Evening approached, and Nora and her cousin sat in the tower chamber
overlooking the ocean. They neither of them felt disposed to go to
sleep. The night was calm and lovely, the atmosphere unclouded. The
stars shone forth brightly, and the light crescent moon was reflected in
the waters below. The reef of rocks on the other side of the bay could
be distinguished, and the lofty headlands beyond it stood out in bold
relief against the sky, while to their extreme right they could see the
whole sweep of the bay and the lofty downs above it. It is not
surprising that they should have been unwilling to tear themselves away
from such a scene. It calmed their agitated feelings, for Nora could
not conceal from herself that one of the kindest of fathers was about to
be taken from her, while Lady Sophy, almost friendless as she was, felt
that she was about to lose her best protector. She could, it was true,
live on with her cousin Nora, and watch over her, as she had ever done,
like an elder sister over one far younger than herself. Already, Lady
Sophy's early beauty had completely departed. There was the same
outline of feature, and the same elegant figure, but her countenance
wore that sad expression (too often to be seen marking the features of
the once young and lovely) of disappointed affection, of blighted hopes.
Thus they sat on, hour after hour. A dark shadow passed across the
moon, and threw a gloom over the hitherto bright landscape. Suddenly
they were startled by a loud, wild shriek. It seemed to come from far
away across the ocean. Now it swelled into a high note of wailing; now
it sank into a mournful tone of grief. Again and again that strange
sound struck their ears.
"The banshee!" exclaimed Nora, placing her hand on Sophy's shoulder with
alarm. "Surely I have always believed that it was a mere superstition
of the ignorant peasantry--a phantom of the imagination; but here is a
dreadful reality. Yes, it surely must be the banshee, and what does it
forebode? Sophy, you know too well, and so do I. Perhaps it is sent in
mercy, to warn and prepare us for that dreadful event. But ought we not
to have been prepared already? The last words my dear father spoke to
me were sufficient to make me feel he was aware of the great change
about to take place. Let us hasten to him. Perhaps even now his spirit
is departing, and I would be at his side at that awful moment."
"Stay, Nora," said Sophy; "I do not believe in the banshee, or any other
being of the sort. I see no figure, and even did I, I should not be
convinced that it was a being of another world. I know that many
believe such things exist. Some think they are sent in kindness;
others, that they are rather evil spirits permitted to disturb the
parting hours of the dying; but that, at all events, I am sure is not
the case. Let us watch a short time longer. Depend upon it, we are
deceived in some way."
"Oh, no, no!" exclaimed Nora, pointing towards the nearest part of the
beach which was visible. "See that phantom figure moving across the
sands! Surely that must be the banshee! What else?"
"No, dear Nora, calm yourself," answered Sophy. "Do not you recognise
the figure of poor mad Kathleen? She must have uttered those cries as
she passed under the castle walls. She must have come to ask after the
Earl, and, as bad news flies fast, she has probably been told he is
sinking rapidly. So, as she has received many a kindness from the
family, she is giving vent to her grief in those wild, unearthly screams
and cries."
"You are right, Sophy," answered Nora, "but, for the moment, I could not
help believing in the existence of the wild phantom we have read of and
heard so often about in our younger days from the surrounding cottagers.
Yes, I see it is poor Kathleen. I trust my poor father has not heard
it, for, in his weak state, it might have a bad effect upon his nerves.
Yet he certainly does not believe in the existence of the banshee."
The poor girls had not long to watch before they were again summoned,
and this time it was to stand by the dying bed of the Earl. Holding the
hand of his daughter, which he gently pressed, he breathed his last,
with scarcely a sigh, and evidently without any pain or suffering. Mr
Jamieson, who had been summoned, stood by him. "He rests in peace," he
said; "he trusted in One all-powerful to save, though he made but little
profession of his faith."
Poor Nora was led from the death-bed of her father to her own room, but
it was long before she could find vent for her grief in tears. Her
cousin Sophy had long ceased to weep. Those who have suffered great
unhappiness, whose fondest affections have been blighted, as hers had
been, often find it impossible again to gain relief by weeping. Such
was her case. She mourned the loss of the Earl, as much as did her
cousin, but it was in a different way. Not a tear dropped from her eye.
She found no vent for all she felt. Nora, on the contrary, exhibited
her grief far more violently, and thus, perhaps, the sooner regained
tranquillity.
Mr Finlayson, as he had promised the Earl, acted the part of a kind
father to her. He treated her as a petted child, spoke words of comfort
to her on all occasions, and tried by every means to raise her spirits.
Often he succeeded in doing so, and she could not help expressing a wish
that he could remain at the castle, instead of returning to Dublin.
"Well, well," he answered, "I will do my best to please you, my dear
young lady. I have a son and grandson well able to attend to my
business, and as long as I am not required at home, you shall have the
benefit of my company."
In those days the burial of even a peasant was attended with much
parade, and any family would have been thought mean unless the body of
their deceased relative was properly waked. Although the corpse of a
Protestant Earl had not to go through this ceremony, yet it would have
been looked upon as a great disgrace to the family had not all the
neighbours been invited from far and near to attend the funeral, and be
sumptuously feasted. Had Nora been consulted she would gladly have
avoided anything of the sort. Mr Finlayson declared, however, that it
was not the day to break through their old customs, and, for the credit
of the family, they must issue the usual invitations. Nora and Sophy,
however, begged that they might be allowed to keep their rooms, although
Nora had been anxious to attend her father to the grave. This it was
arranged she should do in a private carriage. When the day arrived,
however, from far and near came squires and squireens, and farmers and
peasants, in all sorts of conveyances, the larger number being on
horseback, while several friends of the deceased nobleman arrived from a
distance to pay their last respects to his remains.
It was a sad sight, even to Nora; but she resolved to go through with
what she thought was required of her, and then she hoped to be allowed
to remain at rest for many a long day. The parish church, in which the
tomb of the family was situated, was about three miles off; and after
the guests had been regaled at breakfast with wines of all sorts for the
upper classes, and whisky, which flowed in profusion, for the lower,
they mounted their horses, and entered their conveyances, to follow the
hearse decorated with the usual trappings of mourning. Behind the
hearse, in a mourning carriage, sat Nora and her cousin, closely veiled.
Poor girls, how differently they felt to the mixed multitude who
followed them. Their guests gave way to their usual habit of talking
and laughing as they rode along. The events of the day were discussed.
The good qualities of the late Earl; the prospects of his obtaining a
son-in-law who might take his place and do the honours of the castle;
the beauty of his fair daughter; and especially, the state of his
finances. Few would have supposed that the lively and animated
collection of men, who rode along in every variety of costume, were
assembled there to pay the last honours to a deceased noble. They were
silent, however, as they assembled round the grave. Some perhaps for
the first time had then heard the burial service of the Protestant
Church, as a large proportion of the guests were themselves Romanists;
some perhaps were struck with what they heard; others probably attended
to little that was said. Nora and her cousin stood close to the grave,
closely veiled as before; and as Nora gazed for the last time upon the
coffin of her beloved father, her heart sank within her, and she felt a
longing to follow him to his quiet resting-place.
Again they made for the castle, and all restraint now being removed,
laughing and joking was the order of the day. Some even, as the wine
flowed faster, gave way to snatches of songs, while the last meets were
fully discussed, and the prospects of the next year's harvest. It is
scarcely necessary to describe the events which took place at the
castle. A considerable number of the guests had no little difficulty in
mounting their horses on their return home, from the generous liquor
which they had imbibed out of the late Earl's cellars. Their great
grief seemed to be, that there was no heir to succeed him, and to assist
in keeping up the neighbouring hunt. At length the castle was once more
at rest.
Mr Finlayson set earnestly to work to arrange the affairs of the young
heiress. The steward, and those who were employed by him, had generally
acted honestly; but as he made inquiries about the tenants, many were in
arrear with rent, and he saw that some effort must be made to compel
them to pay. He called the steward in for a consultation.
"You give very good advice, Mr Finlayson; but I will just ask you, as a
Scotchman said, `Who is to bell the cat?' You know, surely, that to
attempt to distrain for rent on some of these gentlemen would assuredly
bring a bullet through your brain or mine. It is not an easy matter to
get money out of an Irishman when he is determined not to pay, and it is
not for you or me, if we are wise men, to push the matter too hard. I
will do my best and go among them, and put it to them, whether they
would like to deprive the young heiress of her property. Perhaps,
though they will not yield to force, they may to persuasion, and I am
thankful to say, we still retain in old Ireland, the gift of blarney.
You see, sir, we shall get much more out of them in that way. I will
just ask them if they would like to attack a young lady and rifle her
pockets. Put it thus to them, and show them that if they keep back the
money they are doing the same thing. Now, we shall see, if I go on this
plan, whether those who can pay will pay, while those who cannot pay, it
is very evident, will not do so; but to my mind, there is no use turning
a man adrift in the world if you can help it. A better day may come,
and then he may prove a good tenant. If you turn him out of one
property he will just build a hut in another corner of the land, and you
will have him there starving before your eyes, and you will not be the
better for the move."
"Well, well, O'Connor, you are a wise man, I see. I will let you have
your way in that respect. We will do nothing to create an ill-feeling
against the dear young mistress, and it is for you and I who are engaged
to serve her to look after her interests. I wish she had a good husband
to help her; but it is my belief, from what I see here, that there is
not a young man in the country at all fit for her. She is a good,
gentle creature, and were she to wed one of the rollicking, harum-scarum
young fellows who are her equals, he would break her heart; and staying
at home as she does, she is not likely to meet any others, while even
abroad she saw no one to care for, or, at least, no one appeared, so
perhaps she will continue to live a maiden life, and if so, she will
require your assistance and mine as long as I remain in the world."
Nora and Sophy were relieved from much anxiety by the continued
residence of the kind Mr Finlayson at the castle. He was so lively, so
full of conversation and anecdotes, so kind and judicious at the same
time. He raised their spirits more than any one else could have done.
A young man would have been out of place. Even kind, gentle Miss
O'Reilly, when she came over, though she talked very pleasantly, could
do little to animate them. Mr Jamieson performed his part as well as
he could, but he was not very animated; he was more inclined to speak in
a serious than lively strain.