But worst of all, an’ what cut her heart the sorest, was that she had turned an act of neighbourly kindness into a wainglorious boast; an’ that, she doubted not, was a mortal sin.
She had promised Cormac in the afthernoon that as soon as she got home she would send Darby over with some tay for poor little Eileen, an’ now a big storm was gathering, an’ before she could have supper ready, thry as hard as she could, black night might be upon them.
“To bring aise to the dying is the comfortingist privilege a man or woman can have, an’ I’ve thraded it for a miserable settin’ of eggs,” she says. “Amn’t I the unfortunit crachure,” she thought, “to have let me pride rune me this away. What’ll I do at all at all?” she cried. “Bad luck to the thought that took me out of me way to Elizabeth Egan’s house!”
Then she med a wish that she might be able to get home in time to send Darby on his errant before the night came on. “If they laugh at me, that’ll be my punishment, an’ maybe it’ll clane my sin,” says she.
But the wish was in wain. For just as she crossed the stile to her own field the sun dhropped behind the hills as though he had been shot, an’ the east wind swept up, carrying with it a sky full of black clouds an’ rain.
II
That same All Sowls’ night Darby O’Gill, the friend of the fairies, sat, as he had often sat before, amidst the dancin’ shadows, ferninst his own crackling turf and wood fire, listening to the storm beat against his cottage windows. Little Mickey, his six-year-ould, cuddled asleep on his daddy’s lap, whilst Bridget sat beside thim, the other childher cruedled around her. My, oh my, how the rain powered and hammered an’ swirled!
Out in the highway the big dhrops smashed agin wayfarers’ faces like blows from a fist, and once in a while, over the flooded moors and the far row of lonesome hills, the sullen lightning spurted red and angry, like the wicious flare of a wolcano.
You may well say ’twas perfect weather for Halloween—tonight whin the spirits of the dayparted dead visit once again their homes, and sit unseen, listening an’ yearnin’ about the ould hearthstones.
More than once that avenin’ Darby’d shivered and shuddered at the wild shrieks and wails that swept over the chimney-tops; he bein’ sartin sure that it wasn’t the wind at all, but despairing woices that cried out to him from the could lips of the dead.
At last, afther one purticular doleful cry that rose and fell and lingered around the roof, the knowledgeable man raised his head and fetched a deep breath, and said to his wife Bridget:
“Do you hear that cry, avourneen? The dear Lord be marciful to the souls of the dayparted!” sighed he.
Bridget turned a throubled face toward him. “Amen,” she says, speakin’ softly; “and may He presarve them who are dying this night. Poor Eileen McCarthy—an’ she the purty, light-footed colleen only married the few months! Haven’t we the raysons to be thankul and grateful. We can never pray enough, Darby,” says she.
Now the family had just got off their knees from night prayers, that had lasted half an hour, so thim last worruds worried Darby greatly.
“That woman,” he says to himself, mighty sour, “is this minute contimplaytin’ an’ insinuatin’ that we haven’t said prayers enough for Eileen, when as it is, me two poor knees have blisters on thim as big as hin’s eggs from kneelin’. An’ if I don’t look out,” he says to himself again, “she’ll put the childher to bed and then she’s down on her knees for another hour, and me wid her; I’d never advise anyone to marry such a pious woman. I’m fairly kilt with rayligion, so I am. I must disthract her mind an’ prevent her intintions,” he says to himself.
“Maybe, Bridget,” he says, out loud, as he was readying his pipe, “it ain’t so bad afther all for Eileen. If we keep hoping for the best, we’ll chate the worst out of a few good hours at any rate,” says the knowledgeable man.
But Bridget only rowled the apron about her folded arms and shook her head sorrowful at the fire. Darby squinted carefully down the stem of his pipe, blew in it, took a sly glance at his wife, and wint on:
“Don’t you raymember, Bridget,” he says, “whin ould Mrs. Rafferty lay sick of a bad informaytion of the stomick; well, the banshee sat for a full hour keening an’ cryin’ before their house—just as it did last night outside Cormac McCarthy’s. An’ you know the banshee cried but once at Rafferty’s, but never rayturned the second time. The informaytion left Julia, and all the wide worruld knows, even the King of Spain might know if he’d send to ax, that Julia Rafferty, as strong as a horse, was diggin’ petaties in her own field as late as yesterday.”
“The banshee comes three nights before anyone dies, doesn’t it, daddy?” says little Mickey, waking up, all excited.
“It does that,” says Darby, smilin’ proud at the child’s knowledgeableness; “and it’s come but once to Eileen McCarthy.”
“An’ while the banshee cries, she sits combing her hair with a comb of goold, don’t she, daddy?”
Bridget sat onaisy, bitin’ her lips. Always an’ ever she had sthrove to keep from the childher tidings of fairies and of banshees an’ ghosts an’ other onnatural people. Twice she trun a warning look at Darby, but he, not noticin’, wint on, strokin’ the little lad’s hair, an’ sayin’ to him:
“It does, indade, avick; an’ as she came but once to Mrs. Rafferty’s, so we have rayson to hope she’ll come no more to Cormac McCarthy’s.”
“Hush that nonsinse!” says Bridget, lookin’ daggers; “sure Jack Doolan says that ’twas no banshee at all that come to Rafferty’s, but only himself who had taken a drop
