'Shanaghgan. He was talking in pleasant and genial tones to Mrs. Murphy, a podgy little woman, with a great likeness to Biddy.
Mrs. Murphy wore a black alpaca dress and a little three-cornered knitted shawl across her shoulders. She had gray hair, which curled tightly like her daughter's; on top of it was a cap formed of rusty black velvet and equally rusty black lace. She looked much excited at the advent of the Squire, and her cheeks testified to the fact by the brightness of their color.
Mr. Murphy was doing penance opposite to Mrs. O'Shanaghgan. He was dreadfully afraid of that stately lady, and was glancing nervously round at his wife and the Squire from moment to moment.
“Yes, madam,” he was saying, “it's turnips we are going to plant in that field just yonder. We have had a very good crop of hay too. It is a fine season, and the potatoes promise to be a sight for sore eyes.”
“I hate the very name of that root,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan in her most drawling tones.
“Why, then, ma'am, you don't say so,” answered Murphy; “it seems hard on the poor things that keep us all going. The potheen and the potatoes—what would Ireland be without 'em? Glory be to goodness, it's quite awful to hear you abusing the potato, ma'am.”
“I am English, you know,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.
On this scene Nora and Biddy entered. Mr. Murphy glanced with intense relief at his daughter. Mrs. O'Shanaghgan slightly raised her brows. It was the faintest of movements, but the superciliousness of the action smote upon Nora, who colored painfully.
Biddy, taking her courage in her hand, went straight up to the august lady.
“How do you do?” she said.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan extended her hand with a limp action.
“Oh, dear!” panted Biddy.
“What is up, my dear Bridget?” said her mother, turning round and looking at her daughter. “Oh, to goodness, what have you put that on for? It's your very best Sunday-go-to-meeting dress, and you won't have another, I can tell you, for six months.”
“There now, mother, hush, do,” said Biddy. “I have put it on for a purpose. Why, then, it's sweet I want to make myself, and I believe it's sweet I look. Oh, there's the mirror; let me gaze at myself.”
She crossed the room, and stood in front of a long glass, examining her unsuitable dress from the front and side; and then, being thoroughly satisfied with the elegance of appearance, she went back and stood in front of Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.
“It's a request I want to make of you, ma'am,” she said.
“Well, Biddy, I will listen to it if you will ask me properly,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.
“Yes, to be sure,” said Biddy. “How shall I say it?”
“Speak quietly, my dear.”
“Yes, Biddy, I do wish you would take pattern by Nora, and by Mrs. O'Shanaghgan,” said Mrs. Murphy, who in her heart of hearts envied Mrs. O'Shanaghgan's icy manners, and thought them the most perfect in all the world. She was in mortal fear of this good lady, even more terrified of her than her husband was.
“Well, Biddy,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan.
“May Nora come and spend tomorrow night here?”
“No,” was on Mrs. O'Shanaghgan's lips; but just then the Squire came forward.
“To be sure she may; it will do her a sight of good. The child hardly ever goes from home.”
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan raised displeased eyes to her husband's face.
“Girls of Nora's age ought to stay at home,” she said.
“Yes, to be sure, to be sure,” said the Squire; “and we would miss her awfully if she was away from us; but a day or two off duty—eh, madam?” He glanced at his wife.
“You have your answer, Biddy,” said Mrs. O'Shanaghgan; “her father wishes Nora to accept your invitation. She may stay away for one night—no longer.”
Biddy winked broadly round at Nora.
“Now, then,” she said, “come along.” She seized her friend by the arm, and whisked her out of the room.
“It was the dress that did it,” she said; “it is the loveliest garment in all the world. Come along now, and let's take it off. I want to gather those eggs for you.”
She ran upstairs again, followed by Nora. The dress was disposed of in the large wooden wardrobe, the old torn frock readjusted on Biddy's stout form, and the girls went out into the lovely summer air. The eggs which Nora required were put into the little basket, and in half an hour the O'Shanaghgans' party were returning at full speed to Castle O'Shanaghgan. Nora glanced once into her father's face, and her heart gave a great leap. Her high spirits left her as if by magic; she felt a lump in her throat, and during the rest of the drive hardly spoke.
The Squire, on the contrary, talked incessantly. He talked more than ever after Nora had looked at him. He slapped his wife on the shoulder, and complimented her on her bravery. Nora's driving was the very best in all the world; she was a born whip; she had no fear in her; she was his own colleen, the Light o' the Morning, the dearest, sweetest soul on earth.
Mrs. O'Shanaghan replied very briefly and coldly to her husband's excited words. She treated them with what she imagined the contempt they deserved; but Nora was neither elated just then by her father's praise nor chilled by her mother's demeanor. Every thought of her heart, every nerve in her highly strung frame, was concentrated on one fact alone—she had surprised a look, a look on the Squire's face, which told her that his heart was broken.
It was late that same evening, and the household at the Castle had all retired to rest. Nora was in her own room. This room was not furnished according to an English girl's fancy. It was plain and bare, but, compared to Biddy Murphy's chamber, it was a room of comfort and even luxury. A neat carpet covered the floor, there were white dimity curtains to the windows, and the little bed in its distant recess looked neat and comfortable. It is true that the washhand-stand was wooden, and the basin and jug of the plainest type; but Mrs. O'Shanaghgan herself saw that Nora had at least what she considered the necessaries of life. She had a neat hanging-press for her dresses, and a pretty chest of drawers, which her mother herself had saved up her pin-money to buy for her.
Nora now stood by one of the open windows, her thick and very long black hair hanging in a rippling mass over her neck and shoulders. Suddenly, as she bent out of the window, the faint, very faint perfume of a cigar came up on the night air. She sniffed excitedly for a moment, and then, bending a little more forward, said in a low tone:
“Is that you, Terry?”
“Yes—why don't you go to bed?” was the somewhat ungracious response.
“I am not sleepy. May I come down and join you?”
“No.”
“Will you come up and join me?”
The answer was about to be “No”; there was a moment's hesitation, then Nora's voice said pleadingly, “Ah, do now, Terry; I want to say something so badly.”
“But if anybody hears?”
“They can't hear. Father and mother's room is at the other end of the house.”
“All right; don't say any more; you'll wake people with that chatter of yours. I'm coming.”
In a couple of minutes there was a knock at Nora's door. She flew to open it, and Terence came in.
“What do you want?” he said.
“To talk to you; I have got something to say. Come over and sit by the window.”
Terence obeyed.
“The first thing to do is to put out that light,” said Nora. She ran to the dressing table, and before her brother could prevent her had extinguished the candle.
“Now, then, there is the dear old lady moon to look down upon us, and nothing else can see us.”
“Why don't you go to bed, Nora? Hannah would say that you are losing your beauty-sleep sitting up at this, hour.”
“As if anything about me mattered just now,” said Nora.
“Why, what's up?”
“The old thing, Terry; you must know what's up.”
“What old thing? I am sure I can't guess.”
“Well, then, if you can't you ought. Father is in a peck of trouble—a peck of trouble.”
Nora's voice broke and trembled. Terence, who disliked a scene beyond anything, fidgeted restlessly. He leaned out of the window, and dropped his cigar ash on the ground beneath.
“And you are his only son and the heir to Castle O'Shanaghgan.”
“The heir to a pack of ruins,” said the boy impatiently.
“Terry, you don't deserve to be father's son. How dare you speak like that of the—the beloved old place?”
“Come, come, Nora, if you are going into heroics I think I'll be off to bed,” said Terence, yawning.
“No, you won't; you must listen. I have got something most important to say.”
“Well, then, I will give you five minutes; not another moment. I know you, Nora; you always exaggerate things. You are an Irishwoman to your backbone.”
“I am, and I glory in the fact.”
“You ought to be ashamed to glory in it. Don't you want to have anything to do with mother and her relations?”
“I love my mother, but I am glad I don't take after her,” said Nora; “yes, I am glad.”
The moon shone on the two young faces, and Nora looked up at her brother; he put on a supercilious smile, and folded his arms across his broad chest.
“Yes,” she replied; “and I should like to shake you for looking like that. I am glad I am Irish through and through and through. Would I give my warm heart and my enthusiasm for your coldness and deliberation?”
“Good gracious, Nora, what a little ignorant thing you are! Do you suppose no Englishman has enthusiasm?”
“We'll drop the subject,” said Nora. “It is one I won't talk of; it puts me into such a boiling rage to see you sitting like that.”
Terence did not speak at all for a moment; then he said quietly:
“What is this thing that you have got to tell me? The five minutes are nearly up, you know.”
“Oh, bother your five minutes! I cannot tell you in five minutes. When my heart is scalded with unshed tears, how can I measure time by minutes? It has to do with father; it is worse than anything that has ever gone before.”
“What is it, Norrie?” Her brother's tone had suddenly become gentle. He laid his hand for a moment on her arm; the gentleness of the tone, the unexpected sweetness of the touch overcame Nora; she flung her arms passionately round his neck.
“Oh, and you are the only brother I have got!” she sobbed; “and I could love you—I could love you like anything. Can't you be sympathetic? Can't you be sweet? Can't you be dear?”
“Oh, come, come!” said Terence, struggling to release himself from Nora's entwining arms; “I am not made like you, you know; but I am not a bad chap at heart. Now, what is it?”
“I will try and tell you.”
“And for goodness' sake don't look so sorrowfully at me, Nora; we can talk, and we can act and do good deeds, without giving ourselves away. I hate girls who wear their hearts on their sleeves.”
“Oh! you will never understand,” said Nora, starting back again; all her burst of feeling turned in upon herself. “I can't imagine how you are father's son,” she began. But then she stopped, waited for a moment, and then said quietly, “There is a fresh mortgage, and it is for a very big sum.”
“Oh, is that all?” said Terence. “I have heard of mortgages all my life; it seems to be the fashion at O'Shanaghgan to mortgage to any extent. There is nothing in that; father will give up a little more of the land.”
“How much land do you think is left?”
“I am sure I can't say; not much, I presume.”
“It is my impression,” said Nora—“I am not sure; but it is my impression—that there is nothing left to meet this big thing but the—the—the land on which”—her voice broke—“Terry, the land on which the house stands.”
“Really, Nora, you are so melodramatic. I don't know how you can know anything of this.”
“I only guess. Mother is very unhappy.”
“Mother? Is she?”
“Ah, I have touched you there! But anyhow, father is in worse trouble than he has been yet; I never, never saw him look as he did tonight.”
“As if looks mattered.”
“The look I saw tonight does matter,” said Nora. “We were coming home from Cronane, and I was driving.”
“It is madness to let you drive Black Bess,” interrupted Terence. “I wonder my father risks spoiling one of his most valuable horses.”
“Oh, nonsense, Terry; I can drive as well as you, and better, thanks,” replied Nora, much nettled, for her excellent driving was one of the few things she was proud of. “Well, I turned round, and I saw father's face, and, oh! it was just as if someone had stabbed me through the heart. You know, or perhaps you don't, that the last big loan came from Squire Murphy.”
“Old Dan Murphy; then we are as safe as we can be,” said Terence, rising and whistling. “You really did make me feel uncomfortable, you have such a queer way; but if it is Dan Murphy, he will give father any amount of time. Why, they are the best of friends.”
“Well, father went to see him on the subject—I happen to know that—and I don't think he has given him time. There is something wrong, anyhow—I don't know what; but there is something very wrong, and I mean to find out tomorrow.”
“Nora, if I were you I wouldn't interfere. You are only a young girl, and these kind of things are quite out of your province. Father has pulled along ever since you and I were born. Most Irish gentlemen are poor in these days. How can they help it? The whole country is going to ruin; there is no proper trade; there is no proper system anywhere. The tenants are allowed to pay their rent just as they please——”
“As if we could harry them,” said inconsistent Nora. “The poor dears, with their tiny cots and their hard, hard times. I'd rather eat dry bread all my days than press one of them.”
“If these are your silly views, you must expect our father to be badly off, and the property to go to the dogs, and everything to come to an end,” said the brother in a discontented tone. “But there, I say once more that you have exaggerated in this matter; there is nothing more wrong than there has been since I can remember. I am glad I am going to England; I am glad I am going to be out of it all for a bit.”
“You going to England—you, Terry?”
“Yes. Don't you know? Our Uncle George Hartrick has asked me to stay with him, and I am going.”
“And you can go? You can leave us just now?”
“Why, of course; there will be fewer mouths to feed. It's a good thing every way.”
“But Uncle George is a rich man?”
“What of that?”
“I mean he lives in a big place, and has heaps and heaps of money,” said Nora.
“So much the better.”
“You cannot go to him shabby. What are you going to do for dress?”
“Mother will manage that.”
“Mother!” Nora leaped up from the window-ledge and stood facing her brother. “You have spoken to mother?”
“Of course I have. Dear me, Nora, you are getting to be quite an unpleasant sort of girl.”
“You have spoken to mother,” repeated Nora, “and she has promised to help you? How will she do it?”
Terence moved restlessly.
“I suppose she knows herself how she will do it.”
“And you will let her?” said Nora—“you, a man, will let her? You know she has no money; you know she has nothing but her little trinkets, and you allow her to sell those to give you pleasure? Oh, I am ashamed of you! I am sorry you are my brother. How can you do it?”
“Look here, Nora, I won't be scolded by you. After all, I am your elder, and you are bound, at any rate, to show me decent outward respect. If you only mean to talk humbug of this sort I am off to bed.”
Terence rose from his place on the window-ledge, and, without glancing at Nora, left the room. When he did so she clasped her hands high above her head, and sat for a moment looking out into the night. Her face was quivering, but no tears rose to her wide-open eyes. After a moment she turned, and began very slowly to undress.
“I will see the Banshee tomorrow, if it is possible,” she whispered under her breath. “If ruin can be averted, it shall be. I don't mind leaving the place; I don't mind starving. I don't mind anything but that look on father's face. But father's heart shall not be broken; not while Nora O'Shanaghgan is in the world.”
At ten o'clock on the following evening two eager excited girls might have been seen stealing down a narrow path which led to Murphy's Cove. Murphy's Cove was a charming little semicircular bay which ran rather deeply into the land. The sand here was of that silvery sheen which, at low tide, shone like burnished silver. The cove was noted for its wonderful shells, producing many cowries and long shells called pointers.
In the days of her early youth Nora had explored the treasures of this cove, and had secured a valuable collection of shells, as well as very rare seaweeds, which she had carefully dried. Her mother had shown her how to make seaweeds and shells into baskets, and many of these amateur productions adorned the walls of Nora's bedroom.
All the charm of these things had passed away, however; the time had come when she no longer cared to gather shells or collect seaweeds. She felt that she was turning very fast into a woman. She had all an Irish girl's high spirits; but she had, added to these, a peculiarly warm and sensitive heart. When those she loved were happy, no one in all the world was happier than Nora O'Shanaghgan; but when any gloom fell on the home-circle, then Nora suffered far more than anyone gave her credit for.
She had passed an anxious day at home, watching her father intently, afraid to question him, and only darting glances at him when she thought he was not looking. The Squire, however, seemed cheerful enough, plodding over his land, or arranging about the horses, or doing the thousand-and-one small things which occupied his life.
Mrs. O'Shanaghgan seemed to have forgotten all about the mortgage, and was eagerly discussing ways and means with Terence. Terence avoided Nora's eyes, and rode off early in the evening to see the nearest tailor. It was not likely that this individual could make a fitting suit for the young heir to O'Shanaghgan; but the boy must have something to travel in, and Mrs. O'Shanaghgan gave implicit directions as to the London tailor whom he was to visit as soon as he reached the Metropolis.
“For you are to look your best, and never to forget that you are my son,” was her rejoinder; and Terence forgot all about Nora's words on the previous evening. He was to start in two days' time. Even Nora became excited over his trip and in her mother's account of her Uncle Hartrick.
“I wish you were going, Nora,” said the mother. “I should be proud of you. Of course you are a little rough colt; but you could be trained;” and then she looked with sudden admiration at her handsome daughter.
“She has a face in a thousand,” she thought, “and she is absolutely unconscious of her beauty.”
At five o'clock Nora had started off in the pony-trap to visit her friend Biddy. The trap had been brought back by one of the numerous gossoons who abounded all over O'Shanaghgan, and Biddy and Nora had a few hours before the great secret expedition was to take place. And now the time had come. The girls had put on thick serge petticoats, short jackets, and little tight-fitting caps on their heads. There was always a breeze blowing round that extreme corner of the Atlantic. Never did the finest summer day find the waves calm there. Nora and Biddy had been accustomed to these waves since their earliest girlhood, and were not the least afraid. They stood now waiting in the little cove, and looking round wonderingly for the appearance of Mike and Neil upon the scene. They were to bring the boat with them. The girls were to wade through the surf to get into it, and Biddy was stooping down to take off her shoes and stockings for the purpose.
“Dear, dear!” she cried. “Do you see that ugly bank of clouds just behind the moon? I hope my lady moon is not going to hide herself; we can do nothing in the cave if we have not light.”
“But the cave is dark, surely?”
“Yes. But don't you know there is a break in the cliffs above, just in the center? And it is down there the moon sends its shafts when it is at the full; it is there the Banshee will meet us, if we are to see her at all. The shafts from the moon will only enter the cave at midnight. I have counted the times, and I know everything.”
“I want to see the Banshee so badly,” said Nora.
“You won't be frightened, then, Nora?”
“Frightened? No. Not of our own Banshee.”
“They say,” began Biddy, “that if you see a spirit, and come face to face with it, you are good for—”
“What?” said Nora.
“If you hold out during the year you have seen the spirit, you are good to live for another ten; but during that first year you are in extreme danger of dying. If you escape that fate, however, and are whole and sound, you will be quite safe to live for ten more years. They say nothing can send you out of the world; not sickness, nor accidents, nor fire, nor water; but the second year you are liable to an accident, and the year after to a misfortune; then in the fourth year your luck turns—in the fourth year you find gold, in the fifth year health, in the sixth year beauty. Oh, I would give anything to be beautiful!”
“You are very well as you are, Biddy.”
“Very well as I am? What nonsense! Look at my turned-up nose.” Here Biddy pressed her finger on the feature in question.
“It looks very racy,” answered Nora.
“Bedad, then, it does that,” replied Biddy. “I believe I got it sound and safe from one of the old——”
“You needn't go on,” cried Nora. “I know what you are going to say.”
“And why shouldn't I say it? You would be proud enough to be descended from——”
“Oh, I have a very fine descent of my own,” answered Nora, with spirit.
“Now, if I was like you,” began Biddy, “wouldn't I be proud, just? But dear, dear! there never were two Irish girls farther asunder as far as appearance goes. See here, let me describe myself, feature by feature. Oh, here's a clear pool. I can get a glimpse of myself in it. You come and look in too, Nora. Now, then, we can see ourselves. Oh, holy poker! it's cruel the difference between us. Here's my forehead low and bumpy, and my little nose, scarcely any of it, and what there is turned right up to the sky; and my wide mouth, and my little eyes, and my hair just standing straight up as rakish as you please. And look at you, with your elegant features and your—oh, but it's genteel you are!—and I love you, Nora alannah; I love you, and am not a bit jealous of you.”
Here the impulsive girl threw her arms round her friend's neck and kissed her.
“All the same,” she added, “I wish those clouds were not coming up. It has been so precious hot all day that I should not be the least surprised if we had a thunderstorm.”
“A thunderstorm while we are in the cave would be magnificent,” said Nora.
“Does anything ever frighten you, Nora?”
“I don't think anything in nature could frighten me; but there are some things I am frightened at.”
“What? Do tell me. I should like to know.”
“You'll keep it a secret—won't you, Biddy?”
“To be sure I will. When did I ever blaze out anything you told me? If I am plain, I am faithful.”
“Well, I am afraid of pain,” said Nora.
“Pain! You? But I have seen you scratch yourself ever so deep and not so much as wink; and I mind that time when you twisted your ankle and you didn't even pretend you were hurt.”
“Oh, it is not that sort of pain. I am terrified of pain when it affects those I love. But there! don't ask me any more. Here are the boys; we'll jump into the boat and be off. Why, it is half-past ten, and it will take half-an-hour's good rowing to cross the bay, and then we have to enter the cave and——”
“I don't like those clouds,” said Biddy. “I wonder if it is safe to go.”
“Safe?” said Nora. “We must go. Mother won't allow me to spend another night here, and I shall lose my chance. I am determined to speak to the Banshee or die in the attempt.”
The splash of oars was now distinctly audible, and the next moment a four-oared gig swiftly turned the little promontory and shot with a rapid movement into the bay.
“Why,” said Biddy, running forward, “who's in the boat?”
A lad and a man now stood upright and motioned to the girls.
“Where's Neil?” said Biddy.
“Neil could not come, Miss Biddy, so I'm taking his place,” said the deep voice of a powerful-looking man. He had a black beard down to his waist, flashing black eyes, a turned-up nose, and a low forehead. A more bull-dog and ferocious-looking individual it would be hard to find. Biddy, however, knew him; he was Neil's father—Andy Neil, as he was called. He was known to be a lawless and ferocious man, and was very much dreaded by most of the neighbors around. Neither Nora nor Biddy, however, felt any reason to fear him and Nora said almost cheerfully:
“As we are to have such a stiff row, it is just as well to have a man in the boat.”
“Faix, now, young ladies, come along, and don't keep me waiting,” said Andy, rising and brandishing one of his oars in a threatening way. “There's a storm coming on, and I want to be out of this afore it overtakes us. Oh, glory be to goodness, there's a flash of lightning!”
There came a flash on the edge of the horizon, lighting up the thick bank of rapidly approaching clouds.
“Nora, had we better go tonight?” said Biddy. She had as little fear as her friend, but even she did not contemplate with pleasure a wild storm in the midst of the Atlantic.
The man Neil looked gravely round.
“Och! good luck to ye now, young ladies; don't be kaping me waiting after the botheration of coming to fetch yez. Come along, and be quick about it.”
“To be sure,” said Nora. She splashed bravely into the surf, for the boat could not quite reach the shore. The waves reached high above her pretty, rosy ankles as she stepped into the boat.
Biddy followed in her wake; and then Nora, producing a rough towel, began to dry her feet. Both girls put on their shoes and stockings again in absolute silence.
Neil had now faced the boat seaward, and with great sweeps with a pair of sculls was taking it out to sea. The tide was in their favor, and they went at a rapid rate. The man did not speak at all, and his face was in complete shadow. Nora breathed hard in suppressed excitement and delight. Biddy crouched at the bottom of the boat and watched the clouds as they came up.
“I wish I hadn't come,” she muttered once or twice.
The boy Mike sat at the stern. The two girls had nothing whatever to do.
“Shall I take an oar, Andy?” said Nora at last.
“You, miss?”
“I can take a pair of oars and help you,” said the girl.
“If it plazes you, miss.” The man hastily stepped to the back of the boat. Nora took her place, and soon they were going at greater speed than ever. She was a splendid oarswoman, and feathered her oars in the most approved fashion.
In less than the prescribed half-hour they reached the entrance to the great cave.
They were safe. A hollow, booming noise greeted them as they came close. Andy bent forward and gave Nora a brief direction.
“Ship your oars now, miss. Aisy now; aisy now. Now, then, I'll take one pull; pull your left oar again. Now, here we are.”
He spoke with animation. Nora obeyed him implicitly. They entered the shadow of the cave, and the next instant found themselves in complete darkness. The boat bobbed up and down on the restless water, and just at that instant a flash of vivid lightning illuminated all the outside water, followed by a crashing roar of thunder.
“The storm is on us; but, thank the Almighty, we're safe,” said Mike, with a little sob. “I wish to goodness we hadn't come, all the same.”
“And so do I,” said Biddy; “it is perfectly awful being in a cave like this. What shall we do?”
“Do!” said Neil. “Hould your tongues and stay aisy. Faix, it's the Almighty is having a bit of a talk; you stay quiet and listen.”
The four oars were shipped now, and the boat swayed restlessly up and down.
“Aren't we going any farther?” said Nora.
“Not while this storm lasts. Oh, for goodness' sake, Nora, do stay quiet,” said Biddy.
Andy now produced out of his pocket a box of matches and a candle. He struck a match, applied it to the candle, and the next moment a feeble flame shot up. It was comparatively calm within the cave.
“There! that will light us a bit,” said Andy. “The storm won't last long. It's well we got into shelter. Now, then, we'll do fine.”
“You don't think,” said Biddy, in a terrified tone, “that the cave will be be crashed in?”
“Glory be to Heaven, no, miss—we have cheated the storm coming here.” The man smiled as he spoke, showing bits of broken teeth. His words were gentle enough, but his whole appearance was more like that of a wild beast than a man. Nora looked full at him. The candle lit up her pale face; her dark-blue eyes were full of courage; a lock of her black hair had got loose in the exertion of rowing, and had fallen partly over her shoulder and neck. “Faix, then, you might be the Banshee herself,” said Andy, bending forward and looking at her attentively.
“If the moon comes out again we may see the Banshee,” whispered Nora. “Can we not go farther into the cave? Time is flying.” She took her watch from her pocket and looked at the hour. It was already past eleven o'clock.
“The storm will be over in good time,” said the man. “Do you want to get the gleam of moonlight in the crack of the inner cave? Is that what you're afther, missy?”
“Yes,” said Nora.
“Well, you stay quiet; you'll reach it right enough.”
“Nora wants to see the Banshee, Andy,” called out Biddy. “Oh, what a flash! It nearly blinded me.”
“The rain will soon be on us, and then the worst of the storm will be past,” said the man.
Mike uttered a scream; the lightning was now forked and intensely blue. It flashed into every cranny in the cave, showing the barnacles on the roof, the little bits of fern, the strange stalactites. After the flash had passed, the darkness which followed was so intense that the light of the dim candle could scarcely be seen. Presently the rain thundered down upon the bare rock above with a tremendous sound; there were great hailstones; the thunder became less frequent, the lightning less vivid. In a little more than half an hour the fierce storm had swept on to other quarters.
“Now, then, we can go forward,” said Andy. He took up his oars. “You had best stay quiet, missies; just sit there in the bottom of the boat, and let me push ahead.”
“Then I will hold the candle,” said Nora.
“Right you are, miss.”
She took it into her cold fingers. Her heart was beating high with suppressed excitement; she had never felt a keener pleasure in her life. If only she might see the Banshee, and implore the spirit's intercession for the fortunes of her house!
The man rowed on carefully, winding round corners and avoiding many dangers. At last they came bump upon some rocks.
“Now, then,” he said, “we can't go a step farther.”
“But we must,” said Nora. “We have not reached the chasm in the rock. We must.”
“We dare not, miss; the boat hasn't water enough to float her.”
“Well, then, I shall wade there. How far on is the chasm?”
“Oh, Nora! Nora! you won't be so mad as to go alone?” called out Biddy.
“I shan't be a scrap afraid,” said Nora.
“But there's water up to your knees; you dare not do it,” said Biddy.
“Yes, I dare; and the tide is going down—is it not?”
“It will be down a good bit in half an hour,” said the man, “and we'll be stranded here as like as not. These are bad rocks when the tide is low; we must turn and get out of this, miss, in a quarter of an hour at the farthest.”
“Oh, I could just do it in a quarter of an hour,” said Nora.
She jumped up, and the next moment had sprung out of the boat into the water, which nearly reached up to her knees.
“Oh, Nora! Nora! you'll be lost; you'll slip and fall in that awful darkness, and we'll never see you again,” said Biddy, with a cry of terror.
“No, no; let her go,” said Andy. “There ain't no fear, miss; you have but to go straight on, holding your candle and avoiding the rocks to your left, and you'll come to the opening. Be as quick as you can, Miss Nora; be as quick as you can.”
His voice had a queer note in it. Nora gave him a look of gratitude, and proceeded on her dangerous journey. Her one fear was that the candle might go out; the flame flickered as the air got less good; the hot grease scalded her fingers; but suddenly a breeze of fresher air reached her, and warned her that she was approaching the aperture. There came a little puff of wind, and the next moment the brave girl found herself in total darkness. The candle had gone out. Just at that instant she heard, or fancied she heard, a splash behind her in the water. There was nothing for it now but to go forward. She resolved not to be terrified. Perhaps it was a water-rat; perhaps it was the Banshee. Her heart beat high; still she had no fear. She was going to plead for her father. What girl would be terrified with such a cause in view? She walked slowly and carefully on, and at last the fresher air was followed by a welcome gleam of light; she was approaching the opening. The next moment she had found it. She stood nearly up to her knees in the water; the shaft of moonlight was piercing down into the cave. Nora went and stood in the moonlight. The hole at the top was little more than a foot in width; there was a chasm, a jagged chasm, through which the light came. She could see a bit of cloudless sky, and the cold moonlight fell all over her.
“Oh, Banshee!—Lady Spirit who belongs to our house, come and speak to me,” cried the girl. “Come from your home in the rock and give me a word of comfort. A dark time is near, and we implore your help. Come, come, Banshee—it is the O'Shanaghgans who want you. It is Nora O'Shanaghgan who calls you now.”
The sound of a laugh came from the darkness behind her, and the next instant the startled girl saw the big form of Andy Neil approaching.
“Don't you be frightened, Miss Nora,” he said. “I aint the Banshee, but I am as good. Faix, now, I want to say something to you. I have come here for the purpose. There! don't be frightened. I won't hurt ye—not I; but I want yez to promise me something.”
“What is that?” said Nora.
“I have come here for the purpose. She aint no good.” He indicated with a motion of his thumb the distant form of Biddy within the dark recess of the cave.
“Does Miss Murphy know you have followed me?” said Nora.
“No, she don't know it; she's in the dark. There's the little lad Mike will look after her. She won't do nothing until we go back.”
“Oh, I did want to see the Banshee!”
“The Banshee may come or not,” said the man; “but I have my message to yez, and it is this: If you don't get Squire O'Shanaghgan to let me keep my little bit of land, and to see that I aint evicted, why, I'll—you're a bonny lass, you're as purty a young lady as I ever set eyes on, but I'll drownd yez, deep down here in this hole. No one will ever know; they'll think you has fallen and got drowned without no help from me. Yes, I'll do it—yes, I will—unless you promises that Squire O'Shanaghgan shan't evict me. If I go out, why, you goes out first. Now, you'll do it; you'll swear that you'll do it? You'll leave no stone unturned. You'll get 'em to leave me my cabin where I was born, and the childer was born, and where the wife died, or I'll drownd yez deep down here in the Banshee's hole. Look!” said the man as the moon nickered on a deep pool of water; “they say there is no bottom to it. Just one shlip, and over you goes, and nobody will ever see Nora O'Shanaghgan again.”
“I'm not going to be frightened; you wouldn't do it, Andy,” said the girl.
“Wouldn't I just? You think that I'd be afraid?”
“I don't think so. I am sure you are afraid of nothing.”
“Then why shouldn't I do it?”
“Because you wouldn't be so bad, not to an innocent girl who never harmed you.”
“Oh! wouldn't I just? Ain't I a-stharving, and aint the childer stharving, and why should they turn us out of our bit of a cabin? Swear you'll do it; swear you won't have me evicted; you has got to promise.”
“I wouldn't evict you—never, never!” said Nora. “Oh, never!” she added, tears, not of fright, but of pity, filling her eyes. “But how can I control my father?”
“That's for you to see to, missy; I must go back now, or we'll none of us leave this cave alive. But you'll just shlip into that water, and you'll never be heard of again unless you promises. I'll go back; they none of 'em will know I followed yez. You'll be drowned here in the deep pool, and I'll go back to the boat, or you promises and we both goes back.”
“But, Andy, what am I to promise?”
“That you won't have me evicted. You say solemn here: 'Andrew Neil, I would rather die myself or have my tongue cut out, and may the Holy Mother cast me from her presence forever, and may the evil spirits take me, if I don't save you, Andy.' You has to say that.”
“No, I won't,” said Nora with sudden spirit. “I am not afraid. I'll do my very, very best for you; but I won't say words like those.”
The man looked at her attentively.
“I was a little frightened at first,” continued Nora; “but I am not now. I would rather you pushed me into that pool, I would rather sink and die, than take an awful vow like that. I won't take it. I'll do my very best to save you, but I won't make a vow.”
“Faix, then, miss, it's you that has the courage; but now if I let yez off this time, will ye do yer best?”
“Yes, I'll do my best.”
“If yer don't, bonny as you are, and the light of somebody's eyes, you'll go out of the world. But, come, I trust yez, and we must be turning back.”
The man took the matches from his pocket, struck one, and lit the candle. Then, Andy going in front of Nora, they both turned in the direction where the boat was waiting for them.