Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/583

570 From one of the windows of the fortress, a man completely armed watched the fugitives. This was none other than Macquillain. His departure had been only a feint, and during the storm, under cover of the darkness, he had re-entered the castle unperceived. He had himself arranged everything to facilitate his daughter’s escape, and had played into Reginald’s hands. The gaoler, who had opened the prison door, was the most devoted servant he possessed, and obeyed, while he appeared to betray him. Macquillain now felt confident of the success of his scheme. He rejoiced to have discovered the means of restoring life and happiness to his child, without having in any way sacrificed his pride. Circumstances alone had changed their positions; and Providence appearing to direct everything, his own amour-propre was saved. He could not take his eyes off the little boat, as he saw it disappearing in the darkness which was creeping over the view. The little white figure in the stern was the focus on which his eyes were immoveably fixed. The crests of the boiling waves showed themselves fearfully white against the dark hollow depths from which they rose.

“Alas!” said he to himself, “that I should be obliged thus to see my daughter driven from her father and her home, and myself the cause of it. Those two beings at this moment, think of nothing but their love. Night has no darkness, the storm no terrors for them. It matters not, I am content; Mava will forget me, I am resigned even to that; may she be happy—without me. I have saved her, but I weep for her!”

But a fearful retribution for his mistaken harshness was at hand. The tempest increased each moment in fury. The frail bark hurried along by the storm with resistless violence, now mounted to the summit, and now sank down in the abyss of waters beneath. No succour could be given; all was lost—hopelessly lost. The wretched father beheld with his own eyes the fate of his child, and it was he himself, it was his own blind pride, that had hurled her into the gulf. He perceived amid the flashes of lightning, his daughter on her knees in the boat with her hands raised to Heaven. The boat was perfectly unmanageable, and was being driven in towards the land, and must inevitably be dashed ere long upon the rocks. Reginald was doing his utmost to resist the fury of the waves, but even the agony of his position could not render his efforts of any avail against the cruel force of the remorseless ocean. Macquillain fancied he heard a mournful cry come upon the winds amid the howling and crashing of the hurricane; and thought he heard the words:

“My father!”

He saw the white figure throw up her hands, and dart towards Reginald, who panting and exhausted, was still manfully striving for what was dearer to him than his life. The little frail bark was again for one long moment distinguishable on the tops of the waves, the next was lost for ever in the whirl and vortex of the waters which yawned over it. It had dashed against the Skerries, and broken in a thousand pieces, had disappeared for ever from the scene.

At this dreadful moment, the castellan forgot all his pride and resolutions: he rushed from his retreat. He was heedless of all that might be thought or said. A father’s love and anguish for the loss of an only child alone animated him. He would save his daughter before all things, at the price of his fortune, his reputation, and his life. His daughter! All else was nothing to him.

“Dunluce, and half my wealth to him who will restore my child to me,” he shrieked, in paroxysms of despair. Alas! that even gold should be so powerless!

The servants of the castle ran down in numbers to the foot of the White Rocks, opposite the Skerries, many of them with torches. They had boats, and ropes, and were aided by sailors and divers, who feared neither sea nor storm; but hell itself seemed to have risen against the lovers of Dunluce. The boats were driven back on the shore, and shattered upon the rocks, the sailors and swimmers were swallowed up by the waves. The flashes of lightning ceased to play, now that their glare might have assisted in showing something of the position of the unfortunate victims, but the storm still continued. Macquillain wringing his hands, and tearing his hair, would fain have plunged into the sea.

“But an instant ago she lived,” he cried, “and then I said I weep for her! Oh! I knew not what it was to weep; Mava! my child—my life.”

Yet one more ray of hope. A man was seen swimming towards the shore; he bore along with him the figure in white. It was Reginald and Mava. He was redoubling his efforts in the struggle, when a frightful wave met him; it struck the unhappy lover, and hurled him against a rock; his skull was fractured—

On the following day, at early dawn, the body of Reginald was found on the strand, between the White Rocks and Portrush. As for the virgin of Dunluce, she had disappeared for ever. The sea never restored its victim.

Macquillain, almost mad with grief, wandered frequently along the shore, calling upon the name of his daughter. One day he was passing beneath the tower, where his captive had shed so many tears. He raised his head. Oh! strange vision. He fancied he beheld Mava at the bars of her window. She had her broom in her hand, and was clad in a shroud.

Bereft of reason, he cried:—

“For how long?”

“For ever.”

And the figure with her eyes fixed on Macquillain, continued sweeping. She showed him her shroud. He fancied he heard the words:

“It is finished: you see it.”

Since that time, at a particular hour, the sweeper of the turret never ceased to appear, cleaning her room, as of old, in spite of all obstacles.

She became the Banshee of the Macquillain family, and always appeared before the death of any of the family.

The Banshee has ceased to appear, for she can no longer announce death to the Macquillains. Her broom alone keeps constantly moving, and this is to last for ever. R. V. P.