"We heard this very day, Tate; he is perfectly well."

"And Master Lionel--the captain, I mane--but I only think he's a child still."

"Quite well, too," said Helen. "Don't alarm yourself, Tate; you know how sadly the wind can sigh through these old walls at times, and under the yew-trees, too, it sounds drearily; I 've shuddered to myself often, as I 've heard it."

"G.o.d grant it!" said old Tate, piously; but the shake of his head and the muttering sounds between his teeth attested that he laid no such flattering unction to his heart as mere disbelief might offer. "'T is n't a death-cry, anyhow, Miss Helen," whispered he to Miss Darcy, as he moved towards the door; "for I went down to the back of the abbey, where Sir Everard was buried, and all was still there."

"Well, go to bed now, Tate, and don't think more about it; if the wind--"

"Ah! the wind! the wind!" said he, querulously; "that's the way it always is,--as if G.o.d Almighty had no other way of talking to our hearts than the cry of the night-wind."

"Well, Captain Forester, what success? Have you confronted the spectre?"

said Lady Eleanor, as he re-entered the apartment.

"Except having fallen into a holly-bush, where I rivalled the complaining accents of the old witch, I have no adventure to recount; all is perfectly still and tranquil without."

"You have got your cheek scratched for following the siren," said Lady Eleanor, laughing; "pray put another log on the fire, it is fearfully chilly here."

Old Tate withdrew slowly and unwillingly; he saw that his intelligence had failed to produce a proper sense of terror on their minds; and his own load of anxiety was heavier, from want of partic.i.p.ation.

The conversation, by that strange instinct which influences the least as well as the most credulous people, now turned on the superst.i.tions of the peasantry, and many a legend and story were remembered by Lady Eleanor and her daughter, in which these popular beliefs formed a chief feature.

"It is unfair and unwise," said Lady Eleanor, at the conclusion of one of these stories, "to undervalue such influences; the sailor, who pa.s.ses his life in dangers, watches the elements with an eye and an air that training have rendered almost preternaturally observant, and he sees the sign of storm where others would but mark the glow of a red sunset; so among a primitive people communing much with their own hearts in solitary, unfrequented places, imagination becomes developed in undue proportion, and the mind seeks relief in creative efforts from the wearying sense of loneliness; but even these are less idle fancies than conclusions come to from long and deep thought. Some strange process of a.n.a.logy would seem the parent of superst.i.tions which we know to be common to all lands."

"Which means, that you half believe in a Banshee!" said Forester, smiling.

"Not so; but that I cannot consent to despise the frame of mind which suggests these beliefs, although I have no faith in the apparitions.

Poor Tate, there, had never dreamed of hearing the Banshee cry if some painful thought of impending misfortune had not suggested her presence; his fears may not be unfounded, although the form they take be preternatural."

"I protest against all such plausibilities," said Helen. "I 'm for the Banshee, as the Republicans say in France, 'one and indivisible.' I 'll not accept of natural explanations. Mr. Bagenal Daly says, we may well believe in spirits, when we put faith in the mere ghost of a Parliament."

"Helen is throwing out a bait for a political discussion," said Lady Eleanor, laughing, "and so I 'll even say good night, Captain Forester, and pleasant dreams of the Banshee."

Forester rose and took his leave, which, somehow, was colder than usual.

His mother's counsels had got possession of his mind, and distrust perverted every former source of pleasure.

"Her manner is all coquetry," said he, angrily, to himself, as he walked towards his room.

Poor fellow! and what if it were? Coquetry is but a gilding, to be sure; but it can never be well laid on if the substance beneath is not a precious metal.

There was, at the place where the river opened into the sea, a small inlet of the bay guarded by two bold and rocky headlands, between which the tide swept with uncommon violence, acc.u.mulating in time a kind of bar, over which, even in calm weather, the waves were lashed into breakers, while the waters within were still as a mountain lake. The ancient ruin we have already alluded to pa.s.singly, stood on a little eminence fronting this small creek, and although unmarked by any architectural beauty, or any pretensions, save the humble possession of four rude walls pierced by narrow windows, and a low doorway formed of three large stones, was yet, in the eyes of the country people, endowed with some superior holiness,--so it is certain the little churchyard around bespoke. It was crowded with graves, whose humble monuments consisted in wooden crosses, decorated in recent cases with little garlands of paper or wild flowers, as piety or affection suggested. The fragments of ship-timber around showed that they who slept beneath had been mostly fishermen, for the chapel was peculiarly esteemed by them; and at the opening of the fishing season a ma.s.s was invariably offered here for the success of the herring-fishery, by a priest from a neighboring parish, whose expenses were willingly and liberally rewarded by the fishermen.

In exact proportion with the reverence in which this spot was regarded by day was the fear and dread entertained of it by night. Stories of ghosts and evil spirits were rife far and near of that lonely ruin, and the hardiest seamen, who would brave the wild waves of the Atlantic, would not venture alone within these deserted walls after dark. Helen remembered, as a child, having been once there after sunset, induced by an intense curiosity to hear or see something of those sounds and shapes her nurse had told of, and what alarm her absence created among the household increased when it was discovered where she had been.

The same strange desire to hear if it might be that sad and wailing voice which all had so distinctly heard in the drawing-room, led her, when she had wished her mother good-night, to leave her chamber, and, crossing the flower-garden, to descend to the beach by a small door which opened to a little pathway down to the sea. When the superst.i.tions whose terrors have affrighted childhood are either conquered by reason or uprooted by worldly influence, they still leave behind them a strange pa.s.sion for the marvellous, which in imaginative temperaments is frequently greatly developed, and becomes a great source of enjoyment or suffering to its possessor. Helen Darcy's nature was of this kind, and she would gladly have accepted all the tremors and terrors of her nursery days to feel once again that intense awe, that anxious heart-beating expectancy, a ghost story used to create within her.

The night was calm and starlit, the sea was tranquil and unruffled, except where the bar broke the flow of the tide, and marked by a long line of foam the struggling breakers, whose hoa.r.s.e plash was heard above the rippling on the strand. Even in the rocky caves all was still, not an echo resounded within those dreary caverns where at times the thunder's self was not louder. Helen reached the little churchyard; she knew every path and foot-track through it, and at last, strolling leisurely onward, entered the ruin and sat down within the deep window that looked over the sea.

For some time her attention was directed seaward, watching the waves as they reflected back the spangled heaven, or sank again in dark shadow, when suddenly she perceived the figure of a man, who appeared slowly pacing the beach immediately beneath where she sat.

What could have brought any one there at such an hour she could not imagine; and however few her terrors of the world of spirits, she would gladly at this moment have been safe within the abbey. While she debated with herself how to act--whether to remain in her present concealment, or venture on a sudden flight--the figure halted exactly under the window. Her doubts and fears were now speedily resolved, for she perceived it was Forester, who, induced by the beauty of the night, had thus strolled out upon the sh.o.r.e. "What if I should put his courageous incredulity to the test?" thought Helen; "the moment is propitious now.

I could easily imitate the cry of the Banshee!" The temptation was too strong to be resisted, and without further thought she uttered a low, thrilling wail, in an accent of most touching sorrow. Forester started and looked up, but the dark walls were in deep shadow; whatever his real feelings at the moment, he lost no time in clambering up the bank on which the ruin stood, and from which he rightly judged the sound proceeded. Helen was yet uncertain whether to attribute this step to terror or the opposite, when she heard his foot as he traversed the thickly-studded graveyard,--a moment more, and he would be in the church itself, where he could not fail to discover her by her white dress. But one chance offered of escape, which was to leap from the window down upon the strand: it was deeper than she fancied, nearly twice her own height; but then detection, for more than one good reason, was not to be thought of.

Helen was not one of those who long hesitate when their minds are to be made up; she slipped noiselessly between the stone mullion and the side of the window, and sprang out; unfortunately one foot turned on a small stone, and she fell on the sand, while a slight accent of pain unconsciously broke from her. Before she could rise, Forester was beside her; with one arm round her waist, he half pressed, as he a.s.sisted her to recover her feet.

"So, fair spirit," said he, jocularly, "I have tracked you, it would seem;" then, for the first time discovering it was Helen, he muttered in a different tone, "I ask pardon, Miss Darcy; I really did not know--"

"I am sure of that, Captain Forester," said she, disengaging herself from his aid. "I certainly deserve a lesson for my silly attempt to frighten you, and I believe I have sprained my ankle. Will you kindly send Florence to me?"

"I cannot leave you here alone, Miss Darcy; pray take my arm, and let me a.s.sist you back to the abbey."

The tone of deference he now spoke in, and the increasing pain, concurred to persuade her, and she accepted the proffered a.s.sistance.

"The absurdity of this adventure is not repaid by the pleasure of having frightened you," said she, laughing; "if I could only say how terrified you were--"

"You might indeed have said so," interrupted Forester, "had I guessed the figure I saw leap out was yours."

"It was even higher than I thought," said she, avoiding to remark the fervent accents in which these words were spoken.

Forester was silent; his heart was full to bursting; the pa.s.sion so lately dashed by doubts and suspicions returned with tenfold force now that he felt her arm within his own as step by step they moved along.

"You are in great pain, I fear," said he, tremulously.

"No, not now. I am so much more ashamed of my folly than a sufferer from it that I could forgive the sprain if I could the silly notion that caused it. 'Twas an unlucky fancy, to say the least of it."

Again there was a pause, and although they walked but slowly, they were fast approaching the little gate that opened into the flower-garden.

Forester was silent. "Was it from this cause, or by some secret freemasonry of the female heart that she suspected what was pa.s.sing in his mind, and exerted herself to move on more rapidly?

"Take time, Miss Darcy; not so fast; if not for your sake, for mine at least."

The last few words were scarcely above a whisper, but every one of them reached her to whom they were addressed; whether affecting not to hear them, or preferring to mistake their meaning, Helen made no answer.

"I said for _my_ sake," resumed he, with a courage that demanded all his energy, "because on these few moments the whole fortune of my future life is placed. I love you."

"Nay, Captain Forester," said she, smiling, "this is not quite fair; I failed in my attempt to terrify you, and have paid the penalty: let there not be a further one of my listening to what I should not hear."

"And why not hear it, Helen? Is the devotion of one even humble as I am, a thing to offend? Is it the less sincere that I feel how much you are above me in every way? Will not my very presumption prove how fervent is the pa.s.sion that has made me forget all save itself,--all save you?"

Truth has its own accents, however weak the words it syllables. Helen laughed not now, but walked on with quicker steps; while the youth, the barrier once pa.s.sed, poured forth with heartfelt eloquence his tale of love, recalling to her mind by many a slight, unnoticed trait, his long-pledged devotion; how he had watched and worshipped her, seeking to win favor in her eyes, and seem not all unworthy of her heart.

"It is true," said he, "I cannot, dare not, ask in return for an affection which should repay my own; but let me hope that what I now speak, the devotion I pledge, is no rejected offering; that although you care not for me, you will not crush forever one who lives but in your smile, that you will give me time to show myself more worthy of the prize I strive for. There is no trial I would not dare--"

"I must interrupt you, Captain Forester," said Helen, with a voice that all her efforts had not rendered quite steady; "it would be an ungenerous requital for the sentiments you say you feel--"

"Say!--nay, Helen, I swear it, by every hope that now thrills within me--"

"It would be," resumed she, tremulously, "an ungenerous requital for this, were I to practise any deception on you. I am sincerely, deeply sorry to hear you speak as you have done. I had long since learned to regard you as the friend of Lionel, almost like a brother. The pleasure your society afforded one I am most attached to increased the feeling; and as intimacy increased between us, I thought how happy were it if the ambitions of life did not withdraw from home the sons whose kindness can be as thoughtful and as tender as that of the daughters of the house.

Shall I confess it? I almost wished my brother like you; but yet all this was not love,--nay, for I will be frank, at whatever cost,--I had never felt this towards you, if I suspected your sentiments towards me--"