THE GHOST IN THE MONK'S WALK
The row home proved to be a long and toilsome one. The dead seal in
the bottom of the coracle added no little to its weight, and the
wind, which had freshened considerably whilst they were in the cave,
was full in their teeth. Added to this, both Lanty and Manus were
tired after their exertions, and Norah, who tried taking an oar once
or twice to relieve her brother, did not prove a very efficient aid,
as indeed could hardly be expected of her, seeing that it was the
first time that she had handled that implement of navigation. Their
progress accordingly was but slow, and the sun had sunk into the sea,
leaving a wondrous rose-red glow behind it, before they rounded
Drinane Head, the great black promontory which forms one of the
extremities of the bay within which both Moyross and Kilshane lay.
Norah was beginning to speculate rather uncomfortably as to whether
Roderick and Anstace were likely to have got back from Ballyfin yet,
and what they would think of Manus's and her own prolonged absence,
when a sudden hail came across the water from the shadows that were
beginning to gather under the cliffs, and the next moment a large
boat, pulled by four rowers, shot out of the gloom and lay-to beside
them.
A most animated and voluble colloquy took place between Lanty and its
crew, but as it was carried on wholly in Irish it was, of course,
quite unintelligible to the children. However, it was plain from the
manner in which Lanty pointed to the dead seal and gesticulated, that
he was giving them a graphic account of the slaughter in the cave,
and the men, catching hold of the gunwale of the coracle, peered over
at the slain sea-monster and evinced their astonishment and
admiration by uncouth and guttural exclamations. The steersman, a
wild-looking, red-bearded man, doffed his battered head-gear to Norah
and Manus, saying in English:
"'Tis meself an' ivery mother's son here is proud an' glad to see yer
honours this day. No need to be tellin' that ye come of the ould
fightin' O'Briens, for 'tis their sperrit that's in yez both, young
masther an' little darlin' miss. An' I say," and here he raised his
voice and waved his hat, "God's blessin' on Moyross Abbey, an' on the
blue sky over it, an' on thim that should be in it an' will be there
yit some day, plaze God."
After this, however, the conversation relapsed into Irish, and now it
was the men in the other boat who were becoming vociferous, and were
apparently, as far as Norah and Manus could gather from their
gestures, urging something upon Lanty which he, with a glance towards
the children, seemed to raise objection to. Further vehement
utterances on the part of the strangers followed and became more
rapid and excited as Lanty still seemed to hold back; hands were
pointed towards the cave below Moyross Abbey and then back towards
the great headland that reared its heather-covered summit behind them.
"_Thau_," Lanty called out at last, in evident consent, for "_thau_",
as Norah and Manus had both already learnt, signifies "Yes" in Irish,
and the strangers, satisfied as it would appear, dipped their oars
once more and speedily disappeared from sight.
The glow had almost faded away by this time, only a few gold and
purple cloudlets still caught the light of the sun and marked where
it had gone down. Norah shivered, everything seemed to have become
chilly and gray all of a sudden.
"Sure 'twon't be long now till we have ye ashore, Miss Norah," Lanty
said encouragingly. "I was thinkin', Masther Manus," he went on,
turning his head to address Manus, who was pulling the bow oar, "that
'tis hard set we'd be to pull to Portkerin an' the wind blowin' us
back ivery shtroke. If we was to put in at Moyross, it's just there
close forenenst, two good miles nearer, we cud run the coracle in
handy, an' you an' Miss Norah wud be home in no time at all."
Neither Manus nor Norah relished this suggestion. They were both
sure that Roderick would be very seriously annoyed if he heard that
they had come home through the Moyross demesne, seeing that their
uncle had not so far condescended to take the least notice of their
existence, and the path from the shore, as they had heard, led past
the abbey ruins and in front of the house.
"And what matther for that?" returned Lanty. "Hasn't ivery sowl that
plazed gone up an' down the Monk's Walk since there was monks in it,
aye, an' before too; an' who'd have the betther right to set foot in
Moyross nor yerself an' Miss Norah?"
Manus attempted some further remonstrance, but in vain. It was
evident that Lanty was determined to effect a landing in the little
cove below Moyross Abbey and nowhere else.
"'Tisn't like that Miss Ella or ould Browne"--so he disrespectfully
termed the controller of the Moyross household--"wud be trapezin'
about in the black night, an' if the masther's never set his eyes on
you nor on Miss Norah sure he wudn't know ye if he was to meet ye
itself."
And in a few minutes more the sand was grating beneath the keel of
the coracle as it ran in upon the beach.
Lanty jumped overboard and hauled the coracle up out of the water,
lifting Norah out, and then dislodging the seal by the summary method
of turning the boat over and shooting the slain monster out upon the
strand. Within the cove all was shadow, but behind them the water
still reflected the clear light of the sky, and the little waves, as
they broke at their feet, were bright with a strange phosphoric
radiance.
With Manus's aid Lanty dragged the body of the seal up above
high-water mark, wedging it in securely among some stones. He said a
few words low and energetically to Manus, and before Norah well
understood what he was about, he had hurried down to the water's edge
again. Launching his tiny craft once more he pushed off, and pulled
vigorously in the direction from which they had just come, his track
marked by phosphoric flashes each time the oars were dipped in the
sea.
"Manus, he surely hasn't gone and left us here alone!" exclaimed
Norah, as she looked with alarm at the dark wood which came down
almost to the shore, and up through which they had to make their way.
"Well, and what does it matter if he has? He says the path is as
plain as a pikestaff, we can't possibly mistake it, and when we get
up above we'll come out upon the avenue."
"It's so dark in there," faltered Norah, as she reluctantly followed
Manus towards the shade of the overhanging trees, "and you know,
Manus, they say--at least Bride does" (Bride was Lanty's sister, the
little handmaiden who had been imported into Kilshane to take Biddy's
place)--"that the Black Monk goes up and down here sometimes at
night. He was a wicked monk who lived long ago, and he did such
dreadful things that he can't stay in his grave near the old
abbey--people have seen him, they have really, Manus."
"And you believed all that stuff?" Manus returned derisively. "Well,
I've got my gun and a cartridge in it, and if any Mr. Ghosts come
bothering, they'll get the worst of it, I can tell them."
Perhaps, in spite of his bold words Manus did feel a slight nervous
tremor as he and Norah plunged into the thick darkness under the
trees, and began slowly to mount the narrow path that wound up
through the little glen. Manus went first, his gun over his
shoulder, stumbling up the uneven track as best he could, and Norah
followed as close to him as the steepness of the path would allow.
Upwards and upwards they went, Manus sometimes feeling his way with
his hand up the rocky steps of which Roderick had spoken, or else
edging carefully, foot by foot, along the rough path.
"I say, Norah, there hasn't been much to be afraid of after all,"
observed Manus in his loud, cheerful voice. "Your friend, the Black
Monk, doesn't seem to be on the prowl to-night, perhaps--"
The words died upon his lips, for at that moment they turned the
corner of the last zigzag and came in sight of the abbey ruins, their
outline clearly discernible against the pale sky. Before them on the
path, one arm uplifted threateningly, as if to warn them back, stood
a tall white figure, taller, as it seemed to Norah and Manus, than
any living man could be. They both came to a dead halt, and stood as
though they had been rooted to the ground, staring with dilated eyes
at the motionless form which barred their way. Norah's heart was
sending the blood up in suffocating thuds into her throat, she caught
Manus's jacket, and clung to it with the grasp of despair.
Manus's courage did not forsake him altogether; perhaps the knowledge
that there was no retreat, and that the path behind them only led
down to the sea-shore, helped to brace his nerves.
"Look here!" he called out in accents which sounded strange and eerie
in the darkness; "if you think that we don't know that you're someone
dressed up, trying to frighten us, you're very much mistaken. I've
my gun with me, and it's loaded, and if you don't clear out of that
double-quick, I'll shoot you."
Manus's voice quavered a little towards the end, as if, for all his
bold words, his teeth had had a certain inclination to chatter in his
head.
No answer was returned, only in the silence a little breeze crept
sobbing through the tree-tops, and the figure seemed to lower its arm
for an instant and then to raise it again more threateningly than
before.
Manus had his gun presented by this time, his cheek against the
stock, and his finger on the trigger.
"I give you fair warning, if you're not out of that before I count
three, I'll fire. Now then: One, two--"
Manus never could be quite sure in his own mind afterwards whether he
had really intended to carry out his threat, or whether it had been
that his hand had trembled so, as he faced that white menacing form,
that he had jerked the trigger involuntarily. Be that as it may,
even as he said "Three!" there was a crash and flare of light. Norah
and Manus both held their breath, for if what Manus had said was
true, and it was some practical joker who had waylaid them, it was
impossible at such close quarters for Manus to have missed his aim.
There was no cry, no sound, however, and as the smoke cleared away,
the white figure stood before them for a moment, erect as ever, then
seemed to lean forward as though about to rush upon them, and the
children waited to see no more, but turned and fled headlong down the
path which they had climbed with such difficulty.
How they got to the bottom they never knew, they scrambled and
plunged down-wards, regardless of their footing and unheeding how
they bumped and bruised themselves against stones and against the
trunks of the trees. They came to a halt at last in a little
clearing a hundred yards or so above the shore, and there they stood,
panting and breathless, partly with the haste they had made and
partly with terror, as helpless and disconsolate a pair as could have
been found in the length and breadth of the land. Manus had
abandoned all attempt at keeping up a show of bravery; he had his arm
round Norah, and Norah had hers round him, and they clung to each
other so close that they could feel the beating of each other's
hearts, and each other's breath hot upon their cheeks. That warm,
close contact seemed to give them some little sense of comfort and
protection, but in truth their position was a most pitiable one.
Behind them there was only the strip of lonely beach and the sea, and
they must either wait where they were all the night through, till
daylight came, or mount the path again and face that dread white
shape once more; and even whilst they stood clinging to each other,
they were straining their eyes into the darkness, terrified lest they
should see it loom out as it moved downwards in pursuit of them.
Manus's shot, however, had not been without effect. It had evidently
been heard at the house, for voices now became audible--eager,
excited voices, all speaking at once--and a light could be seen
moving up above amongst the trees. Manus's spirits began to revive a
little.
"Come, Norah, come along," he whispered, though his tongue was so dry
that he could only form the words with difficulty. "There are people
up there now, and they--those sort of things, you know,--don't appear
except when one's alone. And if we did see anything we could call
out. Come on, quick! and let us get up through the wood before
whoever's up there goes away and leaves us alone again."
Norah was willing enough, and holding each other's hands tight they
climbed up the steep path once more, not uttering a word, and
treading softly, as though they feared to disturb the ghostly
apparition which might be lurking somewhere still amongst the trees.
The windings of the track had brought them immediately below the spot
where the tall, spectral form had barred their path, and where the
search-party with their lantern were now gathered. They could hear a
shrill voice scolding angrily above their heads, and mingled with it
the sound of crying. Instinctively they stopped short to listen.
"Don't tell me any such nonsense, you idle, good for-nothing girl!"
And though Manus and Norah had only heard Miss Browne's voice once
before, on the occasion of her brief visit to Kilshane, neither of
them had any difficulty in recognizing the high, thin tones as hers.
"How would anyone have known that the table-cloth was hanging up here
if you had not been in league with the vile, cowardly wretches? One
of the very best table-cloths, too; you took good care of that!"
"Och thin, ma'am, the saints in heaven knows 'twas niver a thought of
harm was in me mind;" broke in another voice, its utterance
interrupted by frequent sobs. "Run off of me feet I was this blessed
day to git the washin' done, an' that cloth, the wan thing I kep'
back to give it an exthry rinsin', seein' 'twas stained wid wine an'
all sorts. An' I jist run down a weeny minnit to the shore to see
was me feyther's boat in, an' him away to the fishin' before
cockshout, an' I thrown that cloth up on the three as I wint by, the
way 'twud dhry, an' be handy to fetch in the marnin'. Och wirra,
wirra, to think 'tis clane desthroyed, an' it the beautifullest
table-cloth iver was!"
And the voice broke down in hopeless weeping.
"And how often have I given orders that the washing is not to be hung
out anywhere except upon the bleach-green that's intended for it?"
Miss Browne's voice was shrill with indignation. "It is all of a
piece with those hateful, slatternly Irish ways that nothing will
cure any of you of. Of course you would rather hang the clothes up
here on the trees, you would spread them on the rosebushes in the
garden, or on the door-steps if you only could, rather than take them
where there are clothes-lines and everything you require provided for
you!--Not so far away? Don't tell me any such nonsense! I don't
find that you're so anxious to save your time in general."
Stealthily and cautiously, whilst this dialogue was proceeding, the
children crept on up the path, and by moving in amongst the trees and
treading with the utmost care, lest by chance the snapping of a dry
twig under their feet should betray their whereabouts, they were able
to gain a view of the group gathered on the pathway, whilst they
themselves were completely shrouded in the darkness.
Foremost, tall and erect, stood the English coachman with a
stable-lamp in his hand, which he flashed about, here and there,
letting the light fall on the stems of the trees on either hand, and
making the spaces between them appear all the blacker by contrast.
He did not seem to relish his position particularly, thinking, no
doubt, that the light shed on the party from his lantern made them an
easy mark for any miscreant who might still be lurking in the wood;
and a knot of frightened maids, who were huddled together higher up
on the path, their white caps and aprons just making them visible in
the gloom, seemed to be of his opinion and to be afraid of venturing
further. Miss Browne's anger and vexation were too great to let her
give a thought to possible danger, and with one corner of the
table-cloth in her hand, and the rest of it lying in folds at her
feet, she was scolding the luckless laundry-maid, who stood before
her holding her apron to her eyes. Ella was standing beside Miss
Browne, and she interposed now, but in so low a tone that Manus and
Norah could not hear what she said.
"Nonsense, my dear, you would find an excuse for anyone, no matter
what they did," Miss Browne returned sharply. "I tell you, it was a
plot, a vile plot, got up to annoy me, no doubt, because I am English
and because I have persuaded Mr. O'Brien only to have English
servants in the house. Perhaps it was intended as a hint that if I
did not take care I might be served in the same fashion as the
table-cloth."
With a dramatic gesture Miss Browne spread the luckless piece of
damask out in full view, and as the light of the stable-lamp fell on
it, Manus and Norah could see, even from the distance at which they
stood, sundry large circular holes where the charge of Manus's gun
had pierced, not the impalpable form of a ghost, but the warp and
woof of one of their uncle's table-cloths!
"But if they imagine that they will frighten me by any such
proceeding they are greatly mistaken," Miss Browne went on, raising
her voice with the evident intention of being heard by anyone who
might be still within earshot. "I shall stand my ground, and
continue to do as I think right, without paying the least attention
to miserable creatures who prowl about in the dark to shoot holes in
table-cloths."
"Then, begging pardon, ma'am," interposed the coachman, whose
uneasiness had clearly not decreased during Miss Browne's last words,
and who was peering apprehensively at the trunks and branches of the
trees as the yellow glare of the lamp fell on them, "if standing your
ground means setting ourselves up as figgerheads, for parties as is
sitting behind bushes with guns to fire at, I says, the sooner we're
out of this the better. I don't yield to no man with a hoss, let him
kick his worst, likewise rear or buck, but when it comes to these
Irish ways of taking shots from no one knows where, then I ain't got
no mind for it."
And with a last twirl of his lantern he set off determinedly up the
path towards the house, leaving nothing for Miss Browne and Ella and
the maids but to follow him.
Manus and Norah were left behind in the darkness of the wood. In
honour, no doubt, they ought to have come forward and acknowledged
that they were the culprits who, by mistake, had damaged the Moyross
table-linen. Shyness, however, and a sense of the humiliation which
it would be to confess before the whole of the Moyross household that
they had mistaken a harmless table-cloth, hanging upon a tree to dry,
for a ghost, and had fired at it, held them back, and so they waited
till the steps and voices had died away, and the last gleam of the
lantern had disappeared. Then only did they venture on, silently and
cautiously. All their fears of supernatural appearances had melted
away, and the ruined arches of the old abbey bore quite a friendly
aspect as they skirted past them, keeping as far from the house and
its lawns and gravel-walks as possible. They struck the avenue some
distance farther down, and walked rapidly along it, in momentary
dread of being called upon to stand and answer who they were and what
had brought them there. Nothing of the sort occurred, however. They
passed unchallenged out of the gates, and drew a long breath of
relief when they found themselves on the public road once more.
Then only did they venture to speak to each other of their recent
adventure, and they could not but admit that they had cut somewhat
ignominious figures in the frantic terror with which they had fled
from that weird, white object which had loomed up on them in the
loneliness of the Monk's Walk. Manus, in particular, felt himself
getting hot all over at the thought of how everyone would laugh if
the story of his firing at the table-cloth should be known, and what,
oh what! if any ill wind should blow it to the ears of Bodkin Major
over in Galway! Would there be any end to the ridicule he would have
to endure at school? Even the glory of having taken part in the
slaughter of the seal seemed but a trifling set-off in comparison.
Then, too, Roderick, who, as it was, would most probably be annoyed
by their staying out so late, would certainly be extremely angry
about the whole business and at their having come home through the
Moyross demesne. These and other considerations induced Manus to
observe to his sister as they were trudging homewards:
"I say, Norah, there's no good in our telling Roderick and Anstace
anything about our coming up by the Monk's Walk and all that affair.
We'd look such a pair of thundering idiots, and Roderick's sure to be
horribly angry at our having gone that way at all. He'll pitch into
us pretty well, I expect, as it is, for staying out so late, but
he'll never think of asking what way we came back; and we needn't say
anything if he doesn't."
"But why shouldn't we, Manus? There wasn't any harm really in our
landing down there when it was blowing hard and we were so late; and
I always tell Anstace everything."
"Oh yes, that's all right for a girl, of course," said Manus loftily,
"but when a fellow's been to school it's different. He doesn't think
it necessary to run and tell everything as if he was a small kid.
And there's another thing, Norah; if we said anything about it,
Roderick and Anstace would begin asking where Lanty was, and why he
didn't come back with us."
"And why didn't he?" in tones which made it clear that Norah still
resented his desertion of them.
"Oh, well, you see,"--Manus was becoming rather embarrassed,--"he'd
promised to meet those other chaps in the boat up on Drinane Head, so
he was going to get ashore at the iron pier and go up past the mine
by the tramway that the trucks come down by--he can get out upon the
Head that way. He'll be back ever so early in the morning, before
daybreak, and bring the seal round to Portkerin, so we can take
Roderick and Anstace down after breakfast to-morrow to see him before
he's cut up. Lanty's going to get the oil out of him; he says
there's a whole winter's burning, as he calls it, in him, and I'm
going to have the head to keep."
"But what are he and the other men going to do up on Drinane Head in
the dark? Are they going to stay there all night?" asked Norah in
not unnatural amazement as she turned to look back towards the great
promontory, which could be dimly descried rearing its rugged head
against the sky, and which certainly did not seem to hold out much
promise of comfortable quarters for the night.
"Oh, there's some sort of house up there, and they've things to do,"
mysteriously. "Lanty's going to take me there some day. He tells me
almost everything, because he knows I'm safe; no fear of my blabbing
or letting things out."
And Manus drew himself erect with the proud consciousness of being
Lanty's confidant and the trusted repository of his secrets.
"I'm not going to blab either," said Norah in an aggrieved tone,
feeling Manus's remarks in some sort a reflection on herself.
The children were luckier than they expected, and perhaps than they
deserved. They found the house empty when they got back, and no one
in it, upstairs or down. Roderick and Anstace had not yet returned
from Ballyfin, and Bride, the little maid, had availed herself of the
absence of the whole family to slip over and spend an evening at her
father's fireside. The sight of their supper laid out and waiting
for them in the parlour first brought to Manus and Norah's minds how
many hours it was past the usual time of their evening meal, to which
in the many and varied excitements of the evening neither of them had
hitherto given a thought. Even now, when they saw food laid ready
for them, they did not feel any very ravenous desire to partake of
it. They sat down, however, at the table, and Manus found his
appetite return to him in wondrous fashion when once he began to
attack the eatables; whilst Norah, who had not yet recovered from the
shock which the apparition in the Monk's Walk had given her, could
make little more than a feint of eating.
Their supper was just finished when the sound of wheels upon the
avenue proclaimed Roderick and Anstace's return. The children rushed
out to the hall-door to meet them, and there were questions and
answers and explanations on both sides.
Roderick and Anstace had been late leaving Ballyfin, it seemed, and
half-way home the horse had cast a shoe. The nearest smithy was two
miles distant, and they had had to proceed thither at a walk, Connor
leading the horse. When the forge was reached there was further
delay, for the smith had not expected any customers at that late hour
and had let his fire out, and they had to wait till it was rekindled,
so that nearly a couple of hours had elapsed before they were able to
resume their journey.
Then Manus, with a modest air of self-consciousness, told of their
afternoon's exploit and of the killing of the seal in Ballintaggart
Cave. Roderick looked rather grave at first on hearing of Manus
having set off on such an expedition without leave and with no other
companion than Lanty, and still graver on learning that Norah had
been of the party. However, his displeasure was not of long
duration, and though he gave Manus an admonition against the
repetition of any such rash feats, he promised to accompany him in
the morning to inspect the trophy in Portkerin, and, to Manus's great
satisfaction, he asked no awkward questions as to the hour or manner
of their return, taking it for granted that they had all landed at
the same place where they had embarked. Norah's pale face did not
escape Anstace's solicitous gaze, but she supposed it to be the
result of excitement and over-fatigue, and ordered her to bed without
delay, to which refuge indeed Norah was not sorry to betake herself.