LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 406, 30 September 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE BANSHEE OF THE MAC SHANES.

( Concluded. )

11 an dal smiled grimly; he knew her words were false, and he resolved to keep a strict watch upon her movements during the day which had still to elapse before she became his wife.

The following night, between nine and ten o’clock, Mary once more, as in bygone days, left her father’s house secretly to meet the man whom she had deserted, and who had been but too true to her ; she walked along quickly, and in her mind there was the firm resolve never again to return to her house unless she came back as the wife of Hugh Forde ; it never for a moment occurred to her that he might not still desire to become her husband, for she judged him by herself, and she knew that, had their positions been reversed, she could have forgiven him over and over again ; but Forde was made of sterner stuff.

She had passed through the little gate of the garden, and was walking along the narrow path leading to the glen, when in her haste she ran against one of the old women who had been talking about her the night before ; the old creature believed that in the cries of the Banshee, which she affirmed she had heard on two occasions, there was danger in shore for the MacShanes, and she had been about the neighbourhood of the house since sunset, more like a restless spirit than the dreaded phantom itself.

“Miss Mary! an’is it you me tlarliu’ ?” she said, catching hold of the girl’s dress. “For the love iv the blessed Virgin this night turn back again or there’ll be murdher! Shure he’s waitin’ for ye there beyant, but what good ’ill come in yer meetin’ an’ tomorrow yer weddin’ day! Didn’t I hear the cry agin wid me own two cars as I come through the glen, an’ glory be to God this nightand she fell on her knees as she spoke and crossed herself devoutly—“there it is agin.” Mary listened, trembling in every limb, but not a sound broke the intense stillness of the summer night. Then she laughed nervously, and breaking away from the old woman continued her way along the narrow path. But, before she had gone a dozen stops, a long, low, wailing cry struck upon her ear ; it was too like the cry of a human being in the deepest agony of mental suffering to |be called unearthly ; and yet, for the first time in her life, the daughter of the MacShanes ielt inclined to believe in the Banshee, the grandest and oldest of Irish superstitions, and for generations the herald of misfortune or death to her family. “ There’s music for false footsteps !” muttered the old woman, as she looked after the fast receding figure of the girl; “ but what use to warn her ? no one can hold her back from her doom.

Standing under the same tree, which had been the scene of all their stolen meetings years before, Mary and Hugh Forde met again; but she got from him no lover’s greeting ; he could not forget that, on the morrow, she was to be the wife of another man, and he took no notice of the hand which she timidly stretched out half-way towards him ; she was surprised and startled at this reception, for she hoped he would have understood that she had loved him in spite of her seeming infidelity ; she _ never suspected that in his eyes to fail in one point was to fail in all. There was silence for a few moments, and then Mary spoke :—“ Have you nothing to say to me?” she said. “ Nothing,” he answered ; “ I came here because I could not explain to you last night that I saw no reason why wo should meet again—in private. If a certain thing happened, which has happened, your ring was to be returned to you—it has been returned. ”

“ You are cruel to me,” she said. _ “ You are not like yourself ; why did you give back the ring in that public manner ? Why not have given me an opportunity to explain

“ ]S T o explanation was necessary beyond what I saw last night. In my lonely exile I

heard that the woman whom I loved too well to drag into poverty had been faithless, tint she had outlived the memory of the vo-vs she made six years ago in this very spot, or had found it expedient to put them aside ; I travelled night and day in order to prove to those from whom the news came that you had been misjudged or slandered ; 1 longed to prove your truth, not only to myself, but to the whole world ; and although I have not yet had as much success as will be mine if I go on working for a few years more, 1 have had enough to justify me in coining forward openly to ask you to be my wife. It would bo useless to tell you how the conviction of your lidelity cheered me through many a lonely hour when I was far away, for women are too apt to ridicule the devoted love of the man whom they have foolc d for their own pleasure. What did I Hud when I reached home yesterday ? I found that in a few hours you would be the wife of my—in every sense—fortunate rival, and if I had any lingering doubts upon the subject your appearance with him last night would have dispelled them. I have now but to wish you every happiness, and to say good-bye.”

He held out his hand, apparently quite unmoved by the scared and piteous expression of her face; but, pushing it aside, she flung herself 'at his feet, and cried out,

“I will not 1 t you go with such cruel words for your last. Hugh, I swear to you that, if I had not thought you were dead, I would have been true to you. Remember that there is no intercourse between your family and ours ; remember that for six years 1 never heard from you or of you ; and he—that man —persecuted me, and my father and mother urged me to accept him; but God knows, if you do not, that I have no love him, that in my heart I have been faithful to you. ”

He looked down coldly at the sweet, pleading face, with its streaming eyes. “ It may be so,” he answered ; “ but I do not see what good it can do either of us to discuss the matter now. You have promised to bo his wife, and I cannot interfere.”

“You have no wish to do so,” she broke out passionately, her pride aroused by his tone, ‘ ‘ and I have humbled myself in vain. ” Then, breaking down suddenly, she cried rather than said, “ Oh, Hugh, to think that you could be so cruel !” She made no effort to rise from her knees, and as he wa' chcd the trouble in her face his stei’nness relaxed.

“ What can I do ?” he said more gently. “When you ask me to trust you again, Mary, you ask a hard thing; besides, tomorrow will soon be here. ”

“But you can save me from to-morrow,” she answered; “and I came here to-night to ask you to do it. Hugh, 1 hate him ! It will kill me to be his wife.”

“ My poor darling !”

It was the Hugh of old who spoke now. She rose quickly, and he held out his arms to clasp her to him ; but before she could yield to his embrace she was seized roughly by the shoulders, and Hung back some paces, while Randal Percival stood before Hugh, and heaped upon him every insulting epithet which his angry tongue could utter.

Half maddened by rage and jealousy, the two men closed with each other in a deadly struggle, but it was of short duration. A blow on the temple from Hugh’s muscular hand sent Percival down as though he had been shot, and he was dead before Forde could stoop over him to ascertain what amount of injury ho had received from the stunning blow. Leaving him lying where he fell, Hugh turned to Mary, who was crouching upon the ground, with her face hidden in her hands.

‘* I have freed you to some purpose, my poor girl,” he said, mournfully—freed you from both your lovers, for I must pay the penalty of this night’s work.” She tried to answer him, tried to implore him to save himself without the loss of a moment; but the effort was too much for her overwrought nerves, and she fainted.

He took her up—she was but a feather weight in his arms—and carried her home. The house door was still open, and he went on through the hall, and into the room where Mr and Mrs Mac Shane were sitting, anxiously awaiting the return of the servants whom they had sent to look for their daughter. Forde laid her upon the sofa, and then told the astonished father and mother what had happened. There was no incoherence in his tale ; and, bewildered as they were, they were able to understand him only too well. When he had finished, he knelt down for a moment beside the motionless form of the girl, whose broken faith had brought destruction upon the man whom she loved, and the man whom she had promised to marry. Her face, in its death-like repose, looked peaceful enough, but in the slight contraction of the brow, and the dark circles under the eyes, Forde could see traces of mental suffering, and, as he gazed upon her with dim eyes, he forgot her weakness of purpose, and remembered only that she had loved him. “ I might have been kinder to you tonight,” he whispered, sadly, as he bent down and kissed her pale lips for the last time. He was arrested next day for the murder of Randal Percival, and the only witness against him was the old woman who had tried to induce Mary not to meet him, and who had seen from a distance all that had taken place. But when the trial same on he was indicted for manslaughter only, to which lie pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to imprisonment for two years. Mary Mac Shane never rallied to con- ( sciousness again, and she died of brain-fever within a fortnight of her last fatal meeting with the man whose faithful affection deserved a better return than the weak love which had not borne the test of absence and silence ; and it is not to be wondered at if her sad and untimely end strengthened the faith of the people of the district in the warning cry of the Banshee of the MacShanes.