“Hark, forward, forward; holla ho!”
The next morning our friend Harry appeared at the breakfast table rather
paler than usual, and in one of his most abstracted moods; for it may be
said here that the frequent occurrence of such moods had not escaped the
observation of his family, especially of his step-father, in whose good
grace, it so happened, that he was not improving. One cause of this
was his supercilious, or, rather, his contemptuous manner towards his
admirable and affectionate brother. He refused to associate with him
in his sports or diversions; refused him his confidence, and seldom
addressed him, except in that tone of banter which always implies an
offensive impression of inferiority and want of respect towards the
object of it. After breakfast the next morning, his father said to
Charles, when the other members of the family had all left the room,--
“Charley, there is something behind that gloom of Harry's which I don't
like. Indeed, altogether, he has not improved upon me since his return,
and you are aware that I knew nothing of him before. I cannot conceive
his object in returning home just now, and, it seems, with no intention
of going back. His uncle was the kindest of men to him, and intended to
provide for him handsomely. It is not for nothing he would leave such an
uncle, and it is not for nothing that such an uncle would part with him,
unless there was a screw loose somewhere. I don't wish to press him into
an explanation; but he has not offered any, and refuses, of course, to
place any confidence in me.”
“My dear father,” replied the generous brother, “I fear you judge him
too harshly. As for these fits of gloom, they may be constitutional;
you know my mother has them, and won't speak to one of us sometimes
for whole days together. It is possible that some quarrel or
misunderstanding may have taken place between him and his uncle; but
how do you know that his silence on the subject does not proceed from
delicacy towards that relative?”
“Well, it may be so; and it is a very kind and generous interpretation
which you give of it, Charley. Let that part of the subject pass, then;
but, again, regarding this marriage. The principle upon which he and
his mother are proceeding is selfish, heartless, and perfidious in the
highest degree; and d---- me if I think it would be honorable in me to
stand by and see such a villainous game played against so excellent a
family--against so lovely and so admirable a girl as Alice Goodwin. It
is a union between the kite and the dove, Charley, and it would be base
and cowardly in me to see such a union accomplished.”
“Father,” said Charles, “in this matter will you be guided by me?
If Alice herself is a consenting party to the match, you have, in my
opinion, no right to interfere, at least with her affections. If she
marries him without stress or compulsion, she does it deliberately, and
she shapes her own course and her own fate. In the meantime I advise
you to hold back for the present, and wait until her own sentiments are
distinctly understood. That can be effected by a private interview with
yourself, which you can easily obtain. Let us not be severe on Harry. I
rather think he is pressed forward in the matter by my mother, for the
sake of the property If his uncle has discarded him, it is not, surely,
unreasonable that a young man like him, without a profession or
any fixed purpose in life, should wish to secure a wife--and such a
wife--who will bring back to him the very property which was originally
destined for himself in the first instance. Wait, then, at all events,
until Alice's conduct in the matter is known. If there be unjustifiable
force and pressure upon her, act; if not, I think, sir, that, with every
respect, your interference would be an unjustifiable intrusion.”
“Very well, Charley; I believe you are right; I will be guided by you
for the present; I won't interfere; but in the meantime I shall have an
eye to their proceedings. I don't think the Goodwins at all mercenary or
selfish, but it is quite possible that they may look upon Harry as the
heir of his uncle's wealth; and, after all, Charley, nature is nature;
that may influence them even unconsciously, and yet I am not in a
condition to undeceive them.”
“Father,” said Charles, “all I would suggest is, as I said before, a
little patience for the present; wait a while until we learn how Alice
herself will act. I am sorry to say that I perceived what I believe to
be an equivocation on the part of my mother in her allusion to Alice. I
think it will be found by and by that her personal consent has not been
given; and, what is more, that she was not present at all during
their conversation on the subject. If she was, however, and became a
consenting party to the proposal, then I say now, as I said before, you
have no right to interfere in the business.”
“What keeps him out so late at night? I mean occasionally. He is out two
or three nights every week until twelve or one o'clock. Now, you
know, in the present state of the country, that it is not safe.
_Shawn-na-Middogue_ and such scoundrels are abroad, and they might put a
bullet through him some night or other.
“He is not at all afraid on that score,” replied Charles; “he never goes
out in the evening without a case of pistols freshly loaded.”
“Well, but it, is wrong to subject himself to danger. Where is he gone
now?”
“He and Barney Casey have gone out to course; I think they went up
towards the mountains.”
Such was the fact. Harry was quite enamoured of sport, and, finding
dogs, guns, and fishing-rods ready to his hand, he became a regular
sportsman--a pursuit in which he found Barney a very able and
intelligent assistant, inasmuch as he knew the country, and every spot
where game of every description was to be had. They had traversed a
considerable portion of rough mountain land, and killed two or three
hares, when the heat of the day became so excessive that they considered
it time to rest and take refreshments.
“The sun, Masther Harry, is d---- hot,” said Barney; “and now that ould
Bet Harramount hasn't been in it for many a long year, we may as well
go to that desolate cabin there above, and shelter ourselves from the
hate--not that I'd undhertake to go there by myself; but now that you
are wid me I don't care if I take a peep into the inside of it, out of
curiosity.”
“Why,” said Woodward, “what about that cabin?”
“I'll tell you that, sir, when we get into it. It's consarnin' coorsin'
too; but nobody ever lived in it since she left it.”
“Since who left it?”
“Never mind, sir; I'll tell you all about it by and by.”
It was certainly a most desolate and miserable hut, and had such an
air of loneliness and desertion about it as was calculated to awaken
reflections every whit as deep and melancholy as the contemplation of
a very palace in ruins, especially to those who, like Barney, knew the
history of its last inhabitant. It was far up in the mountains, and not
within miles of another human habitation. Its loneliness and desolation
alone would not have made it so peculiarly striking and impressive
had it been inhabited; but its want of smoke--its still and lifeless
appearance--the silence and the solitude around it--the absence of
all symptoms of human life--its significant aspect of destitution and
poverty, even at the best--all contributed to awaken in the mind that
dreamy reflection that would induce the spectator to think that, apart
from the strife and bustle of life, it might have existed there for a
thousand years. Humble and contemptible in appearance as it was, yet
there, as it stood--smokeless, alone, and desolate, as we have said,
with no exponent of existence about it--no bird singing, no animal
moving, as a token of contiguous life, no tree waving in the breeze, no
shrub, even, stirring, but all still as the grave--there, we say, as
it stood, afar and apart from the general uproar of the world, and
apparently gray with long antiquity, it was a solemn and a melancholy
homily upon human life in all its aspects, from the cabin to the palace,
and from the palace to the grave. Now, its position and appearance might
suggest to a thinking and romantic mind all the reflections to which v&
have alluded, without any additional accessories; but when the reader is
informed that it was supposed to be the abode of crime, the rendezvous
of evil spirits, the theatre of unholy incantations, and the temporary
abode of the Great Tempter--and when all these facts are taken in
connection with its desolate character, he will surely admit that it was
calculated to impress the mind of all those who knew the history of its
antecedents with awe and dread.
“I have never been in it,” said Barney, “and I don't think there's a man
or woman in the next three parishes that would enter it alone, even by
daylight; but now that you are wid me, I have a terrible curiosity to
see it inside.”
A curse was thought to hang over it, but that curse, as it happened, was
its preservation in the undilapidated state in which it stood.
On entering it, which Barney did not do without previously crossing
himself, they were surprised to find it precisely in the same situation
in which it had been abandoned. There were one small pot, two stools, an
earthen pitcher, a few wooden trenchers lying upon a shelf, an old dusty
salt-bag, an ash stick, broken in the middle, and doubled down so as to
form a tongs; and gathered up in a corner was a truss of straw, covered
with a rug and a thin old blanket, which had constituted a wretched
substitute for a bed. That, however, which alarmed Barney most, was an
old broomstick with a stump of worn broom attached to the end of it, as
it stood in an opposite corner. This constituted the whole furniture of
the hut.
“Now, Barney,” said Harry, after they had examined it, “out with the
brandy and water and the slices of ham, till we refresh ourselves in the
first place, and after that I will hear your history of this magnificent
mansion.”
“O, it isn't the mansion, sir,” he replied, “but the woman that lived in
it that I have to spake about. God guard us! There in that corner is the
very broomstick she used to ride through the air upon!”
“Never mind that now, but ransack that immense shooting-pocket, and
produce its contents.”
They accordingly sat down, each upon one of the stools, and helped
themselves to bread and ham, together with some tolerably copious
draughts of brandy and water which they had mixed before leaving
home. Woodward, perceiving Barney's anxiety to deliver himself of his
narrative, made him take an additional draught by way of encouragement
to proceed, which, having very willingly finished the bumper offered
him, he did as follows:
“Well, Masther Harry, in the first place, do you believe in the Bible?”
“In the Bible!--ahem--why--yes--certainly, Barney; do you suppose I'm
not a Christian?”
“God forbid,” replied Barney; “well, the Bible itself isn't thruer than
what I'm goin' to tell you--sure all the world for ten miles round knows
it.”
“Well, but, Barney, I would rather you would let me know it in the first
place.”
“So I will, sir. Well, then, there was a witch-woman, by name one Bet
Harramount, and on the surface of God's earth, blessed be his name!
there was nothin' undher a bonnet and petticoats so ugly. She was pitted
wid the small-pox to that degree that you might hide half a peck of
marrowfat paise (peas) in her face widout their being noticed; then the
sanies (seams) that ran across it were five-foot raspers, every one of
them. She had one of the purtiest gooseberry eyes in Europe; and only
for the squint in the other, it would have been the ornament of her
comely face entirely; but as it was, no human bein' was ever able to
decide between them. She had two buck teeth in the front of her mouth
that nobody could help admirin'; and, indeed, altogether I don't wondher
that the devil fell in consate wid her, for, by all accounts, they
say he carries a sweet tooth himself for comely ould women like Bet
Harramount. Give the tasty ould chap a wrinkle any day before a dimple,
when he promotes them to be witches, as he did her. Sure he was seen
kissin' a ghost the other night near Crukanesker well, where the
Davorens get their wather from. O, thin, bedad, but Grace Davoren is a
beauty all out; and maybe 'tis herself doesn't know it.”
“Go on with your story,” said Woodward, rather dryly; “proceed.”
“Well, sir, there is Bet Harramount's face for you, and the rest of her
figure wasn't sich as to disgrace it. She was half bent wid age, wore
an ould black bonnet, an ould red cloak, and walked wid a staff that was
bent at the top, as it seems every witch must do. Where she came from
nobody could ever tell, for she was a black stranger in this part of the
country. At all events, she lived in the town below, but how she lived
nobody could tell either. Everything about her was a riddle; no wondher,
considherin' she hardly was ever known to spake to any one, from the
lark to the lamb. At length she began to be subjected by many sensible
people to be something not right; which you know, sir, was only natural.
Peter O'Figgins, that was cracked--but then it was only wid dhrink and
larnin'--said it; and Katty McTrollop, Lord Bilberry's henwife, was of
the same opinion, and from them and others the thing grew and spread
until it became right well known that she was nothin' else than a witch,
and that the big wart on her neck was nothin' more nor less than the
mark the devil had set upon her, to suckle his babies by. From this out,
them that had Christian hearts and loved their religion trated the thief
as she desarved to be trated. She was hissed and hooted, thank God,
wherever she showed her face; but still nobody had courage to lay a hand
upon her by rason of her blasphaimin' and cursin', which, they say, used
to make the hair stand like wattles upon the heads of them that heard
her.”
“Had she not a black cat?” asked Woodward; “surely, she ought to have had
a familiar.”
“No,” replied Barney; “the cat she had was a white cat, and the mainin'
of its color will appear to you by and by; at any rate, out came the
truth. You have heard of the Black Spectre--the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv?_”
“I have,” replied the other; “proceed.”
“Well, sir, as I said, the truth came out at last; in the coorse of
a short time she was watched at night, and seen goin' to the haunted
house, where the Spectre lives.”
“Did she walk there, or fly upon her broomstick?” asked Woodward,
gravely.
“I believe she walked, sir,” replied Barney; “but afther that every eye
was upon her, and many a time she was seen goin' to the haunted house
when she thought no eye was upon her. Afther this, of coorse, she
disappeared, for, to tell you the truth, the town became too hot
for her; and, indeed, this is not surprisin'. Two or three of the
neighborin' women miscarried, and several people lost their cattle after
she came to the town; and to make a long story short, just as it was
made up to throw her into the parson's pond, she disappeared, as I said,
exactly as if she had known their intention: and becoorse she did.”
“And did they ever find out where she went to?”
“Have patience, sir, for patience, they say, is a virtue. About a month
afterwards some of the townspeople came up to the mountains here, to
hunt hares, just as we did. Several of them before this had seen a
white hare near the very spot we're sittin' in, but sorra dog of any
description, either hound, greyhound, or lurcher could blow wind in her
tail; even a pair of the Irish bloodhounds were brought, and when they
came on her, she flew from them like the wind, I and laughed at them,
becoorse. Well, sir, the whole country was in a terrible state of alarm
about the white hare, for every one knew, of coorse, that she was a
witch; and as the cows began, here and there, to fail in their milk,
why, it was a clear case that she sucked them in ordher to supply some
imp of the devil that sucked herself. At that time there was a priest
in this parish, a very pious man by name Father McFeen; and as he liked,
now and then, to have a dish of hare soup, he kept a famous greyhound,
called Koolawn, that was never said to miss a hare by any chance. As I
said, some of the townspeople came up here to have a hunt, and as they
wished, above all things, to bring the priest's greyhound and the white
hare together, they asked the loan of him from his reverence, telling
him, at the same time, what they wanted him for. Father McFeen was very
proud of his dog, and good right he had, and tould them they should have
him with pleasure.
“'But, as he's goin' to try his speed against a witch,' said he, 'I'll
venture to say that you'll have as pretty a run as ever was seen on the
hills.'
“Well, sir, at all events, off they set to the mountains; and sure
enough, they weren't long there when they had the best of sport, but no
white hare came in their way. Koolawn, however, was kept in the slip the
whole day, in the hope of their startin' her, for they didn't wish to
have him tired if they should come across her. At last, it was gettin'
late, and when they were just on the point of givin' her up, and, goin'
home, begad she started, and before you'd say Jack Kobinson, Koolawn
and she were at it. Sich a chase, they say, was never seen. They flew at
sich a rate that the people could hardly keep their eyes upon them. The
hare went like the wind; but, begad, it was not every evening she had
sich a dog as famous Koolawn at her scut. He turned her, and turned her,
and every one thought he had her above a dozen of times, but still she
turned, and was off from him again. At this rate they went on for long
enough, until both began to fail, and to appear nearly run down. At
length the gallaut Koolawn had her; she gave a squeal that was heard,
they say, for miles. He had her, I say, hard and fast by the hip, but
it was only for a moment; how she escaped; from him nobody knows; but it
was thought that he wasn't able, from want of breath, to keep his hoult.
To make a long story short, she got off from him, turned up towards the;
cabin we're sittin' in, Koolawn, game as ever, still close to her; at
last she got in, and as the dog was about to spring in afther her, he
found the door shut in his face. There now was the proof of it; but
wait till you hear what's comin'. The men all ran up here and opened
the door, for there was only a latch upon it, and if the hare was in
existence, surely they'd find her now. Well, they closed the door at
wanst for fraid she'd escape them; but afther sarchin' to no purpose,
what do you think they found? No hare, at any rate, but ould Bet
Harramount pantin' in the straw there, and covered wid a rug, for she
hadn't time to get on the blanket--just as if the life was lavin'
her. The sweat, savin' your presence, was pourin' from her; and upon
examinin' her more closely, which they did, they found the marks of the
dog's teeth in one of her ould hips, which was freshly bleedin'. They
were now satisfied, I think, and--”
“But why did they not seize and carry her before a magistrate?”
“Aisy, Masther Harry; the white cat, all this time, was sittin' at the
fireside there, lookin' on very quietly, when the thought struck the men
that they'd set the dogs upon it, and so they did, or rather, so they
tried to do, but the minute the cat was pointed out to them, they
dropped their ears and tails, and made out o' the house, and all the
art o' man couldn't get them to come in again. When the men looked at it
agin it was four times the size it had been at the beginin', and, what
was still more frightful, it was gettin' bigger and bigger, and fiercer
and fiercer lookin', every minute. Begad, the men seein' this took to
their heels for the present, wid an intention of comin' the next momin',
wid the priest and the magisthrate, and a strong force to seize upon
her, and have her tried and convicted, in ordher that she might be
burned.”
“And did they come?”
“They did; but of all the storms that ever fell from the heavens, none
o' them could aquil the one that come on that night. Thundher, and wind,
and lightnin', and hail, and rain, were all at work together, and every
one knew at wanst that the devil was riz for somethin'. Well, I'm near
the end of it. The next mornin' the priest and the magisthrate, and a
large body of people from all quarthers, came to make a prisoner of her;
but, indeed, wherever she might be herself, they didn't expect to find
this light, flimsy hut standin', nor stick nor stone of it together
afther such a storm. What was their surprise, then, to see wid their own
eyes that not a straw on the roof of it was disturbed any more than if
it had been the calmest night that ever came on the earth!”
“But about the witch herself?”
“She was gone; neither hilt nor hair of her was there; nor from that day
to this was she ever seen by mortal. It's not hard to guess, however,
what became of her. Every one knows that the devil carried her and her
imp off in the tempest, either to some safer place, or else to give her
a warm corner below stairs.”
“Why, Barney, it must be an awful little house, this.”
“You may say that, sir; there's not a man, woman, or child in the barony
would come into it by themselves. Every one keeps from it; the very
rapparees, and robbers of every description, would take the shelter of
a cleft or cave rather than come into it. Here it is, then, as you see,
just as she and the devil and his imp left it; no one has laid a hand on
it since, nor ever will.”
“But why was it not pulled down and levelled at the time?”
“Why, Masther Harry? Dear me, I wondher you ask that. Do you think the
people would be mad enough to bring down her vengeance upon themselves
or their property, or maybe upon both? and for that matther she may be
alive yet.”
“Well, then, if she is,” replied Woodward, “here goes to set her at
defiance;” and as he spoke he tossed bed, straw, rug, blanket, and every
miserable article of furniture that the house contained, out at the
door.
Barney's hair stood erect upon his head, and he looked aghast.
“Well, Masther Harry,” said he, “I'm but a poor man, and I wouldn't take
the wealth of the parish and do that. Come away, sir; let us lave it; as
I tould you, they say there's a curse upon it, and upon every one that
makes or meddles wid it. Some people say it's to stand there till the
day of judgment.”
Having now refreshed themselves, they left Bet Harramont's cabin, with
all its awful associations, behind them, and resumed their sport, which
they continued until evening, when, having killed as many hares as
they could readily carry, they took a short cut home through the lower
fields. By this way they came upon a long, green hill, covered in some
places with short furze, and commanding a full view of the haunted
house, which lay some four or five hundred yards below them, with its
back door lying, as usual, open.
“Let us beat these furze,” said Woodward, “and have one run more, if we
can, before getting home; it is just the place for a hare.”
“With all my heart,” replied Barney; “another will complete the half
dozen.”
They accordingly commenced searching the cover, which they did to no
purpose, and were upon the point of giving up all hope of I success,
when, from the centre of a low, broad clump of furze, out starts a hare,
as white almost as snow. Barney for a moment was struck dumb; but at
length exerting his voice, for he was some distance from Woodward, he
shouted out--
“O, for goodness' sake, hould in the dogs, Masther Harry!”
It was too late, however; the gallant, animals, though fatigued by their
previous exertions, immediately gave noble chase, and by far the most
beautiful and interesting course they had had that day took place upon
the broad, clear plain that stretched before them. It was, indeed,
to the eye of a sportsman, one of intense and surpassing interest--an
interest which, even to Woodward, who only laughed at Barney's story
of the witch, was, nevertheless, deepened tenfold by the coincidence
between the two circumstances. The swift and mettlesome dogs pushed her
hard, and succeeded in turning her several times, when it was observed
that she made a point to manage her running so as to approximate to
the haunted house--a fact which was not unobserved by Barney, who now,
having joined Woodward, exclaimed--
“Mark it, Masther Harry, mark my words, she's alive still, and will be
wid the _Shan-dhinne-dhuv_ in spite o' them! Bravo, Sambo! Well done,
Snail; ay, Snail, indeed--hillo! by the sweets o' rosin they have
her--no, no--but it was a beautiful turn, though; and poor Snail, so
tired afther his day's work. Now, Masther Harry, thunder and turf! how
beautiful Sambo takes her up. Bravo, Sambo! stretch out, my darlin' that
you are!--O, blood, Masther Harry, isn't that beautiful? See how they go
neck and neck wid their two noses not six inches from her scut; and dang
my buttons but, witch or no witch, she's a thorough bit o' game, too.
Come, Bet, don't be asleep, my ould lady; move along, my darlin'--do
you feel the breath of your sweetheart at your bottom? Take to your
broomstick; you want it.”
As he uttered these words the hare turned,--indeed it was time for
her--and both dogs shot forward, by the impetus of their flight, so far
beyond the point of her turn, that she started off towards the haunted
house. She had little time to spare, however, for they were once more
gaining on her; but still she approached the house, the dogs nearing her
fast. She approached the house, we say; she entered the open door, the
dogs within a few yards of her, when, almost in an instant, they came to
a standstill, looked into it, but did not enter; and when whistled back
to where Woodward and Barney stood, they looked in Barney's eye, not
only panting and exhausted, as indeed they were, but terrified also.
“Well, Masther Harry,” said he, assuming the air of a man who spoke with
authority, “what do you think of that?”
“I think you are right,” replied Woodward; assuming on his part, for
reasons which will be subsequently understood, an impression of sudden
conviction. “I think you are right, Barney, and that the Black Spectre
and the witch are acquaintances.”
“Try her wid a silver bullet,” said Barney; “there is nothing else for
it. No dog can kill her--that's a clear case; but souple as she is, a
silver bullet is the only messenger that can overtake her. Bad luck
to her, the thief! sure, if she'd turn to God and repint, it isn't
codgerin' wid sich company she'd be, and often in danger, besides, of
havin' a greyhound's nose at her flank. I hope you're satisfied, Masther
Harry?”
“Perfectly, Barney; there can be no doubt about it now. As for my part,
I know not what temptation could induce me to enter that haunted house.
I see that I was on dangerous ground when I defied the witch in the hut;
but I shall take care to be more cautious in future.”
They then bent their steps homewards, each sufficiently fatigued and
exhausted after the sports of the day to require both food and rest.
Woodward went early to bed, but Barney, who was better accustomed to
exercise, having dined heartily in the kitchen, could not, for the
soul of him, contain within his own bosom the awful and supernatural
adventure which had just occurred. He assumed, as before, a very solemn
and oracular air; spoke little, however, but that little was deeply
abstracted and mysterious. It was evident to the whole kitchen that
he was brimful of something, and that that something was of more than
ordinary importance.
“Well, Barney, had you and Masther Harry a pleasant day's sport? I see
you have brought home five hares,” said the cook.
“Hum!” groaned Barney; “but no matther; it's a quare world, Mrs. Malony,
and there's strange things in it. Heaven bless me! Heaven bless me, and
Heaven bless us all, if it comes to that! Masther Harry said he'd send
me down a couple o' glasses of------O, here comes Biddy wid them; that's
a girl, Bid--divil sich a kitchen-maid in Europe!”
Biddy handed him a decanter with about half a pint of stout whiskey in
it, a portion of which passed into a goblet, was diluted with water, and
drunk off, after which he smacked his lips, but with a melancholy air,
and then, looking solemnly and meditatively into the fire, relapsed into
silence.
“Did you meet any fairies on your way?” asked Nanse, the housemaid. For
about half a minute Barney did not reply; but at length, looking about
him, he started--
“Eh? What's that? Who spoke to me?”
“Who spoke to you?” replied Nanse. “Why, I think you're beside yoursel'--I
did.”
“What did you say, Nanse? I am beside myself.”
There was now a sudden cessation in all the culinary operations, a
general pause, and a rapid congregating around Barney, who still sat
looking solemnly into the fire.
“Why, Barney, there's something strange over you,” said the cook.
“Heaven help the poor boy; sure, it's a shame to be tormentin' him this
way; but in the name of goodness, Barney, and as you have a sowl to be
saved, will you tell us all? Stand back, Nanse, and don't be torturin'
the poor lad this way, as I said.”
“Biddy,” said Barney, his mind still wandering, and his eyes still fixed
on the fire--“Biddy, darlin', will you hand me that de-canther agin; I
find I'm not aquil to it. Heaven presarve us! Heaven presarve us! that's
it; now hand me the wather, like an angel out of heaven, as you are,
Bid. Ah, glory be to goodness, but that's refreshin', especially afther
sich a day--sich a day! O saints above, look down upon us poor sinners,
one and all, men and women, wid pity and compassion this night! Here;
I'm very wake; let me get to bed; is there any pump wather in the
kitchen?”
To describe the pitch to which he had them wound up would be utterly
impossible. He sat in the cook's arm-chair, leaning a little back,
his feet placed upon the fender, and his eyes, as before, immovably,
painfully, and abstractedly fixed upon the embers. He was now the centre
of a circle, for they were all crowded about him, wrapped up to the
highest possible pitch of curiosity.
“We were talkin' about Masther Harry,” said he, “the other night, and I
think I tould you something about him; it's like a dhrame to me that I
did.”
“You did, indeed, Barney,” said the cook, coaxingly, “and I hope that
what you tould us wasn't true.”
“Aye, but about to-day, Barney; somthin' has happened to-day that's
troublin' you.”
“Who is it said that?” said he, his eyes now closed, as if he were
wrapped up in some distressing mystery. “Was it you, Nanse? It's like
your voice, achora.”
Now, the reader must know that a deadly jealousy lay between Nanse and
the cook, _quoad_ honest Barney, who, being aware of the fact, kept
the hopes and fears of each in such an exact state of equilibrium,
that neither of them could, for the life of her, claim the slightest
advantage over the other. The droll varlet had an appetite like a shark,
and a strong relish for drink besides, and what between precious
tidbits from the cook and borrowing small sums for liquor from Nanse, he
contrived to play them off one against the other with great tact.
“I think,” said he, his eyes still closed, “that that is Nanse's voice;
is it, acushla?”
“It is, Barney, achora,” replied Nanse; “but there's something wrong wid
you.”
“I wish to goodness, Nanse, you'd let the boy alone,” said the cook;
“when he chooses to spake, he'll spake to them that can undherstand
him.”
“O, jaminy stars! that's you, I suppose; ha, ha, ha.”
“Keep silence,” said Barney, “and listen. Nanse, you are right in one
sinse, and the cook's right in another; you're both right, but at
the present spakin' you're both wrong. Listen--you all know the
_Shan-dhinne-dhuv?_”
“Know him! The Lord stand between us and him,” replied Nanse; “I hope in
God we'll never either know or see him.”
“You know,” proceeded Barney, “that he keeps' the haunted house, and
appears in the neighborhood of it?”
“Yes, we know that, achora,” replied the cook, sweetly.
“Well, you can't forget Bet Harramount, the witch, that lived for some
time in Rathfillan? She that was hunted in the shape of a white hare by
pious Father McFeen's famous greyhound, Koolawn.”
“Doesn't all the world know it, Barney, avillish?” said Nanse.
“Divil the word she'll let out o' the poor boy's lips,” said the cook,
with a fair portion of venom. Nanse made no reply, but laughed with
a certain description of confidence, as she glanced sneeringly at the
cook, who, to say the truth, turned her eyes with a fiery and impulsive
look towards the ladle.
“Well,” proceeded Barney, “you all know that the divil took her and her
imp, the white cat, away on the night of the great storm that took place
then?”
“We do! Sure we have heard it a thousand times.”
“Very well--I want to show you that Bet Harramount, the white witch,
and the Black Speacthre are sweethearts, and are leadin' a bad life
together.”
“Heavenly father! Saints above! Blessed Mother!” were ejaculated by the
whole kitchen. Barney, in fact, was progressing with great effect.
“O, yez needn't be surprised,” he continued, “for it was well known
that they had many private meetin's while Bet was livin' in Rathfillan.
But it was thought the devil had taken her away from the priest and
magisthrate on the night o' the storm, and so he did; and he best knew
why. Listen, I say--Masther Harry and I went out this day to coorse
hares; we went far up into the mountains, and never pulled bridle till
we came to the cabin where the witch lived, the same that Koolawn
chased her into in the shape of a white hare, after taking a bite out
of her--out of the part next her scut. Well, we sat down in the cursed
cabin, much against my wishes, but he would rest nowhere else--mark
that--so while we were helpin' ourselves to the ham and brandy, I up and
tould him the history of Bet Harramount from a to izzard. 'Well,' said
he, 'to show you how little I care about her, and that I set her at
defiance, I'll toss every atom of her beggarly furniture out of the
door;' and so he did--but by dad I thought he done it in a jokin' way,
as much as to say, I can take the liberty where another can't. I knew,
becoorse, he was wrong; but that makes no maxim--I'll go on wid my
story. On our way home we came to the green fields that lie on this side
of the haunted house; a portion of it, on a risin' ground, is covered
with furz. Now listen--when we came to it he stood; 'Barney,' says he,
'there's a hare here; give me the dogs, Sambo and Snail; they'll have
sich a hunt as they never had yet, and never will have agin.'
“He then closed his eyes, raised his left foot, and dhrew it back
three times in the divil's name, pronounced some words that I couldn't
understand, and then said to me, 'Now, Barney, go down to that withered
furze, and as you go, always keep your left foot foremost; cough three
times, then kick the furze with your left foot, and maybe you'll see an
old friend o' yours.'
“Well, I did so, and troth I thought there was somethin' over me when I
did it; but--what 'ud you think?--out starts a white hare, and off went
Sambo and Snail after her, full butt. I have seen many a hard run, but
the likes o' that I never seen. If they turned her wanst they turned her
more than a dozen times; but where do you think she escaped to at last?”
“The Lord knows, Barney; where?”
“As heaven's above us, into the haunted house; and if the dogs were to
get a thousand guineas apiece, one of them couldn't be forced into it
afther her. They ran with their noses on her very scut, widin five or
six yards of it, and when she went into it they stood stock still, and
neither man nor sword could get them to go farther. But what do you
think Masther Harry said afther he had seen all this? 'Barney,' said he,
'I'm detarmined to spend a night in the haunted house before I'm much
ouldher; only keep that to yourself, and don't make a blowing horn of it
through the parish.' And what he said to me, I say to you--never breathe
a syllable of it to man or mortal. It'll be worse for you if you do. And
now, do you remember what Lanty Malony saw the other night? The
black man kissin' the white woman. Is it clear to yez now? The
_Shan-dhinne-dhuv_--_the Black Specthre_--kissin' Bet Harramount, the
white woman. There it is; and now you have it as clear as a, b, c.”
Barney then retired to his bed, leaving the denizens of the kitchen in a
state which the reader may very well understand.