"HOW OFT HAS THE BANSHEE CRIED?"
Now, I have been going back a good long way, so that I might make it
clearly understood what we Brandons have been doing, and, with a long
family like ours, it takes time to pick up the threads of all the
histories.
The years have passed quietly since then, and brought few changes
except in our ages. We have never seen Freda since, though she
writes long letters to Aline full of the old affection. She has
never come to us, nor asked any of us to go to her, and we have
almost given up thinking that she will ever accept Aline's
tenderly-worded invitations, or that any of us will ever share the
pleasures of her London life. Not that she writes very often from
London. She seems to be usually at one country-house or another, and
sometimes great names are mentioned in her letters, names of men we
have heard of and would dearly like to see.
Her permanent address is Magnolia Cottage, Grove Avenue, Parson's
Green, which, we think, sounds pretty and countrified. Aline always
says that she is so pleased that Mrs. Vincent and Freda had the good
sense to settle in a country place rather than in Belgravia or
Mayfair, or even Kensington, which she has heard are stuffy. Freda's
home must be, she thinks, in some outlying village or other, though
within reach of London. We imagine it a quiet place with a church
and a little bit of common, and the houses of a few gentlefolk,
standing round amid their hollies and laurels. It must be so good
for Jacky, who does not seem to go with Freda to the country-houses,
to live among rural surroundings rather than in the dust and smoke of
the great city.
One event of the years has been Pierce's quarrel with Mr. Desmond,
though they had seemed, from the letters Pierce wrote during their
first years together, to be almost like father and son, or perhaps it
would be better to say, like an elder and younger brother who dearly
loved each other.
Pierce's letters in the old days were full of Mr. Desmond, for whom
he seemed to have a kind of hero-worship. Then, without warning, we
heard that they had quarrelled, and that Pierce had left Mr. Desmond
and gone farther up country. We never heard what the quarrel was
about. Pierce merely wrote to Aline that the thing was so; though
behind the quiet of his letter there was evidently a cold anger
against his former friend.
Then Mr. Desmond wrote to Aline--a letter that I, for one, liked, it
was so gentle and deprecatory. He seemed to feel that Aline had
trusted him with Pierce, and that he had failed to keep his trust,
but not through any fault of his own. He, too, gave no explanation
of the quarrel, but only said something about young blood being hot,
and his hope that presently the boy would cool down and recognize his
real friends, and come back to him.
This letter Aline never answered. Of course she stood by Pierce, and
thought Mr. Desmond must have been in the wrong. But though she
carried it off so bravely, because her pride and love were up in
arms, afterwards she fretted about Pierce. You see our boys have
been such home-keeping boys that we are afraid, knowing that one is
out in the wide world.
Pierce writes to Aline, of course, but tells her little about
himself, and the letters come at longer intervals. There is never a
word about the fortune he was to have made, and since those early
years when he was with Mr. Desmond he sends home no money, though he
must know how poor we are, and becoming poorer every year. I wonder
how much longer we will be able to keep the wolf from the door, and
Sir Rupert De Lacy out of Brandon.
Oh, by the way, I must mention that Sir Rupert has taken to sending
us at intervals proposals for the purchase of the old place! In the
beginning Aline used to open these, and then fling them indignantly
into the fire; but with the more recent ones she has simply
readdressed them and sent them back unopened. I suppose the grim old
wolf up there in Castle Angry just chuckles when his epistles come
back to him, knowing he can bide his time.
They say he drinks a great deal more than of old; but for the matter
of that, no one can know, for he and Gaskin are the only two
creatures inside Castle Angry. The place grows wickeder and grayer
up there in its gash in the mountain, as legends and stories of its
master's doings gather round it. I don't know if I said before that
it is built after the manner of a fortified house, with a gateway
under two turrets, and a moat drawn round about it. I have seen it
from far off, and have thought its aspect had something sinister and
frightful about it. The gates are locked and bolted, facing the
bridge over the moat that has taken the place of what was once, no
doubt, a drawbridge. The boys, who have ventured near, tell me that
the moat is covered with green slime and full of unwholesome things,
while the grassy space about is sodden, and overgrown with weird
fungi of brilliant blue and scarlet. That is, no doubt, because of
the exceeding damp of the place, for around and above it is bog, and
the sun always seems to pass over that gash in Angry Mountain, as if
there were something there which it hated.
The boys are very curious about what lies beyond the moat and the
barred gate. I have implored them not to venture near again, for if
Sir Rupert caught sight of them, or Gaskin, who is a worse man,
either might loose the bloodhounds, and then say afterwards that it
was none of their doing.
Poor boys! they are tall young striplings now; so handsome and
distinguished for all their shabby clothes, made by Hugh Reilly, the
tailor in Brandon village. It is hard that we could give them no
proper education, and that they must be condemned indefinitely to do
nothing except shoot rabbits on Brandon hill and fish in Brandon
river. It is enough, as I say, to make good boys into worthless men.
Aline feels badly about it, I know. If there were but another buyer
for Brandon--anyone except Sir Rupert--we would, I think, let it go,
dear to us as it is. But it is not the place only, it is the poor
people who depend on us, and who are miserably poor, if we are
miserably poor. Sir Rupert would show them scant mercy, we know. He
has cleared Angry long ago of the few poor creatures who clung to it,
despite its unkindliness. The mountain sheep wander now where once
there were hearth-fires.
"Let him keep Angry," I say, "he shall not have Brandon."
Curiously enough, I could bear better that he should have the house
and Aline's rose-garden, and the park and the river, and the old
abbey even, than Brandon Mountain. Brandon and Angry are twin
mountains; but there was a good fairy by the cradle of one, and a
wicked fairy by the other. Blue, benign, smiling Brandon Mountain
has watched over our race. Must he pass to the race of an enemy?
Shall he, and the few little white cottages clustered about his feet,
come under the blight that is upon Angry? No, a thousand times, no!
The boys are not so ignorant, however, as might be supposed. Mr.
Benson, whether for love of Aline, or because, as he himself says, he
would not have his classics rust, has been their unpaid tutor, and I
am sure they are really far better educated than most boys of their
age, even if their learning be a bit old-fashioned. Will they ever
find their opportunities, I wonder? I remember when we used to hope
that Mr. Desmond, having set Pierce's feet on a golden road, would
perhaps help Hugh, who has never forgotten his childish admiration
for the man. But all that has come to nothing. Pierce was the raven
we sent out of our ark in search of good tidings; but he came not
back.
Aline has grown older almost by years in the months that have elapsed
since Pierce and Mr. Desmond parted. I have seen her come down in
the morning worn and haggard, and have guessed that she has either
spent a great part of the night in prayer for her beloved, or else
she has slept ill, and been troubled in her dreams about him.
I think she fears that things are not well with him, and I know that
she has implored him in vain to come home. His letters bring her at
once joy and disappointment. In every one, I think, she hopes that
he will say he is coming back. She herself, with her own hands,
still keeps his room swept and garnished, and the bed-clothes ever
ready aired, as though at any hour of the day or night a wanderer
might return.
Aline's little turret faces the great avenue of Brandon. Lately, I
have noticed that at any hour of the night I might waken, her light
was burning; but only yesterday Oona told me that a lamp burns all
night in the uncurtained window. I am sure that Aline's heart
watches awake for Pierce, even when her body is sleeping. But lest
he should come suddenly in the dark hours, she sets the light there
like a star to draw him home. Who knows through what mirk and what
distance it may find him at last?
"Oh, Oona, dear," I cried to our old nurse when she had told me of
the light, "I wish he would come back! It troubles me to see the
hope and the disappointment that are always following each other in
Aline's face. It is wearing her out."
"Now, look here, Miss Hilda dear," the old woman said, putting a
comfortable arm about me, "'tis my opinion that Master Pierce 'll
never come home unless he brings the riches, my dear. He knows what
was expected of him, and he's proud, terrible proud, as becomes a
Brandon. No, he'll never come, except with the gold in his hand, or
the death in his face; and if he knew he was to be taken, I don't
think he could stay away from the sister that's been mother and
sweetheart both to him."
"Oona, Oona," cried I, "you're talking horribly! What has death to
do with Pierce, who was always so strong and well? I wouldn't have
you say such a thing to Aline for worlds."
"No, nor I wouldn't, my pretty; only to you that has the wise head
and the still tongue. But I see the trouble coming, and if I don't
halve it, my old heart will break."
She looked at me curiously, still keeping me pressed closely to her,
and her face had grown indeed full of trouble.
"Do ye sleep very sound o' nights, love?" she asked presently.
"Pretty well, Oona, unless when the wind crying in the corridors
keeps me awake."
"There's more cries there nor the wind."
"Oh, Oona, what do you mean? What superstition have you got into
your head now?"
"No superstition at all, then," said Oona, a little offended; "and
perhaps I'd better have kept my tongue to myself."
"Perhaps you had, Oona; but since you didn't, you may as well go on.
I suppose you think you've heard the banshee?"
The old woman nodded her head solemnly.
"There was no thinking about it, dearie. She's cried the last three
nights, and grateful I am that Miss Aline slept sound and didn't hear
her."
"If Miss Aline heard any crying, she would know it was the wind. Her
trust is all in God, and she knows that He keeps the things of life
and death in His own hands, and that His love is all about her. She
would tell you there was no such thing as the banshee."
"She would not, Miss Hilda, and I wonder at you to say the like. No
Brandon should say it. 'Tis just because ye are Brandons, the
finest, purest, ould blood alive, that she cries for ye."
Oona went off visibly indignant, and left me vaguely troubled.
Though I had spoken so boldly, I fear it is not in Brandon blood
quite to disbelieve in the banshee. And would it not be to deprive
our ancient race of one of the proudest of its appanages? We have
lost so much that we may well keep this shadowy retainer of ours.
After all, I am not surprised at Oona. It is all very well in the
broad daylight to deny the banshee, but it is different at night when
the lights are out, and one is alone, and starts from one's pillow to
hear the wind, or something, crying through the old half-ruined house.
This morning put it out of my mind. For the boys had been wild-duck
shooting before it was daybreak, and had heard a bit of news from
their crony, Jim Hagarty, with which to regale the breakfast-table.
News is scarce with us, I needn't say; and, like all country people,
we dearly love to hear of our neighbours.
"Jim says Sir Rupert's grandson has come to visit him. He arrived on
Saturday, and there was no one to meet him at the station, and he had
to have out O'Haire's fly to carry his portmanteau and things over to
Angry."
"And the next day a groom arrived with a fine horse, and asked his
way to Castle Angry. But Jim says he went away by the train the same
evening. I suppose there was no place for him at Angry," adds
Donald, taking up the tale.
Aline's kind face took on a look of concern.
"I hope it is not true," she said. "Castle Angry is no place for a
boy."
"Oh, it is true enough!" the boys cried together, "for Tom O'Haire
read the name on the luggage, and it was 'Harry De Lacy'. And he
says that Gaskin came out and took in the things, and wouldn't let
Tom drive inside the courtyard, but Tom heard the dogs howling and
yelping, and someone shouting at them, whom he took to be Sir Rupert.
So he says that he wasn't sorry to drive away like mad as soon as
he'd set down his passenger, fearing they'd take it into their heads
to loose the dogs."
"Poor boy!" says Aline regretfully. "He cannot be more than
twenty-one. Why has he come to such a place?"
"Possibly Sir Rupert has made him," I suggested. "It would be like
one of his grim jokes to introduce the heir to his property. He is
the heir, isn't he?"
"Yes, Angry is entailed right enough."
"Probably Sir Rupert's grandson will be able to hold his own even
with Sir Rupert," I said; but Aline shook her head.
"His father never could hold his own, and Oona will tell you that his
mother was fair and gentle and delicate. It is cruel of Sir Rupert
to bring him here, having left him all his years with his English
grandfather."
"Is he so different?" asked Esther, who had been listening with
interest.
"I have heard that he is a gentle old man, very learned and very
pious. His rectory is in Warwickshire, in beautiful English pastoral
country. This boy must have had a tenderly-nurtured youth."
"By Jove!" muttered Hugh, "and think of the poor beggar coming to
Angry!"
"He can't have been prepared either," said Donald, "or he'd never
have brought all those traps with him--gun-cases and fishing-tackle
and tennis-rackets and no end of things. By Jove, much use he'll
find for them at Angry!"
"We must only hope that his visit will be a short one," said Aline,
with one of her gentle sighs.
I am sure this strange boy interests her because she sees in every
boy something of Pierce, something, too, of Hugh and Donald. Ah!
well, we Brandons, despite short commons and no money, have had as
happy a childhood as children ever had. I know Mother left us to
Aline, and well has Aline kept trust with her. She will not need to
look away when they meet one day in heaven.