“Ay,” said he, in a stage soliloquy, “it was what it must come to sooner or later; and now she may go on her knees, and divil a foot I 'll stay! It's not like the last time, sorra bit! I know what she 's at—' 'T is my way, Danny, you must have a pound at Avster '—bother! I 'm used to that now.”
“There's the bell again, ye auld blethering deevil.”
But Mrs. M'Kerrigan ran no risk of a reply now, for at the first tinkle Dan was back in the hall.
“There is some one knocking at the wicket without; see who it may be at this late hour of the night,” said Miss Daly, without raising her head from the book, for, strange as were such sounds in that solitary place, her attention was too deeply fixed on the page before her to admit of even a momentary distraction of thought. Dan left the room with becoming alacrity, but in reality bent on anything rather than the performance of his errand. Of all the traits of his southern origin, none had the same predominance in his nature as a superstitious fear of spirits and goblins,—a circumstance not likely to be mitigated by his present lonely abode, independently of the fact that more than one popular belief attributed certain unearthly sights and sounds to the old timbers of “the Corvy,” whose wreck was associated with tales of horror sufficient to shake stouter nerves than “Danny's.”
When he received this order from his mistress, he heard it pretty much as a command to lead a forlorn hope, and sat himself down at the outside of the door to consider what course to take. While he was thus meditating, the sounds became plainly audible, a loud and distinct knocking was heard high above the whistling wind and drifting rain, accompanied from time to time by a kind of shout, or, as it seemed to Dan's ears, a scream like the cry of a drowning man.
“Dinna ye hear that, ye auld daft body?” said Nancy, as, pale with fear, and trembling in every limb, Dan entered the kitchen.
“I do indeed, Mrs. Mac,”—this was the peace appellation he always conferred on Nancy,—“I hear it, and my heart 's beatin' for every stroke I listen to; 't is n't afeard I am, but a kind of a notion I have, like a dhrame, you know “—(here he gave a sort of hysterical giggle)—“as if the ould French Captain was coming to look after his hand, that was chopped off with the hatchet when he grasped hold of the rock.”
“He canna hae muckle use for it noo,” responded Nancy, dryly, as she smoked away as unconcerned as possible.
“Or the mate!” said Dan, giving full vent to his store of horrors; “they say, when he got hold of the rope, that they gave it out so fast as he hauled on it, till he grew faint, and sank under the waves.”
“He's no likely to want a piece of spunyarn at this time o' day,” rejoined Nancy again. “He's knocking brawly, whoever he be; had ye no better do the leddy's bidding, and see who 's there?”