The Evil Eye; Or, The Black Spector Part 38

"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 G.o.d forbid," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the cook, "for it's herself, the darlin'

girl, that 'ud be the bitther loss to the poor and dest.i.tute."

This kind e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n 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 G.o.d, 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 superst.i.tion. 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 circ.u.mstance 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 a.s.sociations 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 circ.u.mstance 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 superst.i.tious 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 antic.i.p.ations.

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 circ.u.mstances.

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 a.s.sure 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 d.a.m.ned 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 circ.u.mstances should produce a beneficial effect upon her, then how do I stand?"