my grandmother and tell them that I am safe. Perhaps I will come back
to-morrow, if I can, but I will come back. I would come back just
because you wanted to see me, you have been so good to me. It was very
good of you, if you wanted me to stay, to bring me the things to eat
and drink, so that I could go if I liked."
"No, it was not good of me at all," Terence answered; "I had no right
to let them keep you here always, even if I wanted you to be here. But
I hoped and I always hope that I shall leave this place some time
myself, and I did not want to have to leave you here. I would not have
left you here. Promise that you will come back."
"I will come back," Kathleen answered.
"Come along now," said the King, hurrying up to Kathleen again. "It's
time we were dancing this minute."
All the little men and women were moving out of the hall and Kathleen
went with them. In an instant they were again in the passage that
Kathleen remembered. The floor was of gold, like the floor of the
hall, and then she saw that she was walking on the water once more.
The yellow glow was under it still, but fainter than in the hall. The
violet light on the walls of the passage grew dimmer; she saw the
lights that the men and women carried, shining ahead of her and all
around her. Then she looked down at the water and saw the stars
shining up through it, as if there were another sky far down under her
feet. And then--she felt the cool, fresh breath of the outside air,
and it was delicious to her, and she was standing on her own little
pool, and deep down under it there were thousands of stars. She and
all the others walked--or drifted, as it seemed to Kathleen--up the
bank of sweet-smelling new grass, to the little hollowed place, with
the trees and the bushes growing around it and hanging over it, where
Kathleen had first seen the Good People. And then they began the
dance.
[Illustration: ]
IX
A YEAR AND A DAY
When Kathleen did not come home at the time she was expected, her
father and her grandmother were not much surprised at first. She was
in the habit of going where she pleased and of coming back when she
pleased. If she chose to be an hour or two late her father or her
grandmother might ask her why, or they might not think of it. So, on
that May Eve when she danced with the Good People, as it began to get
late and still she did not come, they had no doubt that she had
decided to make her visit at the Sullivans' a little longer than she
had intended. When it got later and still she did not come, her father
said that he would walk over to the Sullivans' and come back with her.
He never thought of not finding her there. Even when he got there and
Ellen told him that Kathleen had gone away hours ago and had said that
she was going home, he did not think that any harm could have come to
her.
"She met some of the girls that she knew and went with them, maybe,"
he said, "and she'll be home before me."
But when he got home again and found that she was not there, and when
he told his mother that she was not at the Sullivans', they both began
to be a little worried. They told each other over and over that
Kathleen knew how to take care of herself and that no harm was likely
to come to her, but they both doubted their own words. Late at night
John went to the Sullivans' again, taking the way that he thought
Kathleen would be likely to take, and looking everywhere for her,
though he knew that to search for her in such a way as that was
nonsense.
The Sullivans had all gone to bed when he got there, but Peter got up
and walked back with him, by another way. They went to a police
station and asked if there had been any accident--if any girl had been
hurt and taken to a hospital. There had been no accident that night.
They went home and waited again. At last John could wait no longer. He
and Peter started out again and went different ways. They went to
other police stations and asked if there had been accidents. There had
been one or two, but nobody at all like Kathleen had had anything to
do with them. They went to hospitals and asked about all the new
patients. There was not one of them that was at all like Kathleen.
It does not belong to the story to tell how they went on searching.
All the next day they searched. They tried every way that they knew,
and every way that the police knew, and every way that anybody could
think of, to find her, and there was no trace. Late that day one of
the girls who had walked through the Park with Kathleen came to see
her, not knowing that she was lost. Then she told where she had seen
Kathleen last. She told how Kathleen had dropped behind the others,
though she had said that she wanted to get home early, how they had
called to her, how she had answered, and how they had gone on,
thinking that she would soon follow.
Then Mrs. O'Brien said to John: "You do not need to search for her any
longer. She is with the Good People. I have seen that place often, and
it always looked to me like a place where the Good People might be.
Last night was May Eve. There is no time in the whole year when the
Good People have more power, and especially to carry off young girls.
They have taken her with them. Some time she may come back, or some
time we may get her back, but it is of no use for you to search for
her any more."
But John went on searching still. The next day and for many days he
looked for her and tried every means to find her, but she could not be
found. Again and again his mother told him that it was of no use, but
still he said: "It might be some use, and I wouldn't be easy if I
didn't try."
By and by there came a time when even John did not think that there
was any use in trying longer. He read many papers, from many different
cities, hoping always to find something about some unknown girl who
had been found, sick or hurt or helpless, somewhere, but he said
little about her. He went on with his old work, and he and his mother
were alone and lonely in the house. Then John came to believe that
Kathleen was dead. He told his mother this and she answered: "Kathleen
is not dead."
"And how do you know that, mother?" John said. "You always say that
the Good People took her away, but that might be true, and still she
might be dead by now. And the Good People might not have taken her at
all. How do you know?"
"I don't know that the Good People took her," she answered, "though I
think they did; but I am sure she is not dead."
"And how are you sure, mother?"
"Kathleen could never die," Mrs. O'Brien said, "without I'ld hear the
banshee."
"The banshee?" said John. "There's no banshee here. There's banshees
only in Ireland."
"Our banshee is here," his mother answered. "I know she is here.
You've heard me tell of her. She's the sad, mourning woman of the Good
People that weeps and wails about the house when anybody of the family
is to die, anywhere in the world. It's true, as you say, that the
banshees mostly stay in Ireland, though they are heard to cry and moan
for those of the family who are to die in any part of the world. But
sometimes the banshee leaves Ireland with the family that she belongs
to, and so did ours. Wouldn't I know her voice? Didn't I hear her wail
and scream before your father died, so many, many years ago? Oh, I'ld
never forget it. I'ld know her voice."
"Then why didn't you hear her," John asked "before Kitty died, and why
didn't you know before that she was to die?"
"I did hear the banshee that time," his mother answered, "but I
couldn't tell that it was Kitty that was to die. It was the night
before she died. I heard a little moan, that was more like the wind
than anything else, and then it grew louder, and it was a sob and a
soft wail. It did not grow very loud. Then I could hear that it was
like the keen that the women cry over the dead at home. I knew that it
was the banshee. No, I could not be wrong about her; I had heard her
before. But I never thought of Kitty then. I thought: 'I'm an old
woman--an old woman--though I would never let them say so; and now my
time has come. I shall soon be with him again. If I could only see a
child of John's and Kitty's before I go, I'ld go gladly. If I could
only say to him: "Before I came to you I held John's and Kitty's child
in my arms," then I'ld go gladly.' That was what I said to myself that
time. But it was Kitty that the banshee meant. And now, though I felt
then the first time that I was an old woman, here I am still, and
Kitty is gone and the child is grown up to be a woman and she is lost.
But she is not dead, John; she is not dead. Kathleen couldn't die
without I'ld hear the banshee."
It was not once only that John and his mother talked together in some
such way as this. It was a dozen times at least, perhaps two dozen
times, that she told him that, whatever had come to Kathleen, she was
not dead--that she could not be dead, because the banshee had not
moaned and cried about the house, as she was sure to do before any one
of the O'Briens could die. And so John, seeing his mother careworn
and anxious, but never so full of sorrow as himself, came to think
that he ought to bear it better, and not let her see him always so
troubled and so sad. Yet he could not believe all that his mother said
quite as she believed it, and she had to tell him all of it again and
again, and she told him, too, that when the time came she meant to try
to get Kathleen back from the Good People. And after a while John did
not think every time that he heard anybody at the door that it was
Kathleen at last, and all in the house went on as it had gone before,
only that Kathleen was not there. But that "only" was enough, and it
was a different house.
The dreadful spring was past; the horrible, dull, anxious summer was
gone; the cruel, chilly autumn went by; the cold, dead, heartless
winter dragged through; another spring came, cheerless, hopeless,
helpless, like the last.
"Shaun," said Mrs. O'Brien, "do you know when it was that Kathleen
went away?"
"Could I ever forget?" said John.
"When was it?"
"It was May Eve."
"And what is to-day, John?"
"It's the last day of April," John answered; "it's a year this night
she's been away. Could I forget it? Don't I think of it all the
time?"
"There's no time in the year," Mrs. O'Brien said, "when the Good
People have more power than on May Eve."
"Oh, mother," said John, "don't talk to me of the Good People; I've
heard too much of them. I don't care if there are any Good People or
not. I only know that Kathleen has been from us a year. When her
mother died I could bear it, because I had Kathleen left, but now
she's gone, and how can I bear it?"
"Listen to me, John," his mother went on. "It's on May Eve, as I told
you, that the Good People have great power. It's then that they dance,
and then they make young girls or young men that they want come and
dance with them, and then they carry them off. But it's on May Eve,
too, sometimes, that they can be got back by those who know what to
do. And so it's to-night that we must try to get Kathleen back. I
wouldn't tell you till the time came, for fear you might hope too
much. We may not find her, and then we may, and you must come with us,
for we don't know how much help we'll need."
"Who is it that I must come with?" John asked.
"With me and with the girls that were with Kathleen that night and saw
her last."
"How do we know that they can come?" said John. "It's late in the day
now and they may be away from home."
"I've taken care of all that," Mrs. O'Brien said; "they'll be here in
a little while to go with us."
In a little while the girls came. Then they and Mrs. O'Brien and John
went together to the place where Kathleen had met the girls, on her
way home from the Sullivans', a year ago. "Was it about this time of
the day," Mrs. O'Brien asked, "that you met Kathleen here a year ago
to-night?"
"It was," one of the girls said, "about this time."
"Then you must take us," Mrs. O'Brien went on, "just the way that you
went, and show us the very place where Kathleen stood, the last
instant that you saw her."
They all walked along through the Park, the girls leading the way.
"How can they find the very place again?" said John. "It's been a year
since then. It's likely they have forgot the spot. How could they
remember it so long?"
"John," said his mother, "will you never trust me? Do you think that
I've been waiting for them to forget all this time? The very evening
after Kathleen was lost they brought me here and then took me to the
very spot where they saw her last. They talked of it between
themselves and decided just where it was, and many a time since
they've been with me here, so that they could not forget it."
In a few minutes the girls stopped. "This is the place where we saw
her last," they said; "just here. She stood here and seemed to be
looking at something there on the grass."
Mrs. O'Brien whispered: "Stand still here, all of you, and do not
speak or stir unless I call to you; then do whatever I tell you, and
do it quickly."
Mrs. O'Brien drew out something which was hung about her neck, by a
chain, under her gown. She held it before her in her hand. She stepped
upon the grass and looked all around her. She went a few steps forward
and looked around again. She went a little to the left, then a little
more to the right. And then, to those who were watching, it seemed as
if she saw something, though they could see nothing but her. For she
made a few hurried steps and then put out her left hand, as if to take
hold of something. Then they saw her raise her right hand, as if to
touch the something that she had taken hold of, with what she held in
it. Still they could see nothing except her, but now she hurried
toward them, and suddenly they saw that she was leading Kathleen, with
her left arm around her and holding her right hand against her
forehead.
"Take her and go home with her," she said to John, "as quickly as you
can. The rest of us will follow."
"Oh, father," said Kathleen, "I am so glad that you came to meet me!
Have you and grandmother been worried about me all day? I was afraid
you would be, but the baby needed me, and I couldn't send any word to
you. And I promised Terence that I would come back--not Terence
Sullivan, but the Terence that lives in there. Please ask some of the
Good People to tell him that I will come back to-morrow. Then I will
go home with you."
"Take her home! Take her home!" her grandmother cried. And John led
her away as fast as he could, while the rest followed.
No one said anything more till they were at home, for it was only a
little way. Kathleen scarcely looked at her father till they came into
the house, where it was light. "Why, father," she said, "what makes
you look so queer? You look so much older than you did yesterday, and
you--oh, I am afraid you were dreadfully worried about me. I didn't
think you would be--such a little while. I forgot that you would be
worried. There was so much to see there, and then I had to take care
of the baby--and so I forgot. It was very wrong for me to forget, and
I am so sorry you were anxious about me. But I thought of you and
grandmother just as we were coming out to dance to-night, and as soon
as we were done dancing I was coming home. And why were you all there
where we were dancing? Did you think that I would be there? You ought
not to have been afraid, father. It was just such a little while."
John did not seem to think anything about its being wrong for Kathleen
to forget. He did not seem to think of anything but that she had come
back. "Just a little while, do you call it?" he said. "Do you call a
year a little while for you to be away from me, Kathleen? And from
your grandmother? Don't you see how she has worried about you, too,
all this long year? And what could I think but that you was dead? Your
grandmother never thought so, but I could think nothing else."
"A year!" Kathleen cried. "What do you mean, father? What do you mean?
Oh, grandmother, is there anything wrong? Has he been sick? What is
it?"
"Be quiet, John," said Mrs. O'Brien, "and let me talk with Kathleen.
Come here, Kathleen. No, there is nothing wrong, dear. Now listen, and
answer what I ask you. When did you see your father and me last before
to-night?"
"Why, you know that, grandmother," Kathleen answered. "I saw father
yesterday morning, and I saw you yesterday afternoon, when I left you
to go to the Sullivans'."
"And where have you been since then?" Mrs. O'Brien asked.
Kathleen closed her eyes and clasped her hands, as she thought of it.
"Oh, it was so wonderful!" she said. "I was inside the hill in the
Park. I walked right in there on the water with the Good People. And
it was so beautiful there--all gold and silver and jewels--and the
music--the music that Terence played! And I must go back. I promised
him I would."
"And how long were you there?" Mrs. O'Brien asked.
"All the time," Kathleen said; "all night and all day; I didn't go
anywhere else. And when it was time for them all to come out to dance
to-night--they were dancing, you know, when I first saw them, and they
asked me to dance with them, and then I went into the hill with them.
And to-night we came out to dance again, and it was only a little
while when you came, and then I saw father, and he brought me home.
But I was coming home myself as soon as the dancing was over."
"Kathleen," said Mrs. O'Brien, "listen to me now. Don't be frightened,
but listen. You've been away from us for a whole year. It was a year
ago this night that you danced with the Good People that first time.
All this year you have been with them there in the hill. If we had not
gone after you to-night, and if I had not known how to bring you back,
they would have taken you into the hill for another year, and you
might have stayed there, perhaps, as long as you lived."
"But, grandmother! A year! Why, you know it was yesterday!"
"Yesterday was a year ago," her grandmother said. "You can't
understand it now. Don't try. You must eat something now, and then you
must go to bed. To-morrow I can tell you about it better, and then
perhaps you can understand."
But Kathleen could not eat. Her going away had been so strange, her
coming back had been so wonderful, and what her grandmother had told
her had been so marvelous, that she could think of nothing else. By
and by she went to her room. While she was undressing she felt
something hard in her pocket. She took it out, and it was the little
box of ointment that the Queen had given her to put on the baby's
eyes. Now that she was at home again she felt as if she had dreamed
all that she had seen and heard while she was away. But she had not
dreamed it. Here was this little gold box to prove it. Yet she could
not believe it. And they told her that she had been away for a year!
What they said must be a dream too. But here was the little gold box,
just as the Queen had given it to her. It was a green salve that was
in it. She would open it and see if there really was a green salve. If
there was, then it was not a dream.
She opened it. There was the green salve. Yes, it was exactly as she
remembered it. And she could remember it all so well. She remembered
how the Queen had given it to her, and surely that was last night. She
remembered how she had touched the baby's eyes with the salve, and how
much brighter they had looked after she had done it. Surely it was
only this morning that she did that. It seemed to her all so plain.
And they said that it had been a year. She could not understand it at
all. She laid the little gold box on her bureau, under her glass, and
went to bed.
The next morning Kathleen could think about things a little more
clearly. She could not remember what she had seen and heard in the
hill quite so distinctly. She had not forgotten anything, but it all
seemed dimmer in her mind than it had been, as if it were long ago.
And still it seemed as if it had all happened yesterday. Everybody
whom she knew had heard that she was at home again, and everybody came
to see her. And they all told her that she had been away for a year.
She could not doubt it any longer, and yet she could not understand
it. What had she been doing all that time? She could remember just
enough to fill up one night and one day, and that was all. Could it be
that she had slept for three hundred and sixty-four days and been
awake for only one? No, she could not believe that. And so, at last,
she came to her grandmother to ask if she could explain it to her.
"No," the old woman said, "I can't do that. It's too wonderful for any
of us to understand. But it's no more wonderful than many things that
are true, and I've heard tales of it before. Often one stays in the
land of the Good People, and in other places, too, and thinks that the
time has been short, when it has been long. Shall I tell you what
happened once to a monk--a holy man--much more wonderful than what
happened to you?
"One day this monk was in the garden of the monastery where he lived,
reading in his book. He was reading in the Psalms, where it says, 'For
a thousand years in thy sight are as yesterday, which is past. And as
a watch in the night, things that are counted nothing, shall their
years be.'
"And he found it hard to believe that even to God Himself a thousand
years could seem no more than a day. As he was thinking of this, a
bird in a tree near him began to sing, and the song was so beautiful
that he forgot the psalm that he had been reading and his thoughts
about it, and only listened to the bird. It seemed to him that in all
his life he had never heard any music so beautiful.
"But soon the bird flew to another tree, farther from the monastery,
and the monk followed, to listen to its song again. Then the bird flew
to a tree farther off, and still the monk followed. Once more the bird
flew to another tree, and once more the monk followed it, for it
seemed to him that as long as that bird sang he could listen to
nothing else and could think of nothing else. But he saw that the sun
had gone down and he knew that it was time for him to go back to the
monastery. As he went back he looked at the colors that the sun had
left behind it in the sky, and he thought that they were as beautiful
to see as the voice of the bird was to hear.
"They were all faded and the darkness had come on when he reached the
monastery and went in. And if he had wondered at the song of the bird
and at the colors in the sky, he wondered yet more when he found
himself again in the place where he had lived for many years. For
many things about the place were changed, and the men in it were all
changed. There was not one face among them that he knew. One of the
brothers saw him and came toward him, and he said: 'Brother, why have
all these changes been made here since this morning? And who are all
these whom I do not know? I scarcely know my own monastery.'
"And the other answered: 'Who are you that ask this, and why do you
come here? For you wear the dress of our order, but you are a
stranger. You speak as if you knew the place, yet I myself have lived
here for fifty years and I have never seen you before.'
"Then the monk told his name and told how he had been at mass in the
chapel in the morning and had then gone into the garden to read. And
he told how he had read in the Psalms, 'A thousand years in thy sight
are as yesterday, which is past,' and how, while he was thinking of
these words, he had heard the bird singing. He told how he had
followed the bird, till he saw that night was coming, and then had
come back to the monastery.
"And the other said: 'I remember now that when I first came into this
place they told me of a legend that a monk of your name had gone out
of this monastery a hundred and fifty years before, and had never come
back and had never been heard of again. And now, counting my own
fifty years here, that must have been two hundred years ago.'
"Then the monk said: 'God has given me such happiness as He gives to
few until they are with Him in Heaven, for these two hundred years
have seemed to me to be only a part of a day. Now hear my confession,
for I know that I soon shall die.'
"So the other monk heard his confession, and before midnight he died.
And this was the way that God had chosen to show him the meaning of
His word."
It was a pretty story, but Kathleen understood no more than before.
"No," said her grandmother, "you cannot understand, and I cannot. We
live here such a little while and we are so shut in by time, that we
cannot understand how it is with those who live always. But we shall
understand when the right time comes, and then we shall wonder how we
could ever wonder. And I will tell you another story about it, not to
make you understand, but to show you how it is.