Читать книгу The Banshee - O'Donnell Elliott - Страница 10

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As I have remarked in a previous chapter, the Banshee to-day is heard more often abroad than in Ireland. It follows the fortunes of the true old Milesian Irishman—the real O and Mc, none of your adulterated O’Walters or O’Cassons—everywhere, even to the Poles.

Lady Wilde, in her “Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms and Superstitions of Ireland,” quotes the case of a Banshee haunting that was experienced by a branch of the Clan O’Grady that had settled in Canada.

The spot chosen by this family for their residence was singularly wild and isolated, and one night at two o’clock, when they were all in bed, they were aroused by a loud cry, coming, apparently, from just outside the house. Nothing intelligible was uttered, only a sound indicative of the greatest bitterness and sorrow, such as one might imagine a woman would give vent to, but only when in an agony of mind, almost beyond human understanding.

The effect produced by it was one of sublime terror, and all seemed to feel instinctively that the source from which it emanated was apart from this world and belonged wholly and solely to the Unknown. Nevertheless, from what Lady Wilde says, we are led to infer that an exhaustive search of the premises was made, resulting, as was expected, in complete failure to find any physical agency that could in any way account for the cry.

The following day the head of the household and his eldest son went boating on a lake near the house, and, although it was their intention to do so, did not return to dinner. Various members of the family were sent to look for them, but no trace of them was to be seen anywhere, and no solution to the mystery as to what had happened to them was forthcoming, till two o’clock that night, when, exactly twenty-four hours after the cry had been heard, some of the searchers returned, bearing with them the wet, bedraggled, and lifeless bodies of both father and son. Then, once again, the weird and ominous sound that had so startled them on the previous night was heard, and the sorrow-stricken family—that is to say, those who were left of it—agreeing now that the Banshee had indeed visited them, remembered that their beloved father, whom they had just lost, had often spoken of the Banshee, as having haunted their branch of the clan for countless generations.

Another case of Banshee haunting, that I have in mind, relates to a branch of the southern O’Neills that settled in Italy a good many years ago. It was told me in Paris by a Mrs Dempsey, who assured me she had been an eye-witness of the phenomena, and I now record it in print for the first time.

Mrs Dempsey, when staying once at an hotel in the north of Italy, noticed among the guests an elderly man, whose very marked features and intensely sad expression quickly attracted her attention. She observed that he kept entirely aloof from his fellow-guests, and that, every evening after dinner, he retired from the drawing-room, as soon as coffee had been handed round, and went outside and stood on the veranda overlooking the shore of the Adriatic.

She made inquiries as to his name and history, and was told that he was Count Fernando Asioli, a wealthy Florentine citizen, who, having but recently lost his wife, to whom he was devoted, naturally did not wish to join in the general conversation. Upon hearing this Mrs Dempsey was more than ever interested. It was not so very long since she, too, had lost her partner—a husband to whom she was much attached—and, consequently, it was in sympathetic mood that, seeing the Count go out, as usual, one evening, on to the veranda, she resolved to follow him, to try, if possible, to get into conversation with him.

With this end in view she was about to cross the threshold of the veranda, when, to her astonishment, she perceived the Count was not there alone. Standing by his side, with one hand laid caressingly on his shoulder, was a tall, slim girl, with masses of the most gorgeous red gold hair hanging loose and reaching to her waist. She was wearing an emerald green dress of some very filmy substance; but her arms and feet were bare, and stood out so clearly in the soft radiance of the moonbeams, that Mrs Dempsey, who was an artist and had studied on the Continent, noticed with a thrill that they equalled, if, indeed, they did not surpass in beauty, any she had ever come across either in Greek or Florentine sculpture.

Much perplexed as to who such a queerly attired visitor on such friendly terms with the Count could be, Mrs Dempsey remained for a second or two watching, and then, afraid lest she should attract their attention and so be caught, seemingly, in the act of spying, she withdrew.

The moment she got back again into the drawing-room, however, she made somewhat indignant inquiries of a lady who generally sat next to her at meals, as to the identity of the girl she had just seen standing beside the, said to be, heart-broken Count in an attitude of such close intimacy.

“A woman with the Count!” was the reply. “Surely not! Who can she be, and what was she like?”

Mrs Dempsey described the stranger in detail, but her friend, shaking her head, could only suggest that she was some new-comer, some guest who had arrived at the hotel, and gone on the veranda whilst they were at dinner. Feeling a little curious, however, Mrs Dempsey’s friend walked towards the veranda, and, in a very short time, returned, looking somewhat puzzled.

“You must have been mistaken,” she whispered, “there is no one with Count Asioli now, and, if anyone had come away, we should have seen them.”

“I am quite sure I did see a woman there,” Mrs Dempsey replied, “and only a minute or two ago; she must have got out somehow, although there is, apparently, no other way than through this room.”

At this moment, the Count, entering the room, took a seat beside them; and the subject, of course, had to be dropped. The next night, however, the events of the preceding night were repeated. Mrs Dempsey followed the Count on to the veranda, saw the girl in green standing with her hand on his shoulder, came back and told her neighbour at meals, and the latter, on hastening to the veranda to look, once more returned declaring that the Count was alone. After this, a slight altercation took place between the two ladies, the one declaring her belief that it was all an optical illusion on the part of the other, and the other emphatically sticking to her story that she had actually seen the girl she had described.

They parted that night, both a little ruffled, though neither would admit it, and the following night, Mrs Dempsey, as soon as she saw the Count go on to the veranda, fetched her friend.

“Now,” she said, “come with me and see for yourself.”

The two ladies, accordingly, went to the veranda and, opening the door gently, peeped in.

“There she is,” Mrs Dempsey whispered, “standing in just the same position.”

The sound of her voice, though so low as to be scarcely heard even by the lady standing beside her, seemingly attracted the attention of both the girl and the Count, for they turned round simultaneously. Then Mrs Dempsey, whose gaze was solely concentrated on the girl, saw a face of almost indescribable beauty—possessing neatly chiselled, but by no means coldly classical features, long eyes of a marvellous blue, a smooth broad brow, and delicately and subtly moulded mouth; it was the face of a young girl, barely out of her teens, and it was filled with an expression of infinite sorrow and affection.

Mrs Dempsey was so enraptured that, to quote her own words, she “stood gazing at it in speechless awe and amazement,” and might, perhaps, have been gazing at it still, had not the voice of the Count called her back to earth.

“I hope, ladies,” he was saying, “that you do not see anything unusually disturbing in my appearance to-night, for I undoubtedly seem to be the object of your solicitude. May I ask why?”

Though he spoke quite politely, even the dullest could have seen that he was more than a little annoyed. Mrs Dempsey therefore hastened to reply.

“It is not you,” she stammered out, “it is the lady—the lady you have with you. I—I fancied I knew her.”

“The lady I have with me,” the Count exclaimed, in accents of cold surprise. “Kindly explain what you mean?”

“Why the lady——” Mrs Dempsey began, and then she glanced round.

The Count was standing in front of her—but he was quite alone. There was no vestige of a girl in green, nor of any other person on the veranda saving themselves, and immediately beneath it, at a distance of at least thirty feet, glimmered the white shingles of the silent and deserted—utterly deserted—seashore.

“She’s gone,” Mrs Dempsey cried, “but I’m positive I saw her—a lady in green standing beside you.” Then, for the first time, she felt afraid, and trembled.

The Count, who had been observing her very closely, now advanced a step or two towards her, and in a very different tone said:

“Will you please describe the lady? Was she old or young, dark or fair?”

“Young and fair, very fair,” Mrs Dempsey exclaimed. “But please come inside, for I’ve received something of a shock, and can, perhaps, talk to you better in the gaslight, with people near at hand whom I know are human beings.”