A Colonial Banshee by Fergus Hume

“A Colonial Banshee” is taken from Hume’s anthology The Dancer in Red, published in 1906, by Digby, Long & Co. It has since been reprinted in several mixed-author collections including Australian Gothic: An Anthology of Australian Supernatural Fiction: 1867-1939 (2007), and Australian Ghost Stories (2010).

 

About Fergus Hume

Ferguson Wright Hume was a prolific British author of novels and short stories. He published more than 130 novels, along with several story anthologies. Although Hume is best known  as a writer of thrillers, mysteries, and detective stories, he also wrote a number of ghost stories.

Hume was born in the village of Powick in Worcester, England. While he was still pr-school age, his family moved to New Zealand, where he studied law. Shortly after graduating from the University of Otago, Hume moved to Melbourne, Australia, accepted a position as a barrister’s clerk, and began writing plays in his spare time, but his attempts to place his plays with local theaters were unsuccessful.

In 1886, after publishers refused to consider his novel Mystery of a Hansom Cab, Hume published it himself. The book quickly became an international best seller. However, he sold the English and American rights to some Autralian bussinessmen for $50, so failed to cash-in on his works, phenomenal success. Often classed as the first modern mystery thriller, Mystery of a Hansom Cab is believed to have inspired Arthur Conan Doyle to write his first Sherlock Holmes story—A Study in Scarlet.

In 1888, Hume returned to England. After a few years living in London, he relocated to Thundersley, Essex. He died on 12 July 1932, and is buried in an unmarked grave in the local churchyard.

 

A Colonial Banshee

By Fergus Hume

(Online Text)

The average person does not credit the existence of ghosts. He prides himself on believing nothing but his own eyes, and if these deceive him into beholding a genuine ghost he excuses their so doing on the score of hallucination. You cannot convince the average person that there is anything beyond the actualities of this world. Certainly he professes a vague belief in immortality, but his conception is so shadowy, that he never faces it with any degree of confidence. He classes such credulity in the category of “things we are not meant to understand,” which hazy remark to his mind accounts for all matters in the way of religion. Take away this respectable theological view of the supernatural, and he scoffs at the idea of a phantom world.

I am an average person, a gross, fleshly, stolid, disbelieving St. Thomas of the present generation, and in accordance with the fitness of things, should subscribe to the comfortable creed above set forth. I don’t. Certainly I was once as materialistic as the average person could desire, but since I saw, and conversed with a bona-fide spectre, I have modified my views regarding psychology. She was so convincing that she left me no option, but to believe. There was no getting round her insistence.

It was a female ghost of the Banshee type, and I met her under the most prosaic circumstances. Priding herself on the verity of her ghostly being she needed neither moated grange, nor blue lights to compass her appearance, in fact she somewhat scornfully dispensed with such old-time accessories, and simply convinced me by a short conversation that she was what she pretended to be. The most sceptical would have attested her authenticity on oath, as I do now, and I was the most sceptical of persons—once.

Her name was Bridget. She was an Irish emigrant. I was always under the impression that ghosts, like fairies, could not cross running water save in an eggshell, but as I met Bridget in New Zealand she must have been an exception to this rule. She, however, made use of a ship in lieu of an eggshell, and complained bitterly of having been forced to take such a voyage in the interests of her profession. It had a good deal to do with hatred and revenge—she was Irish you see. As the interview was not without interest, I hereby set forth a careful report of the same for the benefit of the Psychical Society. Unless Bridget was a liar, her remarks may throw some light on the mysteries of the spiritual world, and those desiring further information had better apply to the nearest ghost-raiser. I don’t want to see her again. One such interview is enough for me.

Queenstown was the scene of this remarkable adventure. I am not referring to the Irish town of that name, but indicate thereby the pretty little sanatorium on Lake Wakitipu in New Zealand. It is amusing how very mixed one’s geographical ideas become in the colonies. Here for instance you sail up the Maori christened lake of Wakitipu, stay at Queenstown, the name whereof smacks of Cork, and see from the top of an Antipodean Ben Lomond, the range of the Southern Alps which have nothing to do with Switzerland. It is a trifle confusing at first, but when one gets used to the oddity of the thing it is handy to have spots so widely apart within hailing distance. It is only in Otago that you can go from Queenstown to Ben Lomond in ten minutes.

I was staying in Queenstown for the benefit of my health. Something to do with the lungs, I believe, but it is so long ago that I quite forget the exact disease from which I then suffered. Besides it is not material to this story. It must have been my lungs, however, because the doctor made me climb the lofty peak of Ben Lomond daily for the benefit of them. There I was accustomed to sit for hours among the ice and snow, watching the Earnslaw glacier flashing like a mirror in the sunlight, and the snowy range of the Southern Alps standing like fairy lacework against the clear blue of the sky.

When not climbing, I wandered about Queenstown, and employed my spare time in dodging the goats. There were a great many goats about the place as the unfinished condition of the town, rather favoured their existence. You walked down the main street and in two minutes found yourself among the hills—and goats. You surveyed a palatial hotel of the most approved “Grand” type and turned round to behold a goat-populated section gaping between a red brick chapel and a corrugated iron store. Or you could arrive in five minutes at the outskirts of the town, where the goats abounded among the white pebbles and sparse grass. Sometimes in such a place you met a man, more often a goat. I preferred the former myself as he sometimes invited me to have a drink, whereas the goats were all distinctly hostile. They are the most distrustful animals I know.

In common with other visitors, I put up at Farmer’s Hotel, where I was exceedingly comfortable. Every evening the steamer from Kingston arrived with fresh cargoes of tourists in search of health and scenery. They found both at Queenstown, which is the most romantic and salubrious place I am acquainted with. A trifle wild and lonely, but one must expect that sort of thing in a virgin solitude. I prefer it myself to an overcrowded play ground like Switzerland. At Queenstown there is no promenade, no band, no theatre, no casino, no bathing. For this latter the waters of the lake are too cold owing to its being fed by glaciers. When I was there, the principal amusements were riding, driving, climbing, and visiting the cemetery. I didn’t care about anticipating my funeral myself, but many people went there, and told me they enjoyed it greatly. It was so restful. I did not contradict that statement.

Sometimes we drove to Arrowtown and saw the pack horses in long lines climb the track leading to the Macetown reefs. The sight put me wonderfully in mind of Ali Baba and the forty thieves, for in the distance they looked exactly like mules laden with booty. Leaving Arrowtown there was some excitement in regaining Queenstown by the Shotover Bridge. It was a narrow structure with shallow sides which sprang across a tremendous abyss in the depths of which swirled a rapid stream. The approach was down an incline, and for the moment it seemed doubtful whether the horses would hit the bull’s eye of the bridge, or go over into the chasm. Our Jehu was a wonderful driver, and held his team well together, else I am afraid I would not now be writing this story. I never repeated the experiment. It is a mistake tempting Providence twice.

I conscientiously saw all there was to be seen in company with Nora and Michael. These two young scions of the Maguire family were staying at Farmers with their ancestral Banshee. I don’t think the landlord knew of this addition to his list of guests though Bridget did her best to let him know she was on the premises. She howled, whereon he called the innocent house dog bad names. I am afraid Bridget resented the mistake as a slur on her vocal abilities.

Nora told me all about herself and Michael. They had left Ireland some five years back and taken up their abode in Sydney on account of the brother’s health. He, poor fellow, was far gone in consumption, and even the tropical climate of Australia could do but little for his disease. Indeed so much worse did he become, that Nora was advised to try the curative effect of New Zealand air, and for this reason the young couple were staying at Queenstown. When I arrived on the scene they had already been there for some weeks, but Michael did not seem to benefit much by the change. On the contrary, he daily grew weaker and looked more like a shadow than a man.

One day I found her seated by his side in front of the hotel. He had fallen asleep in the warm sunshine, and Nora was dividing her attention between a book and the invalid. When she saw me, however, she softly arose from her seat and joined me in my walk.

“Do you think he looks better to-day, Mr. Durham,” she asked, anxiously.

“Oh, yes!” I replied trying to comfort the poor girl. “I see a decided improvement. If anything can cure him it will be this air.”

“I am afraid the disease has gone too far,” she answered with a sigh, “poor boy—to think of his coming all these miles only to find a grave.”

“Don’t think of such a thing, Miss Maguire.”

“I cannot help thinking, Mr. Durham. Since we have been here, twice have I heard the Banshee.”

“The what?”

“The Banshee! Did you not hear it wailing last night”

“I certainly heard a dog howling at the moon.”

“It was no dog,” said Nora mysteriously, “it was our Banshee.”

“My dear Miss Maguire how can you believe in such rubbish,” I remonstrated in a vexed tone. “there are no such things as ghosts.”

“So many people think, but I know there are ghosts.”

“Have you ever seen one?”

“No! But I have heard the Banshee cry.”

“Nonsense, my dear young lady. Your nerves are out of order with over anxiety. Consult a doctor at once.”

“My nerves are not out of order,” she replied, doggedly, “I am in perfect health, and thoroughly in earnest. Why you admit yourself that you heard the cry.”

“I heard a dog howling, Miss Maguire. How can you be so superstitious. This is the nineteenth century. Ghosts went out when gas came in.”

I took no end of trouble to convince that girl. I promised to lend her a copy of Abercrombie’s Intellectual Powers, where she would find that ghosts are all humbug. I narrated several instances which had come under my notice of supposititious [1] spectres, which had been thoroughly explained away. A logical person would have been convinced by my arguments. But she was a woman, and therefore not logical. All my talk was on this account so much waste of breath.

“Every old woman in Ireland knows the Maguire Banshee,” she said, triumphantly, “for generations the death of one of our family has been predicted by its wailing. My father was killed in the hunting field, and I heard it myself crying round the house on the previous night. When my mother died the Banshee wailed three times, and—”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” I interrupted emphatically, “not one word. The Celtic nature is excitable and prone to superstition. The howling of a dog, the whistling of the wind, the shrieking of a hinge would account for your Banshee. I am a man of sense, Miss Maguire; I laugh at the idea of such folly. Nothing would convince me of the existence of—”

At that moment I swear I felt a cold breath blowing against my cheek. The afternoon was warm and sunny with little or no wind, but for the moment the unexpected chill struck me dumb.

“What is the matter, Mr. Durham?” asked Nora, alarmed at the expression of my face, “are you ill?”

“Ill! no!” I replied, nervously, “but really you know, ha! ha! I believe you are infecting me with your superstition. I felt a cold breath on my face.”

“Its—”

“Now don’t say the Banshee, Miss Maguire, because I can’t and won’t believe such nonsense. My liver is probably out of order, and our conversation about spectres is apt to tell on the nerves. Let us talk of other things. Your family for instance!”

“There is not much to talk about there,” said Nora, smiling at what she evidently considered a weak explanation, “my family at one time were rich and numerous. Now we are the only two left, and I don’t think Job was poorer than we are!”

“Your estates!”

“Were all sold long ago. My father ran through all that remained of the property, and when he was killed we had nothing but a tumbled down Castle, and a few acres of barren bog. We sold this and with the money came out to Sydney. There through the influence of an old friend Michael obtained a good Government appointment. Then his health gave way, and we were advised to come on here.”

“And what do you intend to do when you go back,” I asked, revolving several philanthropic schemes in my mind.

“I don’t know! It is questionable if we do go back. I feel certain that Michael will die here, and then I shall be left alone here with but a few shillings.”

“Tut! tut! you must not talk like this,” said I blowing my nose to conceal some natural emotion evoked by her story, “the colonial heart is kind! the colonial hand is open. As to your brother. Hope for the best!”

“Mr. Durham!” said the girl solemnly, “twice have I heard the Banshee cry—the third time will be fatal.”

It was no use arguing against such obstinacy, so I held my tongue merely remarking that I hoped the Banshee wouldn’t wail. Then as it was growing chilly Nora took her brother inside and left me to my own reflections. They were anything but pleasant, for I felt certain that his foolish belief in the Banshee would aid in killing Michael, as surely as would his disease.

To think of such superstition being prevalent nowadays. Here was a well educated young lady living among sensible people, yet she believed in such rubbish as ghosts. It has been proved over and over again that there are no such things. A heavy meal, a tired body, a fanciful mind, and lo a ghost is created. Dyspepsia and hallucination are the parents of all goblins, which exist but in the imagination of their victims. People who see ghosts should write novels and thus work off their superfluous imagination. No wonder we need school-boards, when sensible men can tolerate such humbug. Logic and Arithmetic will cure such morbidity. No student of the exact sciences ever saw a ghost.

The breath of cold air! Well I own that puzzled me, but it might be ascribed to the nerves. The cause I am convinced was internal not external. It was a still sunny day, yet I felt a sensation of cold air on my left cheek. Nerves or liver! only! I am inclined to put it down to the latter, knowing how I suffer from that organ. A liver will make a man believe anything. Perhaps my ghostly interview was the result of a disordered liver, but no—Bridget was too convincing. You can’t explain away actualities and though Bridget wasn’t exactly an actuality, I certainly can’t explain her away.

After that eminently unsatisfactory conversation with Miss Maguire I took a sharp walk to shake the cobwebs out of my brain. Ghost-talk does endanger cobwebs in a man’s brain, and if you leave them there nobody knows what will happen—but I think Colney Hatch has a good deal to do with the future. Not caring to tend in that direction I walked those ghostly figments out of my memory and sat on a hill top admiring the scenery. The sun was setting and the white peaks were very rosy with his light. It was very beautiful, but very chilly, so not anxious to trouble my lungs with inflammation I returned to the hotel and dinner.

After the meal I went up to my room to put on warmer clothes, and there took place that remarkable visitation of which I speak. The bedroom was quite dark when I entered, and in place of lighting the candle I stood at the window staring at the wonderful white world without. A stream of moonbeams lay across the floor, and beyond the distant peak flashed the moon herself glimmering like a ghost. The comparison put me in mind of Nora’s absurd Banshee story, and the memory made me laugh. To my surprise the laugh was repeated in a thin starved echo. I turned round at the sound and saw a woman standing near the door. I am a modest young man, and the intrusion annoyed me.

“Madame.” I said in a dignified tone, “you have mistaken the room. How did you enter?”

“By the kayhole!”

“Heavens! what a voice. It was as thin as a whistle. And then she alluded to an entrance by the keyhole. I began to feel alarmed and passed my hand across my eyes to vanish the hallucination.

“Liver!” said I seeing the figure still there.

“Divil a bit,” retorted the lady who seemed a cloudy sort of person. “I’m the Maguire Banshee.”

I don’t like practical jokes, and thinking Nora was playing one on me ventured to remonstrate. Before I could say a word the figure glided, or rather floated into the stream of moonlight which lay across the floor. Then I saw it was no joke—it was no liver— it was a ghost!

A merciful baldness prevented my hair standing on end, but my flesh creeped, and I shook as though I had the ague. This apparition upset all my preconceived ideas, and reduced me to a sort of moral pulp. I felt a cowardly inclination to run away. The Banshee was between me and the door, and as the window was twenty feet from the ground I could hardly leave that way without becoming a ghost myself. I was therefore compelled to remain, and didn’t like the idea.

“Why don’t ye offer me a sate!” said the Banshee in an irritable tone, “is it insultin’ me ye’re afther doin’?”

I pushed forward a seat in great trepidation and she settled on it. I can’t say she sat down for she didn’t, but simply subsided thereon, like a cloud on a mountain-top. The cold beams of the moon shone full on her face, and the sight did not tend to steady my nerves. I don’t want to see another face like it.

It was a grey haggard countenance framed in wild elf locks of tangled red hair. Her mouth was all drawn to one side, and in her eyes dwelt a look of horror. Round her neck hung a fragment of rough rope, and from shoulders to heels streamed a cloudy white robe. The whole appearance of this being was vague and indistinct, the face being the only portion I could see with any degree of clearness. Sitting there in the chilly light, with her filmy dress undulating round her thin form, and her baleful eyes glaring from amid her tangled red hair she was a fearsome object to behold. I shivered and shook and turned away my eyes, but something I knew not what—ever compelled me to look at her again.

I don’t think she was a lady Banshee. Her language was too free, and her manners left much to be desired. Still she behaved in a very affable manner for her, and succeeded to a certain extent in dispelling my fear, though I was anything but comfortable during the interview. She spoke thoughout in a hoarse broken voice, alternating with a shrill whistling sound. Constant howling had evidently injured her vocal organs.

“So you don’t believe in my existence,” she said, eyeing me in a malevolent manner.

I began to protest, but she cut me short with a whistling sniff and shifted her mouth to the other side of her face.

“No deceit av ye plase. Didn’t ye say oi was an hallucination ye brutal Saxon.”

“You may be now for all I know,” I replied, resenting her rudeness.

She stretched out her arm which elongated itself like a marine telescope, and without moving from her seat clutched me by the wrist with chilly fingers. So cold was her touch that it burnt like fire, and I involuntarily shrieked with pain.

“Whist! ye spalpeen!” she said contracting her arm again. “Ye’ll athtracth attinshun and me reputashun ‘ull suffer if Oi’m discovered in a jintleman’s slapin’ room.”

“In that case you had better go away.” I suggested, anxious to rid myself of this nightmare.”

“Divil a bit,” she rejoined, composedly. “Oi’ve a mind to convarse wid ye about thim Maguires.”

“Why can’t you leave them alone. It’s impossible for a sick man to get sleep while you howl round the house like an insane hurricane.”

“Wud ye have me neglect me thrade,” said the Banshee, indignantly. “Tis me juty to wail worse luck. An’ as to slapin’ Mick Maguire ‘ull slape sound enough wan av’ these days, nivir fear.”

“Will he die!”

“Av’ coorse he’ll die. Haven’t oi criedth twice an’ ut-ll be the third toime this night. It’s not wastin’ me breath oi am.”

“Who are you?”

“Oi’m Bridget.’

I laughed at the unsuitability of the name, whereupon the Banshee looked at me fiercely.

“Fwhat’s the matter wid the name!”

“It’s like a servant girl’s.”

“An’ why not. Wasn’t oi that same, sorr. Four hundher years ago oi sarved King Patsey Magireu av’ Ulster, the ancister av’ the prisint family no less.”

“But how did you become a Banshee!”

“Och whirra! whirra! willaloo!” she moaned, rocking herself too and fro, “wasn’t oi the pride av’ Ulster an’ didn’t King Maguire hang me bekaze oi’d nivir give up Taddy Donovan.”

“Did he want to marry you himself.”

“How shuld oi know! Maybe he didn’t care about Taddy liftin’ thim Kerry cows. An’ as Taddy wasn’t to be tuk, he hanged me, bad luck to him.”

“Did that hanging turn you into a Banshee.”

“D’y’ see this rope, sorr,” she said touching the fragment, “whin oi died oi tuk the bit wid me as a mimory an’ swore to haunt thim Maguires for ever-lastin’ till they all died. There’s only two now. Whin Mick goes there’ull only be wan. Whin she dies me juty ‘ull be ended for ivir.”

“But you can’t kill them.”

“Av’ coorse not, but I can warn thim of their sorrows. Oi’ve croied at their wakes for the last four hundher year in Ould Ireland.”

“Why did you come out here.”

“Bekaze thim two came. When a Banshee’s attached to wan family she has to hould on to thim like the divil. Where they go, she goes, so oi had to imigrate wid the Maguires bad cess to thim.”

“You don’t like the colonies!”

“Divil a bit. Oi’ve not met a single ghost of any consequence here. There’s no ruins to haunt an’ hathens like yoursilf don’t belave in us.”

“If you find things so unpleasant why don’t you go back to Ireland.”

“How shuld oi know. Whin Nora goes back oi’ll go back, but where she is I aim. Mick’s dying so me only reckinin’ on Nora. Maybe she’ll die too though,” added the Banshee, comfortably, “and thin I can return to me round tower.”

“What Round Tower?”

“County Down no less. Me family sate. Once ‘twas King Maguire’s, now ‘tis mine. Oi sit on it in the cove av’ the evenin’ an’ houl.”

“Pleasant for your neighbours.”

“Iviry wan to his juty,” replied the Banshee indifferently, “tis mine to howl an’ howl I do.”

“Yes! I’ve heard you!”

“An’ sid it was the dog. Oh oi heard your contimptuous spache.”

“Now look here!”

“Oi want nane av’ your bullyin’ av’ you plase. Respict age. Oi’m four hundher year ould.”

“Yes! you look it!”

“An’ so’d you if ye’d to pass nights howlin’ in the open air. It’s sorry oi am that I let ye see a rale live Banshee.”

“You’re hardly alive. However, I apologise for hurting your feelings. I’m not accustomed to entertain Banshees.”

“Maybe that’s true. No Saxon has a Banshee.”

“And no colony either.”

“Wait a few hundred years, sorr. Ye want ruins an’ family sacrats first. Thin the ghosts ‘ull come, but not in your toime.”

“I’m not sorry! I don’t like ghosts!”

“Maybe ye don’t belave in thim,” said the Banshee, tauntingly, “to-morrow ye’ll say ‘oive bin dramin’.”

“It’s not unlikely!”

“Oi’d like to lave some token av’ me visit,” she went on in a meditative tone, “couldn’t I lave five black finger marks on your wrist.”

“No, thank you,” I replied, shrinking back.

“Or turn your hair white,” she added, persuasively.

“Even you couldn’t do that. I’m bald!”

“Ah thin! I’ll lave the mark of a gory hand on your cranium.”

“I’m sure you wont. What’s the matter?”

For the Banshee had suddenly shot up as high as the roof.

“Whist!” she said shrilly. “Oi hear his breath failin’.”

“Whose breath!”

“Michael’s. The cowld sweat is on his brow an’ the rattle is in his throat—it’s not long he’ll live anyhow. I must wail — an’ wail ‘Whirro!’ ”

“Let the man die in peace,” I urged, anxiously.

“Fwhat! wan av’ thim Maguires. Sorra a bit. Ye’ll hear me wailin’ soon.”

“But—”

“Whist oi tell ye! whist. Oi’s goin’. ‘Tis not Banshees ye’ll scoff at agin oi’m thinkm’.’’

She spread herself through the room in a cold white mist, and I shrank terrified against the wall. In the white shadow I could see the glare of her fiery eyes like two danger signals. The fog gradually floated out through the open window and the eyes vanished. Then I heard a whistle outside, which I presume was Bridget’s way of saying good-bye. After that I went for some brandy.

The Banshee certainly succeeded in curing my scepticism regarding ghosts. I don’t want any further proof that they exist after seeing her. She impressed herself too strongly on my memory. Next time I see an Irish ghost, I would like a dozen or so of my friends to be present at the interview. Now when I hear the average person scoffing at the idea of spectres, as I used to do, I tell him my experience. As a rule he doesn’t believe me. Perhaps you who read this story don’t believe it either. But it’s true for all that.

When I had succeeded in pulling myself together— no easy task—I hurried at once to Michael’s bedroom, but was met at the door by Nora, who told me he was asleep. Unwilling to alarm her by a description of the Banshee’s visit, I held my peace and went out into the open air. Lighting a cigar, for I thought a smoke would soothe my nerves, I strolled up and down in front of the hotel. In a few minutes a young American who was staying there joined me, and though as a rule I found him a nuisance, yet on this occasion I was not ill-pleased with his company.

It was a bright moonlight night, and far in the distance arose the serrated peaks of the mountains. The iron roofs of the houses around glittered like frosted silver in the light, and here and there on the sullen lake glinted a flake of moonfire. All was wonderfully beautiful and absolutely still. Suddenly there sounded a long low wail which shivered pitifully through the air, and died away among the mountains. Then a second, closely followed by a third. I knew what that triple cry meant and stopped short in my walk.

“Dog howling, I guess,” said the young American! carelessly.

I heard a whistling sniff near me and turned to see the Banshee glaring at the young man. To him she was invisible and her speech inaudible.

“A dog howlin,” she said, angrily, “ an’ I nivir wailed so iligantly before.”

“Is he dead?” I asked, breathlessly.

“As a door nail,” replied the Banshee and vanished.

“Is who dead?”“ asked the American thinking I had spoken to him, “that young Irish fellow I—Hark, what is that?”

Another cry, but this time the utterance of a human throat. I hastened towards the hotel, and arrived at the door to meet Nora on the threshold.

“Did you hear it?” she gasped, throwing herself into my arms.

“Yes I heard it!”

“I told you the third time. Michael is dead.”

After that she fainted clean away, which action caused me but little surprise. I was pretty near collapsing myself.

* * *

Poor Michael was duly buried in the little cemetery under the shadow of the mighty hill. I attended the funeral, did my best to comfort Nora, and in the end supplied her with money to return to her Sydney friends. I presume the Banshee went with her, but of this I am not certain. Sometimes I heard from Nora in the months which followed her brother’s death. When I was at Te Aroha in the North Island last Christmas she wrote and told me she was married and had settled for good in Sydney.

This letter set me thinking about the Banshee. By her own showing she could not leave Nora, until she died, so as Nora had decided to stay in Australia, I presume, Bridget would also have to remain. From what I heard, Nora is not likely to die for some time so I am afraid Bridget must be very discontented. Here she has no ghostly friends, no Round Tower, and as yet no reason for wailing, so altogether she must be in a bad way.

One consolation she must have. She is the only Banshee in the colonies. None other is genuine.

Ferguson Hume (1859 – 1932)

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1. Supposititious has several meanings. In the context of the story, it means imaginary.