Sorra a wink o’ sleep could I get the night,” groaned the wife of
O’Daly--Mrs. Fergus--“what with me man muthered, an’ me daughter
drowned, an’ me nerves that disthracted ’t was past the power of hot
dhrink to abate em.”
It was early morning in the reception hall of the convent. The old nuns
sat on their bench in a row, blinking in the bright light which poured
through the casement as they gazed at their visitor, and tortured their
unworldly wits over the news she brought. The young chaplain, Father
Jago, had come in from the mass, still wearing soutane and beretta. He
leaned his burly weight against the mantel, smiling inwardly at thoughts
of breakfast, but keeping his heavy face drawn in solemn lines to fit
these grievous tidings.
The mother superior sighed despairingly, and spoke in low, quavering
tones. “Here, too, no one sleeps a wink,” she said. “Ah, thin, ’t is
too much sorrow for us! By rayson of our years we’ve no stringth to bear
it.”
“Ah--sure--’t is different wid you,” remarked Mrs. Fergus. “You’ve no
proper notion of the m’aning of sleep. Faith, all your life you’ve been
wakened bechune naps by your prayer-bell. ’T is no throuble to you.
You’re accustomed to ’t. But wid me--if I’ve me rest broken, I’m
killed entirely. ’T is me nerves!”
“Ay, them nerves of yours--did I ever hear of ’em before?” put in
Mother Agnes, with a momentary gleam of carnal delight in combat on her
waxen face. Then sadness resumed its sway. “Aye, aye, Katie! Katie!” she
moaned, slowly shaking her vailed head. “Child of our prayers, daughter
of the White Foam, pride of the O’Mahonys, darlin’ of our hearts--what
ailed ye to l’ave us?”
The mother superior’s words quavered upward into a wail as they ended.
The sound awakened the ancestral “keening” instinct in the other aged
nuns, and stirred the thin blood in their veins. They broke forth in
weird lamentations.
“Her hair was the glory of Desmond, that weighty and that fine!” chanted
Sister Ellen. “Ah, wirra, wirra!”
“She had it from me,” said Mrs. Fergus, her hand straying instinctively
to her crimps. Her voice had caught the mourning infection: “Ah-hoo!
Katie Avourneen,” she wailed in vocal sympathy. “Come back to us,
darlint!”
“She’d the neck of the Swan of the Lake of Three Castles!” mumbled
Sister Blanaid. “’T was that same was said of Grace O’Sullivan--the
bride of The O’Mahony of Ballydivlin--an’ he was kilt on the strand
benayth the walls--an’ she lookin’ on wid her grand black eyes--”
“Is it floatin’ in the waves ye are, _ma creevin cno_--wid the fishes
surroundin’ ye?” sobbed Mrs. Fergus.
Sister Blanaid’s thick tongue took up the keening again. “’T was I
druv her out! ‘Go ’long wid ye,’ says I, ‘an’ t’row that haythen box o’
yours into the bay’--an’ she went and t’rew her purty self in instead;
woe an’ prosthration to this house!--an’ may the Lord--”
Father Jago at this took his elbow from the mantel and straightened
himself. “Whisht, now, aisy!” he said, in a tone of parental authority.
“There’s modheration in all things. Sure ye haven’t a scintilla
of evidence that there’s annyone dead at all. Where’s the sinse of
laminting a loss ye’re not sure of--and that, too, on an impty stomach?”
“Nevir bite or sup more will I take till I’ve tidings of her!’ said the
mother superior.
“The more rayson why I’ll not be waiting longer for ye now,” commented
the priest; and with this he left the room. As he closed the door behind
him, a grateful odor of frying bacon momentarily spread upon the air.
Mrs. Fergus sniffed it, and half rose from her seat; but the nuns clung
resolutely to their theme, and she sank back again.
“’T is my belafe,” Sister Ellen began, “that voice we heard, ’t is
from no Hostage at all--’t is the banshee of the O’Mahonys.”
The mother superior shook her head.
“Is it likely, thin, Ellen O’Mahony,” she queried, “that _our_ banshee
would be distressed for an O’Daly? Sure the grand noise was made whin
Cormac himself disappeared.”
“His marryin’ me--’t is clear enough that putt him in the family,” said
Mrs. Fergus. “’T would be flat injustice to me to ’ve my man go an’
never a keen raised for him. I’ll stand on me rights for that much Agnes
O’Mahony.”
“A fine confusion ye’d have of it, thin,” retorted the mother superior.
“The O’Dalys have their own banshee--she sat up her keen in Kilcrohane
these hundreds of years--and for ours to be meddlin’ because she’s
merely related by marriage--sure, ’t would not be endured.”
The dubious problem of a family banshee’s duties has never been
elucidated beyond this point, for on the instant there came a violent
ringing of the big bell outside, the hoarse clangor of which startled
the women into excited silence. A minute later, the white-capped lame
old woman-servant threw open the door.
A young man, with a ruddy, smiling face and a carriage of boyish
confidence, entered the room. He cast an inquiring glance over the
group. Then recognizing Mrs. Fergus, he gave a little exclamation of
pleasure, and advanced toward her with outstretched hand.
“Why, how do you do, Mrs. O’Daly?” he exclaimed, cordially shaking her
hand. “Pray keep your seat. I’m just playing in luck to find _you_ here.
Won’t you--eh---be kind enough to--eh--introduce me?”
“’T is a young gintleman from Ameriky, Mr. O’Mahony by name,” Mrs.
Fergus stammered, flushed with satisfaction in his remembrance, but
doubtful as to the attitude of the nuns.
The ladies of the Hostage’s Tears had drawn themselves into as much
dignified erectness as their age and infirmities permitted. They eyed
this amazing new-comer in mute surprise. Mother Agnes, after the
first shock at the invasion, nodded frostily in acknowledgment of his
respectful bow.
“Get around an’ spake to her in her north ear,” whispered Mrs. Fergus;
“she can’t hear ye in the other.”
Bernard had been long enough in West Carbery to comprehend her meaning.
In that strange old district there is no right or left, no front or
back--only points of the compass. A gesture from Mrs. Fergus helped him
now to guess where the north might lie in matters auricular.
“I didn’t stand on ceremony,” he said, laying his hat on the table and
drawing off his gloves. “I’ve driven over post-haste from Skibbereen
this morning--the car’s outside--and I rushed in here the first thing.
I--I hope sincerely that I’m in time.”
“‘In toime?’” the superior repeated, in a tone of annoyed mystification.
“That depinds entoirely, sir, on your own intintions. I’ve no
information, sir, as to either who you are or what you’re afther doing.”
“No, of course not,” said Bernard, in affable apology. “I ought to have
thought of that. I’ll explain things, ma’am, if you’ll permit me. As I
said, I’ve just raced over this morning from Skibbereen.”
Mother Agnes made a stately inclination of her vailed head.
“You had a grand morning for your drive,” she said.
“I didn’t notice,” the young man replied, with a frank smile. “I was too
busy thinking of something else. The truth is, I spent last evening with
the bishop.”
Again the mother superior bowed slightly.
“An estimable man,” she remarked, coldly.
“Oh, yes; nothing could have been friendlier,” pursued Bernard, “than
the way he treated me. And the day before that I was at Cashel, and had
a long talk with the archbishop. He’s a splendid old gentleman, too. Not
the least sign of airs or nonsense about him.”
Mother Agnes rose.
“I’m deloighted to learn that our higher clergy prodhuce so favorable an
impression upon you,” she said, gravely; “but, if you’ll excuse us, sir,
this is a house of mourning, and our hearts are heavy wid grief, and
we’re not in precisely the mood--”
Bernard spoke in an altered tone:
“Oh! I beg a thousand pardons! Mourning, did you say? May I ask--”
Mrs. Fergus answered his unspoken question.
“Don’t you know it, thin? ’T is me husband, Cormac O’Daly. Sure
he’s murdhered an’ his body’s nowhere to be found, an’ the poliss are
scourin’ all the counthry roundabout, an’ there’s a long account of ’t in
the _Freeman_ sint from Bantry, an’ more poliss have been dhrafted
into Muirisc, an’ they’ve arrested Jerry Higgins and that long-shanked,
shiverin’ _omadhaun_ of a cousin of his. ’T is known they had a
tellgram warnin’ thim not to be afraid--”
“Oh, by George! Well, this _is_ rich!”
The young man’s spontaneous exclamations brought the breathless
narrative of Mrs. Fergus to an abrupt stop. The women gazed at him in
stupefaction. His rosy and juvenile face had, at her first words, worn a
wondering and puzzled expression. Gradually, as she went on, a light
of comprehension had dawned in his eyes. Then he had broken in upon her
catalogue of woes with a broad grin on his face.
“Igad, this _is_ rich!” he repeated. He put his hands in his pockets,
withdrew them, and then took a few steps up and down the room, chuckling
deeply to himself.
The power of speech came first to Mother Agnes. “If ’t is to
insult our griefs you’ve come, young sir,” she began; “if that’s your
m’aning--”
“Bless your heart, madam!” Bernard protested. “I’d be the last man in
the world to dream of such a thing. I’ve too much respect. I’ve an aunt
who is a religious, myself. No, what I mean is it’s all a joke--that is,
a mistake. O’Daly isn’t dead at all.”
“What’s that you’re sayin’?” put in Mrs. Fergus, sharply. “Me man is
aloive, ye say?”
“Why, of course”--the youngster went off into a fresh fit of
chuckling--“of course, he is--alive and kicking. Yes, especially
kicking!”
“The Lord’s mercy on us!” said the mother superior. “And where would
Cormac be, thin!”
“Well, that’s another matter. I don’t know that I can tell you just
now; but, take my word for it, he’s as alive as I am, and he’s perfectly
safe, too.”
The astonished pause which followed was broken by the mumbling monologue
of poor half-palsied Sister Blanaid:
“I putt the box in her hands, an’ I says, says I: ‘Away wid ye, now, an’
t’row it into the say!’ An’ thin she wint.”
The other women exchanged startled glances. In their excitement they had
forgotten about Kate.
Before they could speak, Bernard, with a mystified glance at the
spluttering old lady, had taken up the subject of their frightened
thoughts.
“But what I came for,” he said, looking from one to the other, “what I
was specially in a stew about, was to get here before--before Miss
Kate had taken her vows. The ceremony was set down for to-day, as I
understand. Perhaps I’m wrong; but that’s why I asked if I was in time.”
“You _are_ in time,” answered Mother Agnes, solemnly.
Her sepulchral tone jarred upon the young man’s ear. Looking into
the speaker’s pallid, vail-framed face, he was troubled vaguely by a
strange, almost sinister significance in her glance.
“You’re in fine time,” the mother superior repeated, and bowed her head.
“Man alive!” Mrs. Fergus exclaimed, rising and leaning toward him.
“You’ve no sinse of what you’re saying. Me daughter’s gone, too!”
“‘Gone!’ How gone? What do you mean?” Bernard gazed in blank
astonishment into the vacuous face of Mrs. Fergus. Mechanically he
strode toward her and took her hand firmly in his.
“Where has she gone to?” he demanded, as his scattered wits came under
control again. “Do you mean that she’s run away? Can’t you speak?”
Mrs. Fergus, thus stoutly adjured, began to whimper:
“They sint her from here--’t was always harsh they were wid her--ye
heard Sister Blanaid yerself say they sint her--an’ out she wint to walk
under the cliffs--some byes of Peggy Clancy saw her go--an’ she never
came back through the long night--an’ me wid no wink o’ sleep--an’ me
nerves that bad!”
Overcome by her emotions, Mrs. Fergus, her hand still in Bernard’s
grasp, bent forward till her crimps rested on the young man’s shoulder.
She moved her forehead gingerly about till it seemed certain that the
ornaments were sustaining no injury. Then she gave her maternal feelings
full sway and sobbed with fervor against the coat of the young man from
Houghton County.
“Don’t cry, Mrs. O’Daly,” was all Bernard could think of to say.
The demonstration might perhaps have impressed him had he not perforce
looked over the weeping lady’s head straight into the face of the mother
superior. There he saw written such contemptuous incredulity that he
himself became conscious of skepticism.
“_Don’t_ take on so!” he urged, this time less gently, and strove to
disengage himself.
But Mrs. Fergus clung to his hand and resolutely buried her face against
his collar. Sister Ellen had risen to her feet beside Mother Agnes,
and he heard the two nuns sniff indignantly. Then he realized that the
situation was ridiculous.
“What is it you suspect?” he asked of the mother superior, eager to make
a diversion of some kind.
“You can’t be imagining that harm’s come to Miss Kate--that she ’s
drowned?”
“That same _was_ our belafe,” said Mother Agnes, glaring icily upon him
and his sobbing burden.
The inference clearly was that the spectacle before her affronted
eyes had been enough to overturn all previous convictions, of whatever
character.
Bernard hesitated no longer. He almost wrenched his hand free and then
firmly pushed Mrs. Fergus away.
“It’s all nonsense,” he said, assuming a confidence he did not wholly
feel. “She’s no more drowned than I am.”
“Faith, I had me fears for _you_, wid such a dale of tears let loose
upon ye,” remarked Mother Agnes, dryly.
The young man looked straight into the reverend countenance of the
superior and confided to it an audacious wink.
“I’ll be back in no time,” he said, taking up his hat. “Now don’t you
fret another bit. She’s all right. I know it. And I’ll go and find her.”
And with that he was gone.
An ominous silence pervaded the reception hall. The two nuns, still
standing, stared with wrathful severity at Mrs. Fergus. She bore their
gaze with but an indifferent show of composure, patting her disordered
crimps with an awkward hand, and then moving aimlessly across the room.
“I’ll be going now, I’m thinking,” she said, at last, yet lingered in
spite of her words.
The nuns looked slowly at one another, and uttered not a word.
“Well, thin, ’t is small comfort I have, annyway, or consolation
either, from the lot of ye,” Mrs. Fergus felt impelled to remark,
drawing her shawl up on her head and walking toward the door. “An’ me
wid me throubles, an’ me nerves.”
“Is it consolation you’re afther?” retorted Mother Agnes, bitterly.
“I haven’t the proper kind of shoulder on me for _your_ variety of
consolation.”
“Thrue ye have it, Agnes O’Mahony,” Mrs. Fergus came back, with her
hand on the latch. “An’ by the same token, thim shoulders were small
consolation to you yourself, till you got your nun’s vail to hide
’em!”
When she had flounced her way out, the mother superior remained
standing, her gaze bent upon the floor.
“Sister Ellen,” she said at last, “me powers are failing me. ’T is
time I laid down me burden. For the first time in me life I was unayqual
to her impiddence.”