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.”
