In the meantime it was certainly an unquestionable fact that Grace
Davoren had disappeared, and not even a trace of her could be found. The
unfortunate girl, alarmed at the tragic incident of that woful night,
and impressed with a belief that Charles Lindsay had been murdered by
Shawn-na-Middogue, had betaken herself to some place of concealment
which no search on behalf of her friends could discover. In fact,
her disappearance was involved in a mystery as deep as the alarm and
distress it occasioned. But what astonished the public most was the fact
that Charles, whose whole life had been untainted by a single act of
impropriety, much less of profligacy, should have been discovered in
such a heartless and unprincipled intrigue with the daughter of one of
his father's tenants, an innocent girl, who, as such, was entitled to
protection rather than injury at his hands.
Whilst this tumult was abroad, and the country was in an unusual state
of alarm and agitation, Harry Woodward took, matters very quietly. That
he seemed to feel deeply for the uncertain and dangerous state of his
brother, who lay suspended, as it were, between life and death, was
evident to every individual of his family. He frequently took Caterine
Collins's place, attended him personally, with singular kindness and
affection, gave him his drinks and decoctions with his own hand; and,
when the surgeon came to make his daily visit, the anxiety he evinced
in ascertaining whether there was any chance of his recovery was most
affectionate and exemplary. Still, as usual, he was out at night; but
the mystery of his whereabouts, while absent, could never be penetrated.
On those occasions he always went armed--a fact which he never attempted
to conceal. On one of these nights it so happened that Barney Casey was
called upon to attend at the wake of a relation, and, as his master's
family were apprised of this circumstance, they did not of course expect
him home until a late hour. He left the wake, however, earlier than he
had proposed to do, for he found it a rather dull affair, and was on
his way home when, to his astonishment, or rather to his horror, he saw
Harry Woodward--also on his way home--in close conversation with
the supernatural being so well known by description as the
_Shan-dhinne-dhuv_; or Black Spectre. Now, Barney was half cowardly and
half brave--that is to say, had he lived in an enlightened age he would
have felt little terror of supernatural appearances; but at the period
of our story such was the predominance of a belief in ghosts, fairies,
evil spirits, and witches, that he should have been either less or more
than man could he have shaken off the prevailing superstitions, and the
gross credulity of the times in which he lived. As it was, he knew not
what to think. He remembered the character which had been whispered
abroad about Harry Woodward, and of his intercourse with supernatural
beings--he was known to possess the Evil Eye; and it was generally
understood that those who happened to be endowed with that accursed gift
were aided in the exercises of it by the powers of darkness and of evil.
What, then, was he to do? There probably was an opportunity of solving
the mystery which hung around the midnight motions of Woodward. If there
was a spirit before him, there was also a human being, in living flesh
and blood--an acquaintance, too--an individual whom he personally knew,
ready to sustain him, and afford, if necessary, that protection which,
under such peculiar circumstances, one fellow-creature has a right to
expect from another. Now Barney's way home led him necessarily--and a
painful necessity it was--near the Haunted House; and he observed that
the place where they stood, for they had ceased walking, was about fifty
yards above that much dreaded mansion. He resolved, however, to make
the plunge and advance, but deemed it only good manners to give some
intimation of his approach. He was now within about twenty yards from
them, and made an attempt at a comic song, which, however, quivered off
into as dismal and cowardly a ditty as ever proceeded from human lips.
Harry and the Spectre, both startled by the voice, turned round
to observe his approach, when, to his utter consternation, the
Shan-dhinne-dhuv sank, as it were, into the earth and disappeared. The
hair rose upon Barney's head, and when Woodward called out:
“Who comes there?”
He could scarcely summon voice enough to reply:
“It's me, sir,” said he; “Barney Casey.”
“Come on, Barney,” said Woodward, “come on quickly;” and he had scarcely
spoken when Barney joined him.
“Barney,” said he, “I am in a state of great terror. I have felt ever
since I passed that Haunted House as if there was an evil spirit in my
company. The feeling was dreadful, and I am very weak in consequence of
it. Give me you arm.”
“But did you see nothing, sir?” said Barney; “didn't it become visible
to you?”
“No,” replied the other; “but I felt as if I was in the presence of a
supernatural being, and an evil one, too.”
“God protect us, Mr. Harry! then, if you didn't see it I did.”
“You did!” replied the other, startled; “and pray what was it like?”
“Why, a black ould man, sir; and, by all accounts that ever I could hear
of it, it was nothing else than the Shan-dhinne-dhuv. For God's sake
let us come home, sir, for this, if all they say be true, is unholy and
cursed ground we're standin' on.”
“And where did it disappear?” asked Woodward, leading him by a circuit
from the spot where it had vanished.
“Just over there, sir,” replied Barney, pointing to the place. “But,
in God's name, let us make for home as fast as we can. I'll think every
minute an hour till we get safe undher our own roof.”
“Barney,” said Woodward, solemnly, “I have a request to make of you, and
it is this--the common report is, that the spirit in question follows
our family--I mean by my mother's side. Now I beg, as you expect my
good will and countenance, that, for my sake, and out of respect for the
family in general, you will never breathe a syllable of what you have
seen this night. It could answer no earthly purpose, and would only
send abroad idle and unpleasant rumors throughout the country. Will you
promise this?”
“Of course I promise it,” replied Barney; “what object could I gain by
repeatin' it?”
“None whatsoever. Well, then, be silent on the subject, and let us reach
home as soon as we can.”
It would be difficult to describe honest Barney's feelings as they went
along. He imagined that he felt Harry's arm tremble within his, and when
he thought of the reports concerning the evil spirit, and its
connection with Mrs. Lindsay's family, his sensations were anything
but comfortable. He tossed and tumbled that night for hours in his
bed before he was able to sleep, and when he did sleep the
_Shan-dhinne-dhuv_ rendered his dreams feverish and frightful.
Precisely at this period, before Mrs. Lindsay had recovered from her
indisposition, and could pay her intended visit to the Goodwins, a
circumstance occurred which suggested to Harry Woodward one of the most
remorseless and Satanic schemes that ever was concocted in the heart of
man. He was in the habit occasionally of going down to the kitchen to
indulge in a smoke and a piece of banter with the servants. One evening,
whilst thus amusing himself, the conversation turned upon the prevailing
superstitions of the day. Ghosts, witches, wizards; astrologers,
fairies, leprechauns, and all that could be termed supernatural, or even
related to or aided by it, were discussed at considerable length,
and with every variety of feeling. Amongst the rest the Banshee was
mentioned--a spirit of whose peculiar office and character Woodward,
in consequence of his long absence from the country, was completely
ignorant.
“The Banshee!” he exclaimed; “what kind of a spirit is that? I have
never heard of it.”
“Why, sir,” replied Barney, who was present, “the Banshee--the Lord
prevent us from hearin' her--is always the forerunner of death. She
attends only certain families--principally the ould Milesians, and
mostly Catholics, too; although, I believe, it's well known that she
sometimes attends Protestants whose families have been Catholics or
Milesians, until the last of the name disappears. So that, afther all,
it seems she's not over-scrupulous about religion.”
“But what do you mean by attending families?” asked Woodward; “what
description of attendance or service does she render them?”
“Indeed, Mr. Harry,” replied Barney, “anything but an agreeable
attendance. By goxty, I believe every family she follows would be very
glad to dispense with her attendance if they could.”
“But that is not answering my question, Casey.”
“Why, sir,” proceeded Barney, “I'll answer it. Whenever the family that
she follows is about to have a death in it, she comes a little time
before the death tikes place, sits either undher the windy of the sick
bed or somewhere near the house, and wails and cries there as if her
very heart would break. They say she generally names the name of the
party that is to die; but there is no case known of the sick person ever
recoverin' afther she has given the warnin' of death.”
“It is a strange and wild superstition,” observed Woodward.
“But a very true one, sir,” replied the cook; “every one knows that a
Banshee follows the Goodwin family.”
“What! the Goodwins of Beech Grove?” said Harry.
“Yes, sir,” returned the cook; “they lost six children, and not one of
them ever died that she did not give the warnin'.”
“If poor Miss Alice heard it,” observed Barney, “and she in the state
she's in, she wouldn't live twenty-four hours afther it.”
“According to what you say,” observed Woodward, “that is, if it follows
the family, of course it will give the warning in her case also.”
“May God forbid,” ejaculated the cook, “for it's herself, the darlin'
girl, that 'ud be the bitther loss to the poor and destitute.”
This kind ejaculation was fervently echoed by all her fellow-servants;
and Harry, having finished his pipe, went to see how his brother's
wound was progressing. He found him asleep, and Caterine Collins seated
knitting a stocking at his bedside. He beckoned her to the lobby, where,
in a low, guarded voice, the following conversation took place between
them:
“Caterine, have you not a niece that sings well? Barney Casey mentioned
her to me as possessing a fine voice.”
“As sweet a voice, sir, as ever came from a woman's lips; but the poor
thing is delicate and sickly, and I'm afeard not long for this world.”
“Could she imitate a Banshee, do you think?”
“If ever woman could, she could. There's not her aquil at the keene, or
Irish cry, livin'; she's the only one can bate myself at it.”
“Well, Caterine, if you get her to go to Mr. Goodwin's to-morrow night
and imitate the cry of the Banshee, I will reward her and you liberally
for it. You are already well aware of my generosity.”
“Indeed I am, Mr. Woodward; but if either you or I could insure her the
wealth of Europe, we couldn't prevail on her to go by herself at
night. Except by moonlight she wouldn't venture to cross the street of
Rathfillan. As to her, you may put that out of the question. She's very
handy, however, about a sick bed, and I might contrive, undher some
excuse or other, to get her to take my place for a day or so. But here's
your father. We will talk about it again.”
She then returned to the sick room, and Harry met Mr. Lindsay on the
stairs going up to inquire after Charles.
“Don't go up, sir,” said he; “the poor fellow, thank God, is asleep, and
the less noise about him the better.”
Both then returned to the parlor.
About eleven o'clock the next night Sarah Sullivan was sitting by
the bedside of her mistress, who was then, fortunately for herself,
enjoying, what was very rare with her, an undisturbed sleep after the
terror and agitation of the day, when a low, but earnest and sorrowful
wailing was heard, immediately, she thought, under the window. It rose
and fell alternately, and at the close of every division of the cry
it pronounced the name of Alice Goodwin in tones of the most pathetic
lamentation and woe. The natural heat and warmth seemed to depart out of
the poor girl's body; she felt like an icicle, and the cold perspiration
ran in torrents from her face.
“My darling misthress,” thought she, “it's all over with you at last.
There is the sign--the Banshee--and it is well for yourself that you
don't hear it, because it would be the death of you at once. However, if
I committed one mistake about Misther Charles's misfortune, I will not
commit another. You shall never hear of this from me.”
The cry was then heard more distant and indistinct, but still loaded
with the same mournful expression of death and sorrow; but in a little
time it died away in the distance, and was then heard no more.
Sarah, though she had judiciously resolved to keep this awful intimation
a secret from Miss Goodwin, considered it her duty to disclose it to her
parents. We shall not dwell, however, upon the scene which occurred on
the occasion. A belief in the existence and office of the Banshee
was, at the period of which we write, almost universally held by the
peasantry, and even about half a century ago it was one of the strongest
dogmas of popular superstition. After the grief of the parents had
somewhat subsided at this dreadful intelligence, Mr. Goodwin asked Sarah
Sullivan if his daughter had heard the wail of this prophetic spirit of
death; and on her answering in the negative, he enjoined, her never to
breathe a syllable of the circumstance to her; but she told him she had
come to that conclusion herself, as she felt certain, she said, that the
knowledge of it would occasion her mistress's almost immediate death.
“At all events,” said her master; “by the doctor's advice we shall leave
this place tomorrow morning; he says if she has any chance it will be
in a change of air, of society, and of scenery. Everything here has
associations and recollections that are painful, and even horrible to
her. If she is capable of bearing an easy journey we shall set out for
the Spa of Ballyspellan, in the county of Kilkenny. He thinks the waters
of that famous spring may prove beneficial to her. If the Banshee, then,
is anxious to fulfil its mission it must follow us. They say it always
pays three visits, but as yet it has paid us only one.”
Mrs. Lindsay had now recovered from her slight indisposition, and
resolved to pay the last formal visit to the Goodwins,--a visit which
was to close all future intercourse between the families; and our
readers are not ignorant of her motives for this, nor how completely and
willingly she was the agent of her son Harry's designs. She went in all
her pomp, dressed in satins and brocades, and attended by Barney Casey
in full livery. Her own old family carriage had been swept of its dust
and cobwebs, and put into requisition on this important occasion. At
length they reached Beech Grove, and knocked at the door, which was
opened by our old Mend, Tom Kennedy.
“My good man,” she asked, “are the family at home?”
“No, ma'am.”
“What! not at home, and Miss Goodwin so ill?--dying, I am told. Perhaps,
in consequence of her health, they do not wish to see strangers. Go and
say that Mrs. Lindsay, of Rathnllan House, is here.”
“Ma'am, they are not at home; they have left Beech Grove for some time.”
“Left Beech Grove!” she exclaimed; “and pray where are they gone to? I
thought Miss Goodwin was not able to be removed.”
“It was do or die with her,” replied Tom. “The doctor said there was but
one last chance--change of air, and absence from dangerous neighbors.”
“But you did not tell me where they are gone to.”
“I did not, ma'am, and for the best reason in life--because I don't
know.”
“You don't know! Why, is it possible they made a secret of such a
matter?”
“Quite possible, ma'am, and to the back o' that they swore every one of
us upon the seven gospels never to tell any individual, man or woman,
where they went to.”
“But did they not tell yourselves?”
“Devil a syllable, ma'am.”
“And why, then, did they swear you to secrecy?”
“Why, of course, ma'am, to make us keep the secret.”
“But why swear you, I ask again, to keep a secret which you did not
know?”
“Why, ma'am, because they knew that in that case there was little danger
of our committin' parjury; and because every saicret which one does not
know is sure to be kept.”
She looked keenly at him, and added, “I'm inclined to think, sirrah,
that you are impertinent.”
“Very likely, ma'am,” replied Tom, with great gravity. “I've a strong
notion of that myself. My father before me was impertinent, and his last
dying words to me were, 'Tom, I lay it as a last injunction upon you
to keep up the principles of our family, and always to show nothing but
impertinence to those who don't deserve respect.'”
With a face scarlet from indignation she immediately ordered her
carriage home, but before it had arrived there the intelligence from
another source had reached the family, together with the fact that the
Banshee had been heard by Mr. Goodwin's servants under Miss Alice's
window. Such, indeed, was the fact; and the report of the circumstance
had spread through half the parish before the hour of noon next day.
The removal of Alice sank heavily upon the heart of Harry Woodward; it
seemed to him as if she had gone out of his grasp, and from under the
influence of his eye, for, by whatever means he might accomplish it,
he was resolved to keep the deadly power of that eye upon her. He had
calculated upon the voice and prophetic wail of the Banshee as
being fatal in her then state of health; or was it this ominous and
supernatural foreboding of her dissolution that caused them to fly from
the place? He reasoned, as the reader may perceive, upon the principle
of the Banshee being, according to the superstitious notions entertained
of her, a real supernatural visitant, and not the unscrupulous and
diabolical imitation of her by Catherine Collins. Still he thought it
barely possible that the change of air and the waters of the celebrated
spring might recover her, notwithstanding all his inhuman anticipations.
His brother, also, according to the surgeon's last report, afforded
hopes of convalescence. A kind of terror came over him that his plans
might fail, because he felt almost certain that if Alice and his brother
both recovered, Mr. Lindsay might, or rather would, mount his old hobby,
and insist on having them married, in the teeth of all opposition on
the part of either himself or his mother. This was a gloomy prospect for
him, and one which he could not contemplate without falling back upon
still darker schemes.
After the night on which Barney Casey had seen him and the Black Spectre
together we need scarcely say that he watched Barney closely, nor that
Barney watched him with as keen a vigilance. Whatever Woodward may have
actually felt upon the subject of the apparition, Barney was certainly
undecided as to its reality; or if there existed any bias at all, it was
in favor of that reality. Why did Woodward's arm tremble, and why did
the man, who was supposed ignorant of fear, exhibit so much terror and
agitation on the occasion? Still, on the other hand, there appeared to
be a conversation, as it were, between them, and a familiarity of manner
considerably at variance with Woodward's version of the circumstances.
Be this as it might, he felt it to be a subject on which he could, by no
process of reasoning, come to anything like a definite conclusion.
Woodward now determined to consult his mother as to the plan of their
future operations. The absence of Alice, and the possible chance of her
recovery, rendered it necessary that some new series of projects should
be adopted; but although several had occurred to him, he had not yet
come to a definite resolution respecting the selection he would make.
With this view he and his conscientious mother closeted themselves in
her room, and discussed the state of affairs in the following dialogue:
“Mother,” said he, “this escape of Miss Curds-and-whey is an untoward
business. What, after all, if she should recover?”
“Recover!” exclaimed the lady; “why, did you not assure me that such an
event was impossible--that you were killing her, and that she must die?”
“So I still think; but so long as the notion of her recovery exists,
even only as a dream, so certainly ought we to provide against such a
calamity.”
“Ah! Harry,” she exclaimed, “you may well term it a calamity, for such
indeed it would be to you.”
“Well, but what do you think ought to be done, my dear mother? I
am anxious to have both your advice and opinion upon our future
proceedings. Suppose change of air--the waters of that damned brimstone
spring, and above all things, the confidence she will derive from the
consciousness that she is removed from me and out of my reach--suppose,
I say, that all these circumstances should produce a beneficial effect
upon her, then how do I stand?”
“Why, with very little hope of the property,” she replied; “and then
what tenacity of life she has! Why, there are very few girls who would
not have been dead long ago, if they had gone through half what she has
suffered. Well, you wish to ask me how I would advise you to act?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, then, you have heard the old proverb: It is good to have two
strings to one's bow. We shall set all consideration of her aside for a
time, and turn our attention to another object.”
“What or who is that, mother?”
“You remember I mentioned some time ago the names of a neighboring
nobleman and his niece, who lives with him. The man I allude to as Lord
Bilberry, but is now Earl of Cockletown. He was raised to this rank for
some services he rendered the government against the tories, who had
been devastating the country, and also against some turbulent papists
who were supposed to have privately encouraged them in their outrages
against Protestant life and property. He was a daring and intrepid man
when in his prime of life, and appeared to seek danger for its own sake.
He is now an old man, although a young peer, and was always considered
eccentric, which he is to the present day. Some people look upon him as
a fool, and others as a knave; but in balancing his claims to each, it
has never yet been determined on which side the scale would sink. He
is the proprietor of a little fishing village on the coast, and on this
account he assumed the title of Cockletown; and when he built himself a
mansion, as they term it, he would have it called by no other name than
that of Cockle Hall. It is true he laughs at the thing himself, and
considers it a good joke.”
“And so it is,” replied her son; “but what about the lady, his niece?”
“Why, she is a rather interesting person.”
“Ahem! person!”
“Yes, about thirty-four or so; but she will inherit his property.”
“And have you any notion of what that may amount to?” asked her
calculating son.
“I could not exactly say,” she replied; “but I believe it is handsome.
A great deal of it is mountain, but they say there are large portions of
it capable of being reclaimed.”
“But how can the estate go to her?”
“Simply because there is no other heir,” replied his mother; “they are
the last of the family. It is not entailed.”
“Thirty-four!” ruminated Woodward. “Well, I have seen very fine girls at
thirty-four; but in personal appearance and manner what is she like?”
“Why, perhaps a critical eye might not call her handsome; but the
general opinion on that point is in her favor. Her manners are
agreeable, so are her features; but it is said that she is fastidious
in her lovers, and has rejected many. It is true most of them were
fortune-hunters, and deserved no better success.”
“But what do you call me, mother?”
“Surely not a fortune-hunter, Harry. Is not there your granduncle's
large property who is a bachelor, and you are his favorite.”
“But don't you know, mother, that, as respects my granduncle, I have
confided that secret to you already?”
“I know no such thing, you fool,” she replied, looking at him with
an expression in her odious eyes which could not be described; “I am
altogether ignorant of that fact; but is there not the twelve hundred
per annum which reverts to you on the demise of that dying girl?”
“True, my dear mother, true; you are right, I am a fool. Of course I
never told you the secret of my disinheritance by the old scoundrel.”
“Ah, Harry, I fear you played your cards badly there. You knew he was
religious, and yet you should become a seducer; but why make free with
his money?”
“Why? Why, because he kept me upon the tight curb; but, as these matters
are known only to ourselves, I see you are right. I am still to be
considered his favorite--his heir--and am here only on, a visit.”
“Well, but, Harry, he must have dealt liberally with you on your
departure from him?”
“He! Don't you know I was obliged to fly?--to take French leave, I
assure you. I reached Rathfillan House with not more than twenty pounds
in my pocket.”
“But how does it happen that you always appear to have plenty of money?”
“My dear mother, there is a secret there; but it is one which even you
shall not know,--or come, you shall know it. Did you ever hear of a
certain supernatural being which follows your family, which supernatural
being is known by the name of the Black Spectre, or some such
denomination which I cannot remember?”
“I don't wish to hear it named,” replied his mother, deeply agitated.
“It resembles the Banshee, and never appears to any one of our family
except as a precursor of his death by violence.”
Woodward started for a moment, and could not avoid being struck at the
coincidence of the same mission having been assigned to the two spirits,
and he reflected, with an impression that was anything but agreeable,
upon his damnable suggestion of having had recourse to the vile agency
of Caterine Collins in enacting the said Banshee, for the purpose of
giving the last fatal blow to the almost dying Alice Goodwin. He felt,
and he had reason to feel, that there was a mystery about the Black
Spectre, which, for the life of him, he could not fathom. He was,
however, a firm and resolute man, and after a moment or two's thought he
declined to make any further disclosure on the subject, but reverted to
the general topic of their conversation.
“Well, mother,” said he, “after all, your speculation may not be a bad
one; but pray, what is the lady's name?”
“Riddle--Miss Riddle. She is of the Clan-Riddle family, a close relation
to the Nethersides of Middle town.”
“And a devilish enigmatical name it is,” replied her son, “as is that of
all her connections.”
“Yes, but they were always close and prudent people, who kept their
opinions to themselves, and wrought their way in the world with great
success, and without giving offence to any party. If you marry her,
Harry, I would advise you to enter public life, recommend yourself to
the powers that be, and, my word for it, you stand a great chance of
having the title of Cockletown revived in your person.”
“Well, although the title is a ridiculous one, I should have no
objection to it, notwithstanding; but there will certainly arise some
difficulty when we come to the marriage settlements. There will be sharp
lawyers there, whom we cannot impose upon; and you know, mother, I am
without any ostensible property.”
“Yes, but we can calculate upon the death of cunning Alice, who, by her
undue and flagitious influence over your uncle, left you so.”
“Ay, but such a calculation would never do either with her uncle or the
lawyers. I think we have nothing to fall back upon, mother, but your own
property. If you settle that upon me everything will go right.”
“And leave myself depending upon Lindsay? No, no,” replied this selfish
and penurious woman; “never, Harry--never, never; you must wait until I
die for that. But I can tell you what we can do; let us enter upon the
negotiation--let us say for the time being that you have twelve hundred
a-year, and, while the business is proceeding, what is there to prevent
you from going to recruit your health at Balleyspellan, and kill out
Alice Goodwin there, as well as if she remained at home? By this plan,
before the negotiations are closed, you will be able to meet Miss Riddle
with twelve hundred a-year at your back. Alice Goodwin! O, how I hate
and detest her--ay, as I do hell!”
“The plan,” replied her son, “is an excellent one. We will commence
operations with Lord Cockletown and Miss Riddle, in the first place; and
having opened negotiations, as you say, I shall become unwell, and go
for a short time to try what efficacy the waters of Ballyspellan may
have on my health--or rather on my fortunes.”
“We shall visit them to-morrow,” said the mother.
“So be it,” replied the son; and to this resolution they came, which
closed the above interesting dialogue between them. We say interesting,
for if it has not been such to the reader, it was so at least to
themselves.