diff options
Diffstat (limited to '16018-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 16018-0.txt | 15457 |
1 files changed, 15457 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/16018-0.txt b/16018-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0008743 --- /dev/null +++ b/16018-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15457 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Black Prophet: A Tale Of Irish Famine +by William Carleton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Black Prophet: A Tale Of Irish Famine + Traits And Stories Of The Irish Peasantry, The Works of + William Carleton, Volume Three + +Author: William Carleton + +Illustrator: M. L. Flanery + +Release Date: June 7, 2005 [EBook #16018] +Last Updated: March 2, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK PROPHET *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +THE BLACK PROPHET: + +A TALE OF IRISH FAMINE. + + +By William Carleton + + + + +CHAPTER I. -- Glendhu, or the Black Glen; Scene of Domestic Affection. + + +Some twenty and odd years ago there stood a little cabin at the foot +of a round hill, that very much resembled a cupola in shape, and which, +from its position and height, commanded a prospect of singular beauty. +This hill was one of a range that ran from north to southwest; but in +consequence of its standing, as it were, somewhat out of the ranks, its +whole appearance and character as a distinct feature of the country were +invested with considerable interest to a scientific eye, especially +to that of a geologist. An intersection or abrupt glen divided it from +those which constituted the range or group alluded to; through this, as +a pass in the country, and the only one for miles, wound a road into an +open district on the western side, which road, about half a mile after +its entering the glen, was met by a rapid torrent that came down from +the gloomy mountains that rose to the left. The foot of this hill, which +on the southern side was green and fertile to the top, stretched off and +was lost in the rich land that formed the great and magnificent valley +it helped to bound, and to which the chasm we have described was but an +entrance; the one bearing to the other, in size and position, much the +same relation that a small bye-lane in a country town bears to the great +leading street which constitutes its principal feature. + +Noon had long passed, and the dim sun of a wet autumnal day was sloping +down towards the west through clouds and gloom, when a young girl of +about twenty-one or twenty-two years of age came out of the cabin we +have mentioned, and running up to the top of a little miniature hill or +knob that rose beside it, looked round in every direction, as if anxious +to catch a glimpse of some one whom she expected. It appeared, however, +that she watched in vain; for after having examined the country in every +direction with an eye in which might be read a combined expression of +eagerness, anger and disappointment, she once more returned to the cabin +with a slow and meditating step. This she continued to do from time +to time for about an hour and a half, when at length a female appeared +approaching, whom she at once recognized. + +The situation of this hovel, for such, in fact, it must be termed, +was not only strikingly desolate, but connected also with wild and +supernatural terrors. From the position of the glen itself, a little +within which it stood, it enjoyed only a very limited portion of the +sun's cheering beams. As the glen was deep and precipitous, so was the +morning light excluded from it by the northeastern hills, as was that of +evening by those which rose between it and the west. Indeed, it would +be difficult to find a spot marked by a character of such utter solitude +and gloom. Naturally barren, it bore not a single shrub on which a bird +could sit or a beast browse, and little, of course, was to be seen in +it but the bare gigantic projections of rock which shot out of its steep +sides in wild and uncouth shapes, or the grey, rugged expanses of which +it was principally composed. Indeed, we feel it difficult to say whether +the gloom of winter or the summer's heat fell upon it with an air of +lonelier desolation. It mattered not what change of season came, the +place presented no appearance of man or his works. Neither bird or beast +was seen or heard, except rarely, within its dreary bosom, the only +sounds it knew being the monotonous murmurs of the mountain torrent, or +the wild echoes of the thunder storms that pealed among the hills about +it. Silence and solitude were the characteristics which predominated in +it and it would not be easy to say whether they were felt more during +the gloom of November or the glare of June. + +In the mouth of this glen, not far from the cabin we have described, two +murders had been committed about twenty years before the period of our +narrative, within the lapse of a month. The one was that of a carman, +and the other of a man named Sullivan, who also had been robbed, as it +was supposed the carman had been, for the bodies of both had been made +way with and were never found. This was evident--in the one case by the +horse and cart of the carman remaining by the grey stone in question, +on which the traces of blood were long visible; and in the other by the +circumstance of Sullivan's hat and part of his coat having been found +near the cabin in question on the following day, in a field through +which his path home lay, and in which was a pool of blood, where his +foot-marks were deeply imprinted, as if in a struggle for life and +death. For this latter murder a man named Dalton had been taken up, +under circumstances of great suspicion, he having been the last person +seen in the man's company. Both had been drinking together in the +market, a quarrel had originated between them about money matters, blows +had been exchanged, and Dalton was heard to threaten him in very strong +language. Nor was this all. He had been observed following or rather +dogging him on his way home, and although the same road certainly led +to the residence of both, yet when his words and manner were taken into +consideration, added to the more positive proof that the footmarks left +on the place of struggle exactly corresponded with his shoes, there +could be little doubt that he was privy to Sullivan's murder and +disappearance, as well probably as to his robbery. At all events the +glen was said to be haunted by Sullivan's spirit, which was in the +habit, according to report, of appearing near the place of murder, from +whence he was seen to enter this chasm--a circumstance which, when taken +in connection with its dark and lonely aspect, was calculated to impress +upon the place the I reputation of being accursed, as the scene of +crime and supernatural appearances. We remember having played in it +when young, and the feeling we experienced was one of awe and terror, to +which might be added, on contemplating the “dread repose” and solitude +around us, an impression that we were removed hundreds of miles from +the busy ongoings and noisy tumults of life, to which, as if seeking +protection, we generally hastened with a strong sense of relief, after +having tremblingly gratified our boyish curiosity. + +The young girl in question gave the female she had been expecting any +thing but a cordial or dutiful reception. In personal appearance +there was not a point of resemblance between them, although the _tout +ensemble_ of each was singularly striking and remarkable. The girl's +locks were black as the raven's wing: her figure was tall and slender, +but elastic and full of symmetry. The ivory itself was not more white +nor glossy than her skin; her teeth were--bright and beautiful, and her +mouth a perfect rosebud. It is unnecessary to say that her eyes +we're black and brilliant, for such ever belong to her complexion and +temperament; but it in necessary to add, that they were piercing and +unsettled, and you felt that they looked into you rather than at you or +upon you. In fact, her features were all perfect, yet it often happened +that their general expression was productive of no agreeable feeling on +the beholder. Sometimes her smile was sweet as that of an angel, but let +a single impulse or whim be checked, and her face assumed a character of +malignity that made her beauty appear like that which we dream of in an +evil spirit. + +The other woman, who stood to her in the relation of step-mother, was +above the middle size. Her hair was sandy, or approaching to a pale red; +her features were coarse, but regular; and her whole figure that of +a well-made and powerful woman. In her countenance might be read a +peculiar blending of sternness and benignity, each evidently softened +down by an expression of melancholy--perhaps of suffering--as if some +secret care lay brooding at her heart. The inside of the hovel itself +had every mark of poverty and destitution about it. Two or three stools, +a pot or two, one miserable standing bed, and a smaller one gathered up +under a rug in the corner, were almost all that met the eye on entering +it; and simple as these meagre portions of furniture were, they bore no +marks of cleanliness or care. On the contrary, everything appeared to be +neglected, squalid and filthy--such, precisely, as led one to see at a +glance that the inmates of this miserable hut were contented with their +wretched state of life, and had no notion whatsoever that any moral or +domestic duty existed, by which they might be taught useful notions of +personal comfort and self-respect. + +“So,” said the young woman, addressing her step-mother, as she entered, +“you're come back at last, an' a purty time you tuck to stay away!” + +“Well,” replied the other, calmly, “I'm here now at any rate; but I see +you're in one of your tantrums, Sally, my lady. What's wrong, I say? In +the mean time don't look as if you'd ait us widout salt.” + +“An' a bitter morsel you'd be,” replied the younger, with a flashing +glance--“divil a more so. Here am I, sittin', or running out an' in, +these two hours, when I ought to be at the dance in Kilnahushogue, +before I go to Barny Gormly's wake; for I promised to be at both. Why +didn't you come home in time?” + +“Bekaise, achora, it wasn't agreeable to me to do so. I'm beginnin' to +got ould an' stiff, an' its time for me to take care of myself.” + +“Stiffer may you be, then, soon, an' oulder may you never be, an' that's +the best I wish you!” + +“Aren't you afeard to talk to me in that way?” said the elder of the +two. + +“No--not a bit. You won't flake me now as you used to do. I am able an' +willin' to give blow for blow at last, thank goodness; an' will, too, if +ever you thry that thrick.” + +The old woman gazed at her angrily, and appeared for a moment to +meditate an assault. After a pause, however, during which the brief but +vehement expression of rising fury passed from her countenance, and her +face assumed an expression more of compassion than of anger, she simply +said, in a calm tone of voice-- + +“I don't know that I ought to blame you so much for your temper, Sarah. +The darkness of your father's sowl is upon yours; his wicked spirit is +in you, an' may Heaven above grant that you'll never carry about with +you, through this unhappy life, the black an' heavy burden that weighs +down his heart! If God hasn't said it, you have his coorse, or something +nearly as bad, before you. Oh! go to the wake as soon as you like, +an' to the dance, too. Find some one that'll take you off of my hands; +that'll put a house over your head--give you a bit to ait, an' a rag to +put on you; an' may God pity him that's doomed to get you! If the woeful +state of the country, an' the hunger an' sickness that's abroad, an' +that's comin' harder an' faster on us every day, can't tame you or keep +you down, I dunna what will. I'm sure the black an' terrible summer +we've had ought to make you think of how we'll get over all that's +before us! God pity you, I say again, an' whatever poor man is to be +cursed wid you!” + +“Keep your pity for them that wants it,” replied the other, “an' that's +not me. As for God's pity, it isn't yours to give, and even if it was, +you stand in need of it yourself more than I do. You're beginning +to praich to us now that you're not able to bait us; but for your +praichments an' your baitins, may the divil pay you for all alike!--as +he will--an' that's my prayer.” + +A momentary gush of the step-mother's habitual passion overcame her; she +darted at her step-daughter, who sprung to her limbs, and flew at her +in return. The conflict at first was brief, for the powerful strength of +the elder female soon told. Sarah, however, quickly disengaged herself, +and seizing an old knife which lay on a shell that served as a dresser, +she made a stab at the very heart of her step-mother, panting as she did +it with an exulting vehemence of vengeance that resembled the growlings +which a savage beast makes when springing on its prey. + +“Ha!” she exclaimed, “you have it now--you have it! Call on God's pity +now, for you'll soon want it. Ha! ha!” + +The knife, however, owing to the thick layers of cloth with which the +dress of the other was patched, as well as to the weakness of the thin +and worn blade, did not penetrate her clothes, nor render her any injury +whatsoever. The contest was again resumed. Sarah, perceiving that she +had missed her aim, once more put herself into a posture to renew the +deadly attempt; and the consequence was, that a struggle now took place +between them which might almost be termed one for life and death. It was +indeed a frightful and unnatural struggle. The old woman, whose object +was, if possible, to disarm her antagonist, found all her strength--and +it was great--scarcely a match for the murderous ferocity which was now +awakened in her. The grapple between them consequently became furious; +and such was the terrible impress of diabolical malignity which passion +stamped upon the features of this young tigress, that her step-mother's +heart, for a moment quailed on beholding it, especially when associated +with the surprising activity and strength which she put forth., Her dark +and finely-pencilled eye-brows were fiercely knit, as it were, into one +dark line; her lips were drawn back, displaying her beautiful teeth, +that were now ground together into what resembled the lock of death: her +face was pale with over-wrought with resentment, and her deep-set eyes +glowed with a wild and flashing fire that was fearful, while her +lips were encircled with the white foam of revengeful and deadly +determination; and what added most to the terrible expression on her +whole face was the exulting smile of cruelty which shed its baleful +light over it, resolving the whole contest, as it were, and its +object--the murder of her step-mother--into the fierce play of some +beautiful vampire that was ravening for the blood of its awakened +victim. + +After a struggle of some two or three minutes, the strength and coolness +of the step-mother at length prevailed, she wrested the knife out of +Sarah's hands and, almost at the same moment, stumbled and fell. The +other, however, was far from relaxing her hold. On the contrary, she +clung to her fiercely, shouting out-- + +“I won't give you up yet--I love you too well for that--no, no, it's +fond of you I'm gettin'. I'll hug you, mother, dear; ay will I, and kiss +you too, an' lave my mark behind me!” and, as she spoke, her step-mother +felt her face coming in savage proximity to her own. + +“If you don't keep away, Sarah,” said the other, “I'll stab you. What do +you mane, you bloody devil? It is going to tear my flesh with your teeth +you are? Hould off! or, as heaven's above us, I'll stab you with the +knife.” + +“You can't,” shouted the other; “the knife's bent, or you'd be done for +before this. I'll taste your blood for all that!” and, as the words were +uttered, the step-mother gave a sudden scream, making at the same time a +violent effort to disentangle herself, which she did. + +Sarah started to her feet, and flying towards the door, exclaimed with +shouts of wild triumphant laughter-- + +“Ha, ha, ha! do you feel anything? I was near havin' the best part of +one of your ears--ha, ha, ha!--but unfortunately I missed it; an' now +look to yourself. Your day is gone, an' mine is come. I've tasted-your +blood, an' I like it--ha, ha, ha!--an' if as you say it's kind father +for me to be fond o' blood, I say you had better take care of yourself. +And I tell you more: we'll take care of your fair-haired beauty for +you--my father and myself will--an' I'm told to act against her, an' I +will too; an' you'll see what we'll bring your pet, _Gra Gal_ Sullivan, +to yet! There's news for you!” + +She then went down to the river which flowed past, in whose yellow and +turbid waters--for it was now swollen with rain--she washed the blood +from her hands and face with an apparently light heart. Having meditated +for some time, she fell a laughing at the fierce conflict that had just +taken place, exclaiming to herself-- + +“Ha, ha, ha! Well now if I had killed her--got the ould knife into her +heart--I might lave the counthry. If I had killed her now, throth it 'ud +be a good joke, an' all in a fit of passion, bekase she didn't come home +in time to let me meet him. Well, I'll go back an' spake soft to her, +for, afther all, she'll give me a hard life of it.” + +She returned; and, having entered the hut, perceived that the ear and +cheek of her step-mother were still bleeding. + +“I'm sorry for what I did,” she said, with the utmost frankness and good +nature. “Forgive me, mother; you know I'm a hasty devil--for a devil's +limb I am, no doubt of it. Forgive me, I say--do now--here, I'll get +something to stop the blood.” + +She sprang at the moment, with the agility of a wild cat, upon an old +chest that stood in the corner of the hut, exhibiting as she did it, a +leg and foot of surpassing symmetry and beauty. By stretching herself +up to her full length, she succeeded in pulling down several old cobwebs +that had been for years in the corner of the wall; and in the act of +doing so, disturbed some metallic substance, which fell first upon the +chest, from which it tumbled off to the ground, where it made two or +three narrowing circles, and then lay at rest. + +“Murdher alive, mother!” she exclaimed, “what is this? Hallo! a +tobaccy-box--a fine round tobaccy-box of iron, bedad--an what's this on +it!--let me see; two letthers. Wait till I rub the rust off; or stay, +the rust shows them as well. Let me see--P. an' what's the other? ay, +an' M. P. M.--arra, what can that be for? Well, devil may care! let it +lie on the shelf there. Here now--none of your cross looks, I say--put +these cobwebs to your face, an' they'll stop the bleedin'. Ha, ha, +ha!--well--ha, ha, ha!--but you are a sight to fall in love wid this +minute!” she exclaimed, laughing heartily at the blood-stained visage +of the other. “You won't spake, I see. Divil may care then, if you don't +you'll do the other thing--let it alone: but, at any rate, there's the +cobwebs for you, if you like to put them on; an' so _bannatht latht_, +an' let that be a warnin' to you not to raise your hand to me again. + + 'A sailor courted a farmer's daughter + That lived contageous to the isle of Man,'” &c. + +She then directed her steps to the dance in Kilnahushogue, where one +would actually suppose, if mirth, laughter, and extraordinary buoyancy +of spirits could be depended on, that she was gifted, in addition to her +remarkable beauty, with the innocent and delightful disposition of an +angel. + +The step-mother having dressed the wound as well as she could, sat down +by the fire and began to ruminate on the violent contest which had just +taken place, and in which she had borne such an unfortunate part. This +was the first open and determined act of personal resistance which she +had ever, until that moment, experienced at her step-daughter's hands; +but now she feared that, if they were to live, as heretofore, under +the same roof, their life would be one of perpetual strife--perhaps +of ultimate bloodshed--and that these domestic brawls might unhappily +terminate in the death of either. She felt that her own temper was none +of the best, and knew that so long as she was incapable of restraining +it, or maintaining her coolness under the provocations to which the +violent passions of Sarah would necessarily expose her, so long must +such conflicts as that which had just occurred take place between them. +She began now to fear Sarah, with whose remorseless disposition she +was too well acquainted, and came to the natural conclusion, that a +residence under the same roof was by no means compatible with her own +safety. + +“She has been a curse to me!” she went on, unconsciously speaking aloud; +“for when she wasn't able to bate me herself, her father did it for her. +The divil is said to be fond of his own; an' so does he dote on her, +bekase she's his image in everything that's bad. A hard life I'll lead +between them from this out, espeshially now that she's got the upper +hand of me. Yet what else can I expect or desarve? This load that is on +my conscience is worse. Night and day I'm sufferin' in the sight of God, +an' actin' as if I wasn't to be brought in judgment afore him. What am +I to do? I wish I was in my grave! But then, agin', how am I to face +death?--and that same's not the worst; for afther death comes judgment! +May the Lord prepare me for it, and guide and direct me how to act! One +thing, I know, must be done--either she or I will lave this house; for +live undher the same roof wid her I will not.” + +She then rose up, looked out of the door a moment, and, resuming her +seat, went on with her soliloquy-- + +“No; he said it was likely he wouldn't be home to-night. Wanst he gets +upon his ould prophecies, he doesn't care how long he stays away; an' +why he can take the delight he does in prophesyin' and foretellin' +good or evil, accordin' as it sarves his purpose, I'm sure I don't +know--espeshially when he only laughs in his sleeve at the people +for believin' him; but what's that about poor _Gra Gal_ Sullivan? She +threatened her, and spoke of her father, too, as bein' in it. Ah, ah! I +must watch him there; an' you, too, my lady divil--for it 'ill go +hard wid me if either of you injure a hair of her head. No, no, plaise +God!--none of your evil doins or unlucks prophecies for her, so long, +any way, as I can presarve her from them. How black the evenin' is +gatherin', but God knows that it's the awful saison all out for the +harvest--it is that--it is that!” + +Having given utterance to these sentiments, she took up the tobacco-box +which Sarah had, in such an accidental manner, tumbled out of the wall, +and surveying it for some moments, laid it hastily on the chest, and, +clasping her hands exclaimed-- + +“Saviour of life! it's the same! Oh, merciful God, it's thrue! it's +thrue!--the very same I seen wid him that evenin': I know it by the +broken hinge and the two letthers. The Lord forgive me my sins!--for I +see now that do what we may, or hide it as we like, God is above all! +Saviour of life, how will this end? an' what will I do?--or how am I to +act? But any way, I must hide this, and put it out of his reach.” + +She accordingly went out, and having ascertained that no person saw her, +thrust the box up under the thatch of the roof, in such a way that it +was impossible to suspect, by any apparent disturbance of the roof, that +it was there; after which, she sat down with sensations of dread that +were new to her, and that mingled themselves as strongly with her +affections as it was possible for a woman of a naturally firm and +undaunted character to feel them. + + + + +CHAPTER II. -- The Black Prophet Prophesies. + + +At a somewhat more advanced period of the same evening, two men were on +their way from the market-town of Ballynafail, towards a fertile portion +of the country, named Aughamuran, which lay in a southern direction +from it. One of them was a farmer, of middling, or rather of struggling, +circumstances, as was evident from the traces of wear and tear that were +visible upon a dress that had once been comfortable and decent, although +now it bore the marks of careful, though rather extensive repair. He +was a thin placid looking man, with something, however, of a careworn +expression in his features, unless when he smiled, and then his face +beamed with a look of kindness and goodwill that could not readily be +forgotten. The other was a strongly-built man, above the middle size, +whose complexion and features were such as no one could look on with +indifference, so strongly were they indicative of a twofold character, +or, we should rather say, calculated to make a twofold impression. +At one moment you might consider him handsome, and at another his +countenance filled you with an impression of repugnance, if not of +absolute aversion; so stern and inhuman were the characteristics which +you read in it. His hair, beard, and eye-brows were an ebon black, as +were his eyes; his features were hard and massive; his nose, which was +somewhat hooked, but too much pointed, seemed as if, while in a plastic +state, it had been sloped by a trowel towards one side of his face, a +circumstance which, while taken in connection with his black whiskers +that ran to a point near his mouth, and piercing eyes, that were too +deeply and narrowly set, gave him, aided by his heavy eyebrows, an +expression at once of great cruelty and extraordinary cunning. This +man, while travelling in the same direction with the other, had suffered +himself to be overtaken by him: in such a manner, however, that their +coming in contact could not be attributed to any particular design on +his part. + +“Why, then, _Donnel Dhu_,” said the farmer, “sure it's a sight for sore +eyes to see you in this side of the country; an' now that I do see you, +how are you?” + +“Jist the ould six-an'-eight-pence, Jerry; an' how is the Sullivan +blood in you, man alive? good an' ould blood it is, in troth; how is the +family?” + +“Why we can't--hut, what was I goin' to say?” replied his companion; “we +can't--complain--ershi--mishi!--why, then, God help us, it's we that can +complain, Donnel, if there was any use in it; but, mavrone, there isn't; +so all I can say is, that we're jist mixed middlin', like the praties in +a harvest, or hardly that same, indeed, since this woful change that has +come on us.” + +“Ay, ay,” replied the other; “but if that change has come on you, you +know it didn't come without warnin' to the counthry; there's a man +livin' that foretould as much--that seen it comin'--ay, ever since +the pope was made prisoner, for that was what brought Bonaparte's +fate--that's now the cause of the downfall of everything upon him.” + +“An' it was the hard fate for us, as well as for himself,” replied +Sullivan, “little he thought, or little he cared, for what he made us +suffer, an' for what he's makin' us suffer still, by the come-down that +the prices have got.” + +“Well, but he's sufferin' himself more than any of us,” replied Donnel; +“however, that was prophesied too; it's read of in the ould Chronicles. +'An eagle will be sick,' says St. Columbkill, 'but the bed of the sick +eagle is not a tree, but a rock; an' there, he must suffer till the +curse of the Father* is removed from him; an' then he'll get well, an' +fly over the world.'” + + * This is--the Pope, in consequence of Bonaparte having + imprisoned him. + +“Is that in the prophecy, Donnel?” + +“It's St. Columbian's words I'm spakin'.” + +“Throth, at any rate,” replied Sullivan, “I didn't care we had back the +war prices again; aither that, or that the dear rents were let down to +meet the poor prices we have now. This woeful saison, along wid the low +prices and the high rents, houlds out a black and terrible look for the +counthry, God help us!” + +“Ay,” returned the Black Prophet, for it was he, “if you only knew it.” + +“Why, was that, too, prophesied?” inquired Sullivan. + +“Was it? No; but ax yourself is it. Isn't the Almighty in his wrath, +this moment proclaimin' it through the heavens and the airth? Look +about you, and say what is it you see that does not foretel +famine--famine--famine! Doesn't the dark wet day, an' the rain, rain, +rain, foretel it? Doesn't the rotten' crops, the unhealthy air, an' the +green damp foretel it? Doesn't the sky without a sun, the heavy clouds, +an' the angry fire of the West, foretel it? Isn't the airth a page of +prophecy, an' the sky a page of prophecy, where every man may read of +famine, pestilence, an' death? The airth is softened for the grave, +an' in the black clouds of heaven you may see the death-hearses movin' +slowly along--funeral afther funeral--funeral afther funeral--an' +nothing to folly them but lamentation an' wo, by the widow an' +orphan--the fatherless, the motherless, an' the childless--wo an' +lamentation--lamentation an' wo.” + +Donnel Dhu, like every prophecy man of his kind--a character in Ireland, +by the way, that has nearly, if not altogether, disappeared--was +provided with a set of prophetic declamations suited to particular +occasions and circumstances, and these he recited in a voice of high and +monotonous recitative, that caused them to fall with a very impressive +effect upon the minds and feeling of his audience. In addition to this, +the very nature of his subject rendered a figurative style and suitable +language necessary, a circumstance which, aided by a natural flow of +words, and a felicitious illustration of imagery--for which, indeed, all +prophecy-men were remarkable--had something peculiarly fascinating and +persuasive to the class of persons he was in the habit of addressing. +The gifts of these men, besides, were exercised with such singular +delight, that the constant repetition of their oracular exhibitions by +degrees created an involuntary impression on themselves, that ultimately +rose to a kind of wild and turbid enthusiasm, partaking at once of +imposture and fanaticism. Many of them were, therefore, nearly as +much the dupes of the delusions that proceeded from their own heated +imaginations as the ignorant people who looked upon them as oracles; +for we know that nothing at all events so much generates imposture as +credulity. + +“Indeed, Donnel,” replied Sullivan, “what you say is unfortunately too +thrue. Everything we can look upon appears to have the mark of God's +displeasure on it; but if we have death and sickness now, what'll become +of us this time twelve months, when we'll feel this failure most?” + +“I have said it,” replied the prophet; “an' if my tongue doesn't tell +truth, the tongue that never tells a lie will.” + +“And what tongue is that?” asked his companion. + +“The tongue of the death-bell will tell it day afther day to every +parish in the land. However, we know that death's before us, an' the +grave, afther all, is our only consolation.” + +“God help us,” exclaimed Sullivan, “if we hadn't betther and brighter +consolation than the grave. Only for the hopes in our Divine Redeemer +an' his mercy, it's little consolation the grave could give us. But +indeed, Donnel, as you say, everything about us is enough to sink +the heart within one--an' no hope at all of a change for the betther. +However, God is good, and, if it's His will that we should suffer, it's +our duty to submit to it.” + +The prophet looked around him with a gloomy aspect, and, truth to say, +the appearance of everything on which the eye could rest, was such as +gave unquestionable indications of wide-spread calamity to the country. + +The evening, which was now far advanced, had impressed on it a character +of such dark and hopeless desolation as weighed down the heart with a +feeling of cold and chilling gloom that was communicated by the dreary +aspect of every thing around. The sky was obscured by a heavy canopy of +low, dull clouds that had about them none of the grandeur of storm, but +lay overhead charged with those wintry deluges which we feel to be so +unnatural and alarming in autumn, whose bounty and beauty they equally +disfigure and destroy. The whole summer had been sunless and wet--one, +in fact, of ceaseless rain which fell, day after day, week after week, +and month after month, until the sorrowful consciousness had arrived +that any change for the better must now come too late, and that nothing +was certain but the terrible union of famine, disease, and death +which was to follow. The season, owing to the causes specified, was +necessarily late, and such of the crops as were, ripe had a sickly and +unthriving look, that told of comparative failure, while most of the +fields which, in our autumns, would have been ripe and yellow, were now +covered with a thin, backward crop, so unnaturally green that all hope +of maturity was out of the question. Low meadows were in a state of +inundation, and on alluvial soils the ravages of the floods Were +visible in layers of mud and gravel that were deposited over many of the +prostrate corn fields. The peat turf lay in oozy and neglected heaps, +for there had not been sun enough to dry it sufficiently for use, so +that the poor had want of fuel, and cold to feel, as well as want of +food itself. Indeed, the appearance of the country, in consequence of +this wetness in the firing, was singularly dreary and depressing. Owing +to the difficulty with which it burned, or rather wasted away, without +light or heat, the eye, in addition to the sombre hue which the absence +of the sun cast over all things, was forced to dwell upon the long black +masses of smoke which trailed slowly over the whole country, or hung, +during the thick sweltering calms, in broad columns that gave to +the face of nature an aspect strikingly dark and disastrous, when +associated, as it was, with the destitution and suffering of the great +body of the people. The general appearance of the crops was indeed +deplorable. In some parts the grain was beaten down by the rain; in +airier situations it lay cut but unsaved, and scattered over the fields, +awaiting an occasional glance of feeble sunshine; and in other and +richer soils, whole fields, deplorably lodged, were green with the +destructive exuberance of a second growth. The season, though wet, was +warm; and it is unnecessary to say that the luxuriance of all weeds +and unprofitable production was rank and strong, while an unhealthy +fermentation pervaded every thing that was destined for food. A brooding +stillness, too, lay over all nature; cheerfulness had disappeared, even +the groves and hedges were silent, for the very birds had ceased +to sing, and the earth seemed as if it mourned for the approaching +calamity, as well as for that which had been already felt. The whole +country, in fact, was weltering and surging with the wet formed by the +incessant overflow of rivers, while the falling cataracts, joined to a +low monotonous hiss, or what the Scotch term _sugh_, poured their faint +but dismal murmurs on the gloomy silence which otherwise prevailed +around. + +Such was the aspect of the evening in question: but as the men advanced, +a new element of desolation soon became visible. The sun, ere he sank +among the dark western clouds, shot out over this dim and miserable +prospect a light so angry, yet so ghastly, that it gave to the whole +earth a wild, alarming, and spectral hue, like that seen in some feverish +dream. In this appearance there was great terror and sublimity, for as +it fell on the black shifting clouds, the effect was made still more +awful by the accidental resemblance which they bore to coffins, hearses, +and funeral processions, as observed by the prophecy-man, all of which +seemed to have been lit up against the deepening shades of evening +by some gigantic death-light that superadded its fearful omens to the +gloomy scenes on which it fell. + +The sun, as he then appeared, might not inaptly be compared to some +great prophet, who, clothed with the majesty and terror of I an +angry God, was commissioned to launch! his denunciations against the +iniquities of nations, and to reveal to them, as they lay under the +shadow of his wrath, the terrible calamities with which he was about to +visit their transgressions. + +The two men now walked on in silence for some time, Donnel Dhu having +not deemed it necessary to make any reply to the pious and becoming +sentiments uttered by Sullivan. + +At length the latter spoke. + +“Barrin' what we all know, Donnel, an' that's the saison an' the +sufferin' that's in it, is there no news stirrin' at all? Is it thrue +that ould Dick o' the Grange is drawin' near to his last account?” + +“Not so bad as that; but he's still complainin'. It's one day up and +another day down wid' him--an' of coorse his laise of life can't be long +now.” + +“Well, well,” responded Sullivan, “it's not for us to pass judgment on +our fellow-creatures; but by all accounts he'll have a hard reckonin'.” + +“That's his own affair, you know,” said Donnel Dhu; “but his son, master +Richard, or 'Young Dick,' as they call him, will be an improvement upon +the ould stock.” + +“As to that, some says ay, an' some says no; but I believe myself, that +he has, like his father, both good and bad in him; for the ould man, if +the maggot bit him, or that if he took the notion, would do one a good +turn; an' if he took a likin' to you, he'd go any lin'th to sarve you; +but, then, you were never sure of him--nor he didn't himself know this +minute what he'd do the next.” + +“That's thrue enough,” replied Donnel Dhu; “but lavin' him to shift for +himself, I'm of opinion that you an' I are likely to get wet jackets +before we're much oulder. Ha! Did you see that lightnin'? God presarve +us! it was terrible--an'--ay, there it is--the thundher! God be about +us, thundher at this hour is very fearful. I would give a thrifle to be +in my own little cabin, an' indeed I'm afeard that I won't be worth the +washin' when I get there, if I can go back sich a night as it's goin' to +be.” + +“The last few years, Donnel, has brought a grievous change,upon me and +mine,” replied Sullivan. “The time was, an' it's not long since, when I +could give you a comfortable welcome as well as a willin' one; however, +thank God, it isn't come to sich a hard pass wid me yet that I haven't +a roof an' a bit to ait to offer you; an' so to sich as it is you're +heartily welcome. Home! oh, you mustn't talk of home this night. Blood, +you know, is thicker than wather, an' if it was only on your wife +Nolly's account, you should be welcome. Second an' third cousins by the +mother's side we are, an' that's purty strong. Oh, no, don't talk of +goin' home this night.” + +“Well,” replied the other, “I'm thankful to you, Jerry, an' indeed as +the night's comin' on so hard and stormy, I'll accept your kind offer; +a mouthful of any thing will do me, an' a dry sate at your hearth till +mornin'.” + +“Unfortunately, as I said,” replied Sullivan, “it's but poor an' humble +treatment I can give you; but if it was betther you should be jist as +welcome to it, an' what more can I say?” + +“What more can you say, indeed! I know your good heart, Jerry, as who +doesn't? Dear me, how it's poorin' over there towards the south--ha, +there it is again, that thundher! Well, thank goodness, we haven't far +to go, at any rate, an' the shower hasn't come round this far yet. In +the mean time let us step out an' thry to escape it if we can.” + +“Let us cross the fields, then,” said Sullivan, “an' get up home by the +Slang, an' then behind our garden: to be sure, the ground is in a sad +plash, but then it will save a long twist round the road, an' as you +say, we may escape the rain yet.” + +Both accordingly struck off the highway, and took a short path across +the fields, while at every step the water spurted up out of the spongy +soil, so that they were soon wet nearly to their knees, so thoroughly +saturated was the ground with the rain which had incessantly fallen. +After toiling thro' plashy fields, they at length went up, as Sullivan +had said, by an old unfrequented footpath, that ran behind his garden, +the back of which consisted of a thick elder hedge, through which +scarcely the heaviest rain could penetrate. At one end of this garden, +through a small angle, forming a _cul de sac_, or point, where the +hedge was joined by one of white thorn, ran the little obsolete pathway +alluded to, and as another angle brought them at once upon the spot we +are describing, it would so happen that if any one had been found there +when they appeared, it would be impossible to leave it if they wished +to do so, without directly meeting them, there being no other mode of +egress from it except by the footpath in question. + +In that sheltered nook, then, our travellers found a young man about two +or three and twenty, holding the unresisting hand of a very beautiful +and bashful-looking girl, not more than nineteen, between his. From +their position, and the earnestness with which the young peasant +addressed her, there could be but little doubt as to the subject matter +of their conversation. If a bolt from the thunder which had been rolling +a little back among the mountains, and which was still faintly heard in +the distance, had fallen at the feet of the young persons in question, +it could not have filled them with more alarm than the appearance of +Sullivan and the prophet. The girl, who became pale and red by turns, +hung her head, then covered her face with her hands; and after a short +and ineffectual struggle, burst into tears, exclaiming-- + +“Oh, my God, it is my father!” + +The youth, for he seemed scarcely to have reached maturity, after a +hesitating glance at Sullivan, seemed at once to have determined the +course of conduct he should pursue. His eye assumed a bold and resolute +look--he held himself more erect--and, turning towards the girl, without +removing his gaze from her father, he said in a loud and manly tone-- + +“Dear Mave, it is foolish to be frightened. What have you done that +ought to make you aither ashamed or afeared? If there's blame anywhere, +it's mine, not yours, and I'll bear it.” + +Sullivan, on discovering this stolen interview--for such it was--felt +precisely as a man would feel, who found himself unexpectedly within the +dart of a rattlesnake, with but one chance of safety in his favor and +a thousand against him. His whole frame literally shook with the +deadly depth of his resentment; and in a voice which fully betrayed its +vehemence, he replied-- + +“Blame! ay, shame an' blame--sin an' sorrow there is an' ought to rest +upon her for this unnatural and cursed meetin'! Blame! surely, an' as +I stand here to witness her shame, I tell her that there would not be +a just God in Heaven, if she's not yet punished for holdin' this +guilty discoorse with the son of the man that has her uncle's blood--my +brother's blood--on his hand of murdher--” + + +[Illustration: PAGE 785-- “It's false,” replied the young fellow] + + +“It's false,” replied the young fellow, with kindling eye; “it's +false, from your teeth to your marrow. I know my father's heart an' +his thought--an' I say that whoever charges him with the murder of your +brother, is a liar--a false and damnable li--” + +He checked himself ere he closed the sentence. + +“Jerry Sullivan,” said he, in an altered voice, “I ax your pardon for +the words---it's but natural you should feel as you do; but if it was +any other man than yourself that brought the charge of blood against my +father, I would thramp upon him where he stands.” + +“An' maybe murdher him, as my poor brother was murdhered. Dalton, I see +the love of blood in your eye,” replied Sullivan, bitterly. + +“Why,” replied the other, “you have no proof that the man was murdered +at all. His body was never found; and no one can say what became of him. +For all that any one knows to the contrary, he may be alive still.” + +“Begone, sirra,” said Sullivan, in a burst of impetuous resentment which +he could not restrain, “if I ever know you to open your lips to that +daughter of mine--if the mane crature can be my daughter--I'll make it +be the blackest deed but one that ever a Dalton did; and as for you--go +in at wonst--I'll make you hear me by and by.” + +Dalton looked at him once more with a kindling but a smiling eye. + +“Speak what you like,” said he--“I'll curb myself. Only, if you wish +your daughter to go in, you had better leave the way and let her pass.” + +Mave--for such was her name--with trembling limbs, burning blushes and +palpitating heart, then passed from the shady angle where they stood; +but ere she did, one quick and lightning glance was bestowed upon her +lover, which, brief though it was, he felt as a sufficient consolation +for the enmity of her father. + +The prophet had not yet spoken; nor indeed had time been given him to do +so, had he been inclined. He looked on, however, with' surprise, which +soon assumed the appearance, as well as the reality, of some malignant +satisfaction which he could not conceal. + +He eyed Dalton with a grin of peculiar bitterness. + +“Well,” said he, “it's the general opinion that if any one knows or +can tell what the future may bring about, I can; an', if my knowledge +doesn't desave me, Dalton, I think, while you're before me, that I'm +lookin' at a man that was never born to be drowned at any rate. I +prophecy that, die when you may, you'll live to see your own funeral.” + +“If you're wise,” replied the young man, “you'll not provoke me now +Jerry Sullivan may say what he wishes--he's safe, an he knows why; but I +warn you, Donnel Dhu, to take no liberty with me; I'll not bear it. + +“Troth, I don't blame Jerry Sullivan,” rejoined the prophet. “Of coorse +no man would wish to have a son-in-law hanged. It's in the prophecy that +you'll go to the surgeons yet.” + +“Did you foresee in your prophecies this mornin' that you'd get yourself +well drubbed before night?” asked Dalton, bristling up. + +“No,” said the other; “my prophecy seen no one able to do it.” + +“You and your prophecy are liars, then,” retorted the other: “an' in +the doom you're kind enough to give me, don't be too sure but you meant +yourself. There's more of murdher an' the gallows in your face than +there is in mine. That's all I'll say, Donnel. Anything else you'll get +from me will be a blow; so take care of yourself.” + +“Let him alone, Donnel,” said Sullivan; “it's not safe to meddle with +one of his name. You don't know what harm he may do you.” + +“I'm not afeard of him,” said the prophet, with a sneer; “he'll find +himself a little mistaken, if he tries his hand. It won't be for me +you'll hang, my lad.” + +The words were scarcely uttered when a terrific blow on the eye, struck +with the rapidity of lightning, shot him to the earth, where he lay for +about half a minute, apparently insensible. He then got up, and after +shaking his head, as if to rid himself of a sense of confusion and +stupor, looked at Dalton for some time. + +“Well,” said he, “it's all over now--but the truth is, the fault was my +own. I provoked him too much, an' without any occasion. I'm sorry +you struck me, Condy, for I was only jokin' all the time. I never had +ill-will against you; an' in spite of what has happened, I haven't now.” + +A feeling of generous regret, almost amounting to remorse, instantly +touched Dalton's heart; he seized the hand of Donnel, and expressed his +sorrow for the blow he had given him. + +“My God,” he exclaimed, “why did I strike you? But sure no one could for +a minute suppose that you weren't in earnest.” + +“Well, well,” said the other, “let it be a warnin' to both of us; to me, +in the first place, never to carry a joke too far; and to you, never to +allow your passion to get the betther of you, afaird that you might give +a blow in anger that you'd have cause to repent of all the days of your +life. My eye and cheek is in a frightful state; but no matther, Condy, I +forgive you, especially in the hope that you'll mark my advice.” + +Dalton once more asked his pardon, and expressed his unqualified sorrow +at what had occurred; after which he again shook hands with Dalton and +departed. + +Sullivan felt surprised at this rencontre, especially at the nature of +its singular termination; he seemed, however, to fall into a meditative +and gloomy mood, and observed when Dalton had gone-- + +“If I ever had any doubt, Donnel, that my poor brother owed his death to +a Dalton, I haven't it now.” + +“I don't blame you much for sayin' so,” replied Donnel. “I'm sorry +myself for what has happened, and especially as you were present. I'm +afeard, indeed', that a man's life would be but little in that boy's +hands under a fit of passion. I provoked him too much, though.” + +“I think so,” said Sullivan. “Indeed, to tell you the truth, I had as +little notion that you wore jokin' as he had.” + +“That's my drame out last night, at all events,” said Donnel. + +“How is that?” asked Sullivan, as they approached the door. + +“Why,” said he, “I dreamed that I was lookin' for a hammer at your +house, an' I thought that you hadn't one to give me; but your daughter +Mave came to me, and said, 'here's a hammer for you, Donnel, an' take +care of it, for it belongs to Condy Dalton.' I thought I took it, an' +the first thing I found myself doin' was drivin' a nail in what appeared +to be my own coffin. The same dhrame would alarm me but that I know that +dhrames goes by contrairies, as I've reason to think this will.” + +“No man understands these things better than yourself, Donnel,” said +Sullivan; “but, for my part, I think there's a dangerous kick in the boy +that jist left us; and I'm much mistaken or the world will hear of it +an' know it yet.” + +“Well, well,” said Donnel Dhu, in a very Christian-like spirit, “I fear +you're right, Jerry; but still let us hope for the best.” + +And as he spoke, they entered the house. + + + + +CHAPTER III. -- A Family on the Decline--Omens. + + +Jerry Sullivan's house and place had about them all the marks and tokens +of gradual decline. The thatch on the roof had begun to get black, and +in some places was sinking into rotten ridges; the yard was untidy and +dirty; the walls and hedges were broken and dismantled; and the gates +were lying about, or swinging upon single hinges. The whole air of the +premises was uncomfortable to the spectator, who could not avoid feeling +that there existed in the owner either wilful neglect or unsuccessful +struggle. The chimneys, from which the thatch had sank down, stood +up with the incrustations of lime that had been trowelled round their +bases, projecting uselessly out from them; some of the quoins had fallen +from the gable; the plaster came off the walls in several places, and +the whitewash was sadly discolored. + +Inside, the aspect of everything was fully as bad, if not worse. +Tables and chairs, and the general furniture of the house, had all that +character of actual cleanliness and apparent want of care which poverty +superinduces upon the most strenuous efforts of industry. The floor +was beginning to break up into holes; tables and chairs were crazy; the +dresser, though clean, had a cold, hungry, unfurnished look; and, what +was unquestionably the worst symptom of all, the inside of the chimney +brace, where formerly the sides and flitches of deep, fat bacon, grey +with salt, were arrayed in goodly rows, now presented nothing but the +bare and dust-covered hooks, from which they had depended in happier +times. About a dozen of herrings hung at one side of a worn salt-box, +and at the other a string of onions that was nearly Stripped, both +constituting the principal kitchen, varied, perhaps, with a little +buttermilk,--which Sullivan's family were then able to afford themselves +with their potatoes. + +We cannot close our description here, however; for sorry we are to +say, that the severe traces of poverty were as visible upon the inmates +themselves as upon the house and its furniture. Sullivan's family +consisted of his eldest daughter, aged nineteen, two growing boys, the +eldest about sixteen, and several younger children besides. These last +were actually ragged--all of them were scantily and poorly clothed; and +if any additional proof were wanting that poverty, in one of its most +trying shapes, had come among them, it was to be found in their pale, +emaciated features, and in that languid look of care and depression, +which any diminution in the natural quantity of food for any length of +time uniformly impresses upon the countenance. In fact, the whole group +had a sickly and wo-worn appearance, as was evident from the unnatural +dejection of the young, who, instead of exhibiting the cheerfulness +and animation of youth, now moped about without gayety, sat brooding in +corners, or struggled for a warm place nearest to the dull and cheerless +fire. + +“The day was, Donnel,” said Sullivan, whilst he pointed, with a sigh, +to the unfurnished chimney, “when we could give you--as I said awhile +agone--a betther welcome--in one sense--I mane betther tratement--than +we can give you now; but you know the times that is in it, an' you know +the down-come we have got, an' that the whole country has got--so you +must only take the will for the deed now--to such as we have you're +heartily welcome. Get us some dinner, Bridget,” he added, turning to his +wife; “but, first and foremost, bring that girl into the room here till +she hears what I have to say to her; and, Donnel, as you wor a witness +to the disgraceful sight we seen a while agone, come in an' hear, too, +what I'm goin' to say to her. I'll have no black thraisin in my own +family against my own blood, an' against the blood of my loving brother, +that was so traicherously shed by that boy's father.” + +The persons he addressed immediately passed into the cold, damp room as +he spoke--Mave, the cause of all this anxiety, evidently in such a state +of excitement as was pitiable. Her mother, who, as well as every +other member of the family, had been ignorant of this extraordinary +attachment, seemed perfectly bewildered by the language of her husband, +at whom, as at her daughter, she looked with a face on which might be +read equal amazement and alarm. + +Mave Sullivan was a young creature, shaped with extraordinary symmetry, +and possessed of great natural grace. Her stature was tall, and all +her motions breathed; unstudied ease and harmony. In color, her long, +abundant hair was beautifully fair--precisely of that delightful shade +which generally accompanies a pale but exquisitely clear and almost +transparent complexion. Her face was oblong, and her features so replete +with an expression of innocence and youth, as left on the beholder a +conviction that she breathed of utter guilelessness and angelic purity +itself. This was principally felt in the bewitching charm of her smile, +which was irresistible, and might turn the heart of a demon into love. +All her motions were light and elastic, and her whole figure, though not +completely developed, was sufficiently rounded by the fulness of health +and youth to give promise of a rich and luxurious maturity. On this +occasion she became deadly pale, but as she was one of those whose +beauty only assumes a new phase of attraction at every change, her +paleness now made her appear, if possible, an object of greater +interest. + +“In God's name, Jerry,” asked her mother, looking from father to +daughter in a state of much distress, “what is wrong, or what has +happened to put you in such a condition? I see by the anger in your eye +an' the whiteness of your cheeks, barrin' the little red spot in the +middle, that something out o' the way all out has happened to vex you.” + +“You may well say so, Bridget,” he replied; “but when I tell you that +I came upon that undutiful daughter of ours coortin' wid the son of the +man that murdhered her uncle--my only brother--you won't be surprised +at the state you see me in--coortin' wid a fellow that Dan M'Gowan here +knows will be hanged yet, for he's jist afther tellin' him so.” + +“You're ravin', Jerry,” exclaimed his wife, who appeared to feel the +matter as incredible; “you don't mane to tell me that she'd spake to, or +know, or make any freedoms whatsomever wid young Condy Dalton, the +son of her uncle's murdherer? Hut, no, Jerry, don't say that, at all +events--any disgrace but that--death, the grave--or--or anything--but +sich an unnatural curse as that would be.” + +“I found them together behind the garden not many minutes ago,” replied +Sullivan. “Donnel here seen them as well as I did--deny it she can't; +an' now let her say what brought her there to meet him, or rather what +brought him all the way to meet her? Answer me that, you disgrace to the +name--answer me at wanst!” + +The poor girl trembled and became so weak as to be scarcely able to +stand: in fact, she durst not raise her eye to meet that of either +parent, but stood condemned and incapable of utterance. + +The night had now nearly set in, and one of her little sisters entered +with a rush candle in her hand, the light of which, as it fell dimly +and feebly on the group, gave to the proceedings a wild and impressive +appearance. The prophecy-man, with his dark, stern look, peculiar nose, +and black raven hair that fell thickly over his shoulders, contrasted +strongly with the fair, artless countenance and beautiful figure of +the girl who stood beside him, whilst over opposite them were Sullivan +himself and his wife, their faces pale with sorrow, anxiety, and +indignation. + +“Give me the candle,” proceeded her father; “hand it to me, child, and +leave the room; then,” he proceeded, holding it up to a great-coat of +frieze which hung against the wall--“there's his coat--there's my lovin' +brother's coat; look upon it now, an' ax yourself what do you desarve +for meeting against our will an' consint the son of him that has the +murdher of the man that owned it on his hands an' on his heart? What do +you desarve, I say?” + +The girl spoke not, but the black prophet, struck by the words and the +unexpected appearance of the murdered man's coat, started; in a moment, +however, he composed himself, and calmly turned his eyes upon Sullivan, +who proceeded to address his daughter. + +“You have nothing to say, then? You're guilty, an' of coorse you have +no excuse to make; however, I'll soon put an end to all this. Bring me a +prayerbook. If your book oath can bind you down against ever----” + +He could proceed no further. On uttering the last words, his daughter +tottered, and would have fallen to the ground, had not Donnel Dhu caught +her in his arms. She had, in fact, become almost insensible from excess +of shame and over excitement, and, as Donnel carried her towards a bed +that was in the corner of the room, her head lay over against his face. + +It is unnecessary to say that Sullivan's indignation was immediately +lost in alarm. On bringing the candle near her, the first thing they +observed were streaks of blood upon Donnel Dhu's face, that gave to it, +in connection with the mark of the blow he had received, a frightful and +hideous expression. + +“What is this?” exclaimed her mother, seizing the candle and holding it +to the beautiful features of her trembling daughter, which were now also +dabbled with blood. “In God's name, what ails my child? O Mave, Mave, +my darlin', what's come over you? Blessed mother of marcy, what blood is +this? _Achora, machree_, Mave, spake to! me--to the mother that 'ud +go distracted, an' that will, too, if anything's wrong wid you. It was +cruel in you, Jerry, to spake to; her so harsh as you did, an' to take +her to task before a sthranger in such a cuttin' manner. Saiver of +Airth, Mave, darlin', won't you spake to me, to your own mother?”' + +“Maybe I did spake to her too severely,” said the father, now relenting, +“an' if I did, may God forgive me; for sure you know, Bridget, I +wouldn't injure a hair of my darlin's head. But this blood! this blood! +oh, where did it come from?” + +Her weakness, however, proved of but short duration, and their +apprehension was soon calmed. Mave looked around her rather wildly, and +no sooner had her eyes rested on Donnel Dhu than she shrieked aloud, and +turning her face away from him, with something akin to fear and horror, +she flung herself into her mother's arms, exclaiming, as she hid her +face in her bosom: “Oh save me from that man; don't let! him near me; +don't let him touch me. I can't tell why, but I'm deadly afraid of him. +What blood is that upon his face? Father, stand between us!” + +“Foolish girl!” exclaimed her father, “you don't know what you're +sayin'. Of coorse, Donnel, you'll not heed her words for, indeed, she +hasn't come to herself yet. But, in God's name, where did this blood +come from that's upon you and her?” + +“You can't suppose, Jerry,” said Donnel, “that the poor girl's words +would make me take any notice of them. She has been too much frightened, +and won't know, maybe in a few minutes, that she spoke them at all.” + +“That's thrue,” said her mother; “but with regard to the blood----” + +She was about to proceed, when Mave rose up, and requested to be taken +out of the room. + +“Bring me to the kitchen,” said she, “I'm afraid; and see this blood, +mother.” + +Precisely as she spoke, a few drops of blood fell from her nose, which, +of course, accounted for its appearance on Donnel's face, and probably +for her terror also at his repulsive aspect. + +“What makes you afeard of poor Donnel, asthore?” asked her mother--“a +man that wouldn't injure a hair of your head, nor of one belongin' to +you, an' never did.” + +“Why, when my father,” she returned, “spoke about the coat there, an' +just as Donnel started, I looked at it, an' seen it movin', I don't know +why, but I got afeard of him.” + +Sullivan held up the candle mechanically, as she spoke, towards the +coat, upon which they all naturally gazed; but, whether from its dim +flickering light, or the force of imagination, cannot be determined, +one thing was certain, the coat appeared actually to move again, as if +disturbed by some invisible hand. Again, also, the prophet involuntary +started, but only for a single moment. + +“Tut,” said he, “it's merely the unsteady light of the candle; show it +here.” + +He seized the rushlight from Sullivan, and approaching the coat, held +it so close to it, that had there been the slightest possible motion, it +could not have escaped their observation. + +“Now,” he added, “you see whether it moves or not; but, indeed, the +poor girl is so frightened by the great scowldin' she got, that I don't +wondher at the way she's in.” + +Mrs. Sullivan kept still gazing at the coat, in a state of terror almost +equal to that of her daughter. + +“Well,” said she, “I've often heard it said that one is sometimes to +disbelieve their own eyes; an' only that I known the thing couldn't +happen, I would swear on the althar that I seen it movin'.” + +“I thought so myself, too,” observed Sullivan, who also seemed to have +been a good deal perplexed and awed by the impression; “but of coorse I +agree wid Donnel, that it was the unsteady light of the rush that made +us think so; howaniver, it doesn't matther now; move or no move, it +won't bring him that owned it back to us, so God rest him!--and now, +Bridget, thry an' get us some-thin' to ait.” + +“Before the girl leaves the room,” said the prophecy man, “let me spake +what I think an' what I know. I've lost many a weary day an' night in +studyin' the further, an' in lookin' into what's to come. I must spake, +then, what I think an' what I know, regardin' her. I must; for when the +feelin' is on me, I can't keep the prophecy back.” + +“Oh! let me go, mother,” exclaimed the alarmed girl; “let me go; I can't +bear to look at him.” + +“One minute, acushla, till you hear what he has to say to you,” and she +held her back, with a kind of authoritative violence, as Mave attempted +to leave the room. + +“Don't be alarmed my purty creature,” spoke the prophet; “don't be +alarmed at what I'm goin' to say to you, an' about you, for you needn't. +I see great good fortune before you. I see a grand an' handsome husband +at your side, and a fine house to live in. I see stairs, an' carpets, +an' horses, an' hounds, an' yourself, with jewels in your white little +ears, an' silks, an' satins on your purty figure. That's a wakin' dhrame +I had, an' you may all mark my words, if it doesn't come out thrue; it's +on the leaf, an' the leaf was open to me. Grandeur an' wealth is before +her, for her beauty an' her! goodness will bring it all about, an' so I +read it.” + +“An' what about the husband himself?” asked the mother, whose affections +caused! her to feel a strong interest in anything that might concern +the future interest of her daughter; “can you tell us nothing about his +appearance, that we might give a guess at him?” + +“No,” replied M'Gowan, for such was the prophet's name, “not to you; to +none but herself can I give the marks an' tokens that will enable her +to know the man that is to be her husband when she sees him; and to +herself, in the mornin', I will, before I go that is if she'll allow +me--for what is written in the dark book ought to be read and expounded. +Her beauty an' her goodness will do it all!” + +The man's words were uttered m a voice so replete with those soft and +insinuating tones that so powerfully operate upon the female heart; they +breathed, too such an earnest spirit of good will, joined to an evident +admiration of the beauty and goodness he alluded to, that the innocent +girl, not-withstanding her previous aversion, felt something like +gratification at what he said, not on account ol the prospects held out +to her, but because of the singular charm and affectionate spirit +which breathed in his voice; or, might it not have been that delicate +influence of successful flattery which so gently pervades the heart of +woman, and soothes that vanity which unconsciously lurks in the very +purest and most innocent of the sex? So far from being flattered by +his predictions, she experienced a strong sensation of disappointment, +because she knew where her affections at that moment rested, and felt +persuaded that if she were destined to enjoy the grandeur shadowed out +for her, it never could be with him whom she then loved. Notwithstanding +all this, she felt her repugnance against the prophet strongly +counterbalanced by the strange influence he began to exercise over her; +and with this impression she and they passed to the kitchen, where in a +few minutes she was engaged in preparing food for him, with a degree of +good feeling that surprised herself. + +There is scarcely anything so painful to hearts naturally generous, like +those of the Sullivans, as the contest between the shame and exposure of +the conscious poverty on the one hand, and the anxiety to indulge in a +hospitable spirit on the other. Nobody unacquainted with Ireland could +properly understand the distress of mind which this conflict almost +uniformly produces. On the present occasion it was deeply felt by +this respectable but declining family, and Mave, the ingenuous and +kind-hearted girl, felt much of her unaccountable horror of this man +removed by its painful exercise. Still her aversion was not wholly +overcome, although much diminished; for, ever as she looked at his +swollen and disfigured face, and thought of the mysterious motions of +the murdered man's coat, she could not avoid turning away her eyes, and +wishing that she had not seen him that evening. The scanty meal was at +length over; a meal on which many a young eye dwelt with those yearning +looks that take their character from the hungry and wolfish spirit which +marks the existence of a “hard year,” as it is called in our unfortunate +country, and which, to a benevolent heart, forms such a sorrowful +subject for contemplation. Poor Bridget Sullivan did all in her power to +prevent this evident longing from being observed by M'Gowan, by looking +significantly, shaking' her head, and knitting her brows, at the +children; and when these failed she had recourse to threatening +attitudes, and all kinds of violent gestures: and on these proving also +unsuccessful, she was absolutely forced to speak aloud-- + +“Come, childhre, start out now, an' play yourselves; be off, I say, an' +don't stand ready to jump down the daicent man's throat wid every bit he +aits.” + +She then drove them abroad somewhere, but as the rain fell heavily the +poor creatures were again forced to return, and resume their pitiable +watch until the two men had finished their scanty repast. + +Seated around the dull and uncomfortable fire, the whole family now +forgot the hunger and care for a time, in the wild legends with which +M'Gowan entertained them, until the hour of rest. + +“We haven't the best bed in the world,” observed Sullivan, “nor the best +bed-clothes aither, but, as I said before, I wish, for all our sakes, +they were betther. You must take your chance with these two slips o' +boys to-night as well as you can. If you wish to tumble in now you may; +or, may be you'd join us in our prayers. We sthrive, God! help us, to +say a Rosary every night; for, afther all, there's nothin' like puttin' +oneself! undher the holy protection of the Almighty, blessed be His +name! Indeed, this sickness that's goin' is so rife and dangerous that +it's good to sthrive to be prepared, as it is indeed, whatever comes, +whether hunger or plenty, sickness or health; an' may God keep us +prepared always!” + +M'Gowan seemed for a moment at a loss, but almost immediately said in +reply-- + +“You are right, Jerry, but as for me, I say whatever prayers I do say, +always by myself; for I can then get my mind fixed upon them betther. +I'll just turn into bed, then, for troth I feel a little stiff and +tired; so you must only let me have my own way to-night. To-morrow night +I'll pray double.” He then withdrew to his appointed place of rest, +where, after having partially undressed himself, he lay down, and for +some time could hear no other sound than the solemn voices of this +struggling and afflicted little fold, as they united in offering up +their pious and simple act of worship to that Great Being, in whose +providential care they felt such humble and confiding trust. + +When their devotions were concluded, they quietly, and in a spirit +at once of resignation and melancholy, repaired to their respective +sleeping places, with the exception of old Sullivan himself, who, after +some hesitation, took down the great coat already so markedly alluded +to--and exclaiming, partly to those within hearing-- + +“I don't know--but still there can't be any harm in it; sure it's +betther that it should be doin' some good than hangin' up there idle, +against the wall, such a night as this. Here, Dan, for the first time +since I put it up wid my own hands, except to shake the dust off of it, +I'm goin' to turn this big coat to some use. There,” he added, spreading +it over them; “let it help to keep you warm to-night--for God knows, you +want it, you an' them poor gorsoons. Your coverin' is but light, an' +you may hear the downpowrin' of rain that's in it; an' the wind, too, +is risin' fast, every minute--gettin' so strong, indeed, that I doubt it +'ill be a storm before it stops; an' Dan, if it 'udn't be too much, may +be you'd not object to offer up one pather an' avy for the poor sowl of +him that owned it, an' that was brought to his account so suddenly and +so terribly. There,” he added, fixing it upon them; “it helps to keep +you warm at any rate; an' it's surely betther to have it so employed +than hangin' idle, as I said, against the wall.” + +M'Gowan immediately sat up in the bed, and putting down his hands, +removed the coat. + +“We don't want it at all,” he replied; “take it away, Jerry--do, for +heaven's sake. The night's not at all so cowld as you think, an' we'll +keep one another warm enough wid-out it, never fear.” + +“Troth you do want it,” said Sullivan; “for fareer gair, it's the light +coverin' that's over you an' them, poor boys. Heighho, Dan, see what +innocence is--poor things, they're sound already--an' may God pity them +an' provide for them, or enable me to do it!” And as he looked down upon +the sleeping lads, the tears came so abundantly to his eyes, that he was +forced to wipe them away. “Keep the coat, Dan,” he added; “you do want +it.” + +“No,” replied the other. “The truth is, I couldn't sleep under it. I'm +very timersome, an' a little thing frightens me.” + +“Oh,” said Sullivan, “I didn't think of that: in troth, if you're +timersome, it's more than the world b'lieves of you. Well, well--I'll +hang it up again; so good night, an' a sound sleep to you, an' to every +man that has a free conscience in the sight of God!” + +No response was given to this prayer, and his words were followed by a +deep and solemn silence, that was only broken occasionally by the heavy +pattering of the descending rain, and the fitful gusts of the blast, as +they rushed against the house, and sung wildly among the few trees by +which it and the garden were enclosed. + +Every one knows that a night of wind and storm, if not rising actually +to a tempest or hurricane, is precisely that on which sleep is with +its deepest influence upon men. Sullivan's family, on that which we are +describing, were a proof of this; at least until about the hour of +three o'clock, when they were startled by a cry for help, so loud and +frightful, that in a moment he and the boys huddled on their dress, and +hurried to the bed in which the prophet lay. In a minute or two they +got a candle lit; and truly the appearance of the man was calculated to +drive fear and alarm into their hearts. They found him sitting in the +bed, with his eyes so wild and staring that they seemed straining out +of their sockets. His hair was erect, and his mouth half open, and drawn +back; while the perspiration poured from him in torrents. His hands +were spread, and held up, with their palms outwards, as if in the act of +pushing something back that seemed to approach him. “Help,” he shouted, +“he is comin' on me--he will have me powerless in a minute. He is +gaspin' now, as he--Stay back, stay back--here--here, help; it's the +murdhered man--he's upon me. Oh!--Oh, God! he's comin' nearer and +nearer. Help me--save me!” + +Sullivan on holding the candle to his face, perceived that he was still +asleep; and suspecting the nature of his dream, he awoke him at once. On +seeing a portion of the family about him, he started again, and looked +for a moment so completely aghast that he resembled horror personified. + +“Who--what--what are you? Oh,” he exclaimed, recovering, and striving to +compose himself, “ha--Good God! what a frightful drame I had. I thought +I was murdherin' a man; murdherin' the”--he paused, and stared wildly +about him. + +“Murdherin' who?” asked Jerry. + +“Murdherin'! eh--ha--why, who talks about murdherin'?” + +“Compose yourself,” added Sullivan; “you did; but you're frightened. You +say you thought you were murdherin' some one; who was it?” + +“Yes, yesr” he replied; “it was myself. I thought the murdhered man +was--I mean, that the man was murdherin' myself.” And he looked with a +terrible shudder of fear towards the great coat. + +“Hut,” said Sullivan, “it was only a drame; compose yourself; why +should you be alarmed?--your hand is free of it. So, as I said, compose +yourself; put your trust in God, an' recommend yourself to his care.” + +“It was a terrible drame,” said the other, once more shuddering; “but +then it was a drame. Good God; yes! However, I ax pardon for disturbin' +you all, an' breaking in upon your sleep. Go to bed now; I'm well +enough; only jist set that bit of candle by the bed-side for awhile, +till I recover, for I did get a fearful fright.” + +He then laid himself down once more, and having wiped the perspiration +from his forehead, which was now cadaverous, he bade them good night, +and again endeavored to compose himself to rest. In this he eventually +succeeded, the candle burning itself out; and in about three-quarters +of an hour the whole family were once more wrapped in sound and +uninterrupted repose. + +The next morning the Sullivan family rose to witness another weary and +dismal day of incessant rain, and to partake of a breakfast of +thin stirabout, made and served up with that woful ingenuity, which +necessity, the mother of invention in periods of scarcity, as well as +in matters of a different character, had made known to the benevolent +hearted wife of Jerry Sullivan. That is to say, the victuals were made +so unsubstantially thin, that in order to impose, if possible, on the +appetite, it was deemed necessary to deceive the eye by turning the +plates and dishes round and round several times, while the viands +were hot, so as by spreading them over a larger surface, to give the +appearance of a greater quantity. It is, heaven knows, a melancholy +cheat, but one with which the periodical famines of our unhappy +country have made our people too well acquainted. Previous, however, to +breakfast, the prophet had a private interview with Mave, or the _Gra +Gal_, as she was generally termed to denote her beauty and extraordinary +power of conciliating affection; _Gra Gal_ signifying the fair love, or +to give the more comprehensive meaning which it implied, the fair-haired +beauty whom all love, or who wins all love. This interview lasted, at +least, a quarter of an hour, or it might be twenty minutes, but as the +object of it did not then transpire, we can only explain the appearances +which followed it, so far at least, as the parties themselves were +concerned. The _Gra Gal_, as we shall occasionally call her, seemed +pleased, if not absolutely gratified, by the conversation that passed +between them. Her eye was elated, and she moved about like one who +appeared to have been relieved from some reflection that had embarrassed +and depressed her; still it might have been observed that this sense of +relief had nothing in it directly affecting the person of the prophet +himself, on whom her eyes fell from time to time with a glance that +changed its whole expression of satisfaction to one of pain and dislike. +On his part there also appeared a calm sedate feeling of satisfaction, +under which, however, an eye better acquainted with human nature +might easily detect a triumph. He looked, to those who could properly +understand him, precisely as an able diplomatist would who had succeeded +in gaining a point. + +When breakfast was over, and previous to his departure, he brought Jerry +Sullivan and his wife out to the barn, and in a tone and manner of much +mystery, assuming at the same time that figurative and inflated style so +peculiar to him, and also to his rival the Senachie, he thus addressed +them-- + +“Listen,” said he, “listen, Jerry Sullivan, and Bridget, his wife; a +child was born, and a page was written--the moon saw it, and the stars +saw it; but the sun did not, for he is dark to fate an' sees nothing +but the face of nature. Do you understand that, Jerry Sullivan, an' you +Bridget, his wife?” + +“Well, troth we can't say we do yet, at all events,” they replied; “but +how could we, ye know, if it's regardin' prophecy you're spakin'.” + +“Undherstand it!” he replied, contemptuously, “you undherstand it!--no +nor Father Philemy Corcoran himself couldn't undherstand it, barrin' he +fasted and prayed, and refrained from liquor, for that's the way to get +the ray o' knowledge; at laist it's, the way I got it first--however, +let that pass. As I was sayin' a child was born and a page was +written--and an angel from heaven was sent to Nebbychodanazor, +the prophet, who was commanded to write. What will I write? says +Nebbychodanazor, the prophet. Write down the fate of a faymale child, by +name Mave Sullivan, daughter to Jerry Sullivan and his wife Bridget, of +Aughnmurrin. Amin, says the prophet; fate is fate, what's before is not +behind, neither is what's behind before, and every thing will come to +pass that's to happen. Amin, agin, says the prophet, an' what am I +to write? Grandeur an' wealth--up stairs and down stairs--silks-an' +satins--an inside car--bracelets, earrings, and Spanish boots, made of +Morroccy leather, tanned at Cordovan. Amin, agin, says Nebbychodanazor, +the prophet; this is not that, neither is that the other, but every is +everything--naither can something be nothing, nor nothing something, to +the end of time; and time itself is but cousin jarmin to eternity--as is +recorded in the great book of fate, fortune and fatality. Write again, +says the angel. What am I to write? At the name of Mabel Sullivan place +along wid all the rest, two great paragons of a woman's life, Marriage +and Prosperity--write marriage happy, and prosperity numerous--and so +the child's born, an' the page written--beauty and goodness, a happy +father, and a proud mother--both made wealthy through her means.” + +“And so,” he proceeded, dropping the recitative, and resuming his +natural voice-- + +“Be kind and indulgent to your daughter, for she'll yet live to make all +your fortunes. Take care of her and yourself till I sees yez again.” + +And without adding another word he departed. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. -- A Dance, and Double Discovery. + + +The dance to which Sarah M'Gowan went after the conflict with her +step-mother, was but a miserable specimen of what a dance usually is in +Ireland. On that occasion, there were but comparatively few assembled; +and these few, as may be guessed, consisted chiefly of those gay and +frolicsome spirits whom no pressure of distress, nor anything short of +sickness or death, could sober down into seriousness. The meeting, in +fact, exhibited a painful union of mirth and melancholy. The season +brought with it none of that relief to the peasantry which usually makes +autumn so welcome. On the contrary, the failure of the potato crop, +especially in its quality, as well as that in the grain generally, was +not only the cause of hunger and distress, but also of the sickness +which prevailed. The poor were forced, as they too often are, to dig +their potatoes before they were fit for food; and the consequences were +disastrous to themselves in every sense. Sickness soon began to appear; +but then it was supposed that as soon as the new grain came in, relief +would follow. In this expectation, however, they were, alas! most +wofully disappointed. The wetness of the summer and autumn had soured +and fermented the grain so lamentably, that the use of it transformed +the sickness occasioned by the unripe and bad potatoes into a terrible +and desolating epidemic. At the period we are treating of, this awful +scourge had just set in, and was beginning to carry death and misery in +all their horrors throughout the country. It was no wonder, then, that, +at the dance we are describing, there was an almost complete absence of +that cheerful and light-hearted enjoyment which is, or at least which +was, to be found at such meetings. It was, besides, owing to the +severity of the evening, but thinly attended. Such a family had two +or three members of it sick; another had buried a fine young woman; a +third, an only son; a fourth, had lost the father, and the fifth, the +mother of a large family. In fact, the conversation on this occasion was +rather a catalogue of calamity and death, than that hearty ebullition of +animal spirits which throws its laughing and festive spirits into such +assemblies. Two there were, however, who, despite of the gloom which +darkened both the dance and the day, contrived to sustain our national +reputation for gayety and mirth. One of these was our friend, Sarah, +or, as she was better known, Sally M'Gowan, and the other a young fellow +named Charley Hanlon, who acted as a kind of gardener and steward to +Dick o' the Grange. This young fellow possessed great cheerfulness, and +such an everlasting fund of mirth and jocularity, as made him the life +and soul of every dance, wake, and merry-meeting in the parish. He was +quite a Lothario in his sphere--a lady-killer--and so general an admirer +of the sex, that he invariably made I love to every pretty girl he met, +or could lure into conversation. The usual consequences followed. Nobody +was such a favorite with the sex in general, who were ready to tear each +other's caps about him, as they sometimes actually did; and indeed this +is not at all to be wondered at. The fellow was one of the most open, +hardy liars that ever lived. Of shame he had heard; but of what it +meant, no earthly eloquence could give him the slightest perception; +and we need scarcely add, that his assurance was boundless, as were +his powers of flattery. It is unnecessary to say, then, that a man so +admirably calculated to succeed with the sex, was properly appreciated +by them, and that his falsehood, flattery, and assurance were virtues +which enshrined the vagabond in their hearts. In short, he had got the +character of being a rake; and he was necessarily obliged to suffer +the agreeable penalty of their admiration and favor in consequence. The +fellow besides, was by no means ill-looking, nor ill-made, but just had +enough of that kind of face and figure which no one can readily either +find fault with or praise. + +This gallant and Sally M'Gowan, were in fact, the life of the meeting; +and Sally, besides, had the reputation of being a great favorite with +him--a circumstance which considerably diminished her popularity with +her own sex. She herself felt towards him that kind of wild, indomitable +affection, which is as vehement as it is unregulated in such minds as +hers. For instance, she made no secret of her attachment to him, but on +the contrary, gloried in it, even to her father, who, on this subject, +could exercise no restraint whatsoever over her. It is not our intention +to entertain our readers with the history of the occurrences which took +place at the dance, as they are, in fact, not worth recording. Hanlon, +at its close, prepared to see Sally home, as is usual. + +“You may come with me near home,” she replied; “but I'm not goin' home +to-night.” + +“Why, where the dickens are you goin' then?” he asked. + +“To Barny Gorrnly's wake; there 'ill be lots of fun there, too,” she +replied. “But come--you can come wid me as far as the turn-up to the +house; for I won't go in, nor go home neither, till afther the berril, +tomorrow.” + +“Do you know,” said he, rather gravely, “the Grey Stone that's at the +mouth of the Black Glen?” + +“I ought,” said she; “sure that's where the carman was found murdhered.” + +“The same,” added Hanlon. “Well, I must go that far to-night,” said he. + +“And that's jist where I turn off to the Gormly's.” + +“So far, then, we'll be together,” he replied. + +“But why that far only, Charley--eh?” + +“That's what you could never guess,” said he, “and very few else aither; +but go I must, an' go I will. At all events, I'll be company for you in +passin' it. Are you never afeard at night, as you go near it?” + +“Divil a taste,” she replied; “what 'ud I be afeard of? my father laughs +at sich things; although,” she added, musing, “I think he's sometimes +timorous for all that. But I know he's often out at all hours, and he +says he doesn't care about ghosts--I know I don't.” + +The conversation now flagged a little, and Hanlon, who had been all the +preceding part of the evening full of mirth and levity, could scarcely +force himself to reply to her observations, or sustain any part in the +dialogue. + +“Why, what the sorra's comin' over you?” she asked, as they began to +enter into the shadow of the hill at whose foot her father's cabin +stood, and which here, for about two hundred yards, fell across the +road. “It is gettin' afeard you are?” + +“No,” he replied; “but I was given to undherstand last night, that if +I'd come this night to the Grey Stone, I'd find out a saicret that I'd +give a great deal to know.” + +“Very well,” she replied, we'll see that; an' now, raise your spirits. +Here we're in the moonlight, thank goodness, such as it is. Dear me, +thin, but it's an awful night, and the wind's risin'; and listen to the +flood, how it roars in the glen below, like a thousand bulls!” + +“It is,” he replied; “but hould your tongue now for a little, and as +you're here stop wid me for a while, although I don't see how I'm likely +to come by much knowledge in sich a place as this.” + +They now approached the Grey Stone, and as they did the moon came out +a little from her dark shrine of clouds, but merely with that dim and +feeble light which was calculated to add ghastliness and horror to the +wildness and desolation of the place. + +Sally could now observe that her companion was exceedingly pale and +agitated, his voice, as he spoke, became disturbed and infirm; and as he +laid his hand upon the Grey Stone he immediately withdrew it, and taking +off his hat he blessed himself, and muttered a short prayer with an +earnestness and solemnity for which she could not account. Having +concluded it, both stood in silence for a short time, he awaiting the +promised information--for which on this occasion he appeared likely to +wait in vain;--and she without any particular purpose beyond her natural +curiosity to watch and know the event. + +The place at that moment was, indeed, a lonely one, and it was by no +means surprising that, apart from the occurrence of two murders, one on, +and the other near, the spot where they stood, the neighboring peasantry +should feel great reluctance in passing it at night. The light of the +moon was just sufficient to expose the natural wildness of the adjacent +scenery. The glen itself lay in the shadow of the hill, and seemed to +the eye so dark that nothing but the huge outlines of the projecting +crags, whose shapes appeared in the indistinctness like gigantic +spectres, could been seen; while all around, and where the pale light +of! the moon fell, nothing was visible but the muddy gleams of the +yellow flood as it rushed, with its hoarse and incessant roar, through +a flat country on whose features the storm and the hour had impressed +a character of gloom, and the most dismal desolation. Nay, the still +appearance of the Grey Stone, or rock, at which they stood, had, when +contrasted with the moving elements about them, and associated with +the murder committed at its very foot, a solemn appearance that was +of itself calculated to fill the mind with awe and terror. Hanlon felt +this, as, indeed, his whole manner indicated. + +“Well,” said his companion, alluding to the short prayer he had just +concluded, “I didn't expect to see you at your prayers like a voteen +this night at any rate. Is it fear that makes you so pious upon our +hands? Troth, I doubt there's a white feather,--a cowardly dhrop--in +you, still an' all.” + +“If you can be one minute serious, Sally, do, I beg of you. I am very +much disturbed, I acknowledge, an' so would you, mabe, if you knew as +much as I do.” + +“You're the color of death,” she replied putting her fingers upon his +cheek; “--an, my God! is it paspiration I feel such a night as this? I +declare to goodness it is. Give me the white pocket-handkerchy that you +say Peggy Murray gave you. Where is it?” she proceeded, taking it out of +his pocket. “Ah, ay, I have it; stoop a little; take care of your hat; +here now,” and while speaking she wiped the cold perspiration from +his forehead. “Is this the one she made you a present of, an' put the +letthers on?” + +“It is,” he replied, “the very same--but she didn't make me a present of +it, she only hemmed it for me.” + +“That's a lie of you,” she replied, fiercely; “she bought it for you out +of her own pocket. I know that much. She tould Kate Duffy so herself, +and boasted of it: but wait.” + +“Well,” replied Hanlon, anxious to keep down the gust of jealousy which +he saw rising, “and if she did, how could I prevent her?” + +“What letthers did she put on it?” + +“P. and an M.,” he replied, “the two first letthers of my name.” + +“That's another lie,” she exclaimed; “they're not the two first letthers +of your name, but of her own; there's no M in Hanlon. At any rate, +unless you give the same handkerchy to me, I'll make it be a black +business to her.” + +“Keep it, keep it, wid all my heart,” he replied, glad to get rid of a +topic which at that moment came on him so powerfully and unseasonably. +“Do what you like wid it.” + +“You say so willingly, now--do you?” + +“To be sure I do; an' you may tell the whole world that I said so, if +you like.” + +“P. M.--oh, ay, that's for Peggy Murray--maybe the letthers I saw on the +ould tobaccy-box I found in the hole of the wall to-day were for Peggy +Murray. Ha! ha! ha! Oh, may be I won't have a brag over her!” + +“What letthers?” asked Hanlon eagerly; “a tobaccy-box, did you say?” + +“Ay did I--a tobaccy-box. I found it in a hole in the wall in our +house to-day; it tumbled out while I was gettin' some cobwebs to stop a +bleedin'.” + +“Was it a good one?” asked Hanlon, with apparent carelessness, “could +one use it?” + +“Hardly; but no, it's all rusty, an' has but one hinge.” + +“But one hinge!” repeated the other, who was almost breathless with +anxiety; “an' the letthers--what's this you say they wor?” + +“The very same that's on your handkerchy,” she replied--“a P. an' an M.” + +“Great God!” he exclaimed, “is this possible! Heavens! What is that? Did +you hear anything?” + +“What ails you?” she enquired. “Why do you look so frightened?” + +“Did you hear nothing?” he again asked. + +“Ha! ha!--hear!” she replied, laughing--“hear; I thought I heard +something like a groan; but sure 'tis only the wind. Lord! what a night! +Listen how the wind an' storm growls an' tyrannizes and rages down in +the glen there, an' about the hills. Faith there'll be many a house +stripped this night. Why, what ails you? Afther all, you're but a +hen-hearted divil, I doubt; sorra thing else.” + +Hanlon made her no reply, but took his hat off, and once more offered up +a short prayer, apparently in deep and most extraordinary excitement. + +“I see,” she observed, after he had concluded, “that you're bent on your +devotions this night; and the devil's own place you've pitched upon for +them.” + +“Well, now,” replied Hanlon, “I'll be biddin' you good-night; but before +you go, promise to get me that tobaccy-box you found; it's the least you +may give it to me for Peggy Murray's handkerchy.” + +“Hut,” returned Sally, “it's not worth a thraneen; you couldn't use it +even if you had it; sure it's both rusty and broken.” + +“No matther for that,” he replied; “I want to play a thrick on Peggy +Murray wid it, so as to have a good laugh against her--the pair of +us--you wid the handkerchy, and me wid the tobaccy-box.” + +“Very well,” she replied. “Ha! ha! ha!--that'll be great. At any rate, +I've a crow to pluck wid the same Peggy Murray. Oh, never you fear, you +must have it; the minnit I get my hands on it, I'll secure it for you.” + After a few words more of idle chat they separated; he to his master's +house, which was a considerable distance off; and this extraordinary +creature--unconscious of the terrors and other weaknesses that render +her sex at once so dependent on and so dear to man--full only of delight +at the expected glee of the wake--to the house of death where it was +held. + +In the country parts of Ireland it is not unusual for those who come to +a wake-house from a distance, to remain there until the funeral takes +place: and this also is frequently the case with the nearest door +neighbors. There is generally a solemn hospitality observed on the +occasion, of which the two classes I mention partake. Sally's absence, +therefore, on that night, or for the greater portion of the next day, +excited neither alarm nor surprise at home. On entering their miserable +sheiling, she found her father, who had just returned, and her +step-mother in high words; the cause of which, she soon learned, had +originated in his account of the interview between young Dalton and Mave +Sullivan, together with its unpleasant consequences to himself. + +“What else could you expect,” said his wife, “but what you got? You're +ever an' always too ready wid your divil's grin an' your black prophecy +to thim you don't like. I wondher you're not afeard that some of them +might come back to yourself, an' fall upon your own head. If ever a man +tempted Providence you do.” + +“Ah, dear me!” he exclaimed, with a derisive sneer, rendered doubly +repulsive by his own hideous and disfigured face, “how pious we are! +Providence, indeed! Much I care about Providence, you hardened jade, or +you aither, whatever puts the word into your purty mouth. Providence! +oh, how much we regard it, as if Providence took heed of what we do. +Go an' get me somethin' to put to this swellin', you had betther; or +if it's goin' to grow religious you are, be off out o' this; we'll have +none of your cant or pishthrougues here.” + +“What's this?” inquired Sarah, seating; herself on a three legged stool, +“the ould work, is it? bell-cat, bell-dog. Ah, you're a blessed pair an' +a purty pair, too; you, wid your swelled face an' blinkin' eye. Arrah, +what dacent man gave you that? An' you,” she added, turning to her +step-mother, “wid your cheeks poulticed, an' your eye blinkin' on the +other side--what a pair o' beauties you are, ha! ha! ha! I wouldn't be +surprised if the divil an' his mother fell in consate wid you both!--ha! +ha!” + +“Is that your manners, afther spendin' the night away wid yourself?” + asked her father, angrily. “Instead of stealin' into the house +thremblin' wid fear, as you ought to be, you walk in wid your brazen +face, ballyraggin' us like a Hecthor.” + +“Devil a taste I'm afeard,” she replied, sturdily; “I did nothin' to be +afeard or ashamed of, an' why should I?” + +“Did you see Mr. Hanlon on your travels, eh?” + +“You needn't say eh about it,” she replied, “to be sure I did; it was to +meet him that I went to the dance; I have no saicrets.” + +“Ah, you'll come to a good end yet, I doubt,” said her father. + +“Sure she needn't be afeard of Providence, any how,” observed his wife. + +“To the divil wid you, at all events,” he replied; “if you're not off +out o' that to get me somethin' for this swellin' I'll make it worse for +you.” + +“Ay, ay, I'll go,” looking at him with peculiar bitterness, “an wid the +help of the same Providence that you laugh at, I'll take care that the +same roof won't cover the three of us long. I'm tired of this life, and +come or go what may, I'll look to my sowl an' lead it no longer. + +“Do you mane to break our hearts?” he replied, laughing; “for sure we +couldn't do less afther her, Sally; eh, ha! ha! ha! Before you lave us, +anyhow,” he added, “go and get me some Gaiharrawan roots to bring down +this swellin'; I can't go to the Grange wid sich a face as this on me.” + +“You'll have a blacker an' a worse one on the day of judgment,” replied +Nelly, taking up an old spade as she spoke, and proceeding to look for +the Casharrawan (Dandelion) roots he wanted. + +When she had gone, the prophet, assuming that peculiar sweetness of +manner, for which he was so remarkable when it suited his purpose, +turned to his daughter, and putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket, +pulled out a tress of fair hair, whose shade and silky softness were +exquisitely beautiful. + +“Do you see that,” said he, “isn't that pretty?” + +“Show,” she replied, and taking the tress into her hand, she looked at +it. + +“It is lovely; but isn't that aquil to it?” she continued, letting loose +her own of raven black and equal gloss and softness--“what can it brag +over that? eh,” and as she compared them her black eye flashed, and her +cheek assumed a rich glow of pride and conscious beauty, that made her +look just such a being as an old Grecian statuary would have wished to +model from. + +“It is aiquil to hers any day,” replied her father, softening into +affection as he contemplated her; “and indeed, Sally, I think you're her +match every way except--except--no matter, troth are you.” + +“What are you going to do wid it?” she asked; “is it to the Grange it's +goin'?” + +“It is an' I want you to help me in what I mentioned to you. If I get +what I'm promised, we'll lave the country, you and I, and as for +that ould vagabond, we'll pitch her to ould Nick. She's talking about +devotion and has nothing but Providence in her lips.” + +“But isn't there a Providence?” asked his daughter, with a sparkling +eye. + +“Devil a much myself knows or cares,” he replied, with indifference, +“whether there is or not.” + +“Bekase if there is,” she said, pausing--“if there is, one might as +well--” + +She paused again and her fine features assumed an intellectual +meaning--a sorrowful and meditative beauty, that gave a new and more +attractive expression to her face than her father had ever witnessed on +it before. + +“Don't vex me, Sarah,” he replied, snappishly. “Maybe it's goin' to +imitate her you are. The clargy knows these things maybe--an' maybe they +don't. I only wish she'd come back with the caaharrawan. If all goes +right, I'll pocket what'll bring yourself an' me to America. I'm +beginnin' somehow to get unaisy; an' I don't wish to stay in this +country any longer.” + +Whilst he spoke, the sparkling and beautiful expression which had lit +up his daughter's countenance passed away, and with it probably the +moment in which it was possible to have opened a new and higher destiny +to her existence. + +Nelly, in the meantime, having taken an old spade with her to dig the +roots she went in quest of, turned up Glendhu, and kept searching for +some time in vain, until at length she found two or three bunches of the +herb growing in a little lonely nook that lay behind a projecting ledge +of rock, where one would seldom think of looking for herbage at all. +Here she found a little, soft, green spot, covered over with dandelion; +and immediately she began to dig it up. The softness of the earth and +its looseness surprised her a good deal; and moved by an unaccountable +curiosity, she pushed the spade further down, until it was met by some +substance that felt rather hard. From this she cleared away the earth as +well as she could, and discovered that the spade had been opposed by a +bone; and on proceeding to examine still further, she discovered that +the spot on which the dandelions had grown, contained the bones of a +full grown human body. + + + + +CHAPTER V. -- The Black Prophet is Startled by a Black Prophecy. + + +Having satisfied herself that the skeleton was a human one, she +cautiously put back the earth, and covered it up with the green sward, +as graves usually are covered, and in such a way that there should +exist, from the undisturbed appearance of the place, as little risk as +possible of discovery. This being-settled, she returned with the herbs, +laying aside the spade, from off which she had previously rubbed the red +earth, so as to prevent any particular observation; she sat down, and +locking her fingers into each other, swayed her body backwards and +forwards in silence, as a female does in Ireland when under the +influence of deep and absorbing sorrow, whilst from time to time she +fixed her eyes on the prophet, and sighed deeply. + +“I thought,” said he, “I sent you for the dandelion; where is it?” + +“Oh,” she replied, unrolling it from the corner of her apron, “here +it is--I forgot it--ay, I forgot it--and no wondher--oh, no wondher, +indeed!--Providence! You may blaspheme Providence as much as you like; +but he'll take his own out o' you yet; an' indeed, it's comin' to +that--it is, Donnel, an' you'll find it so.” + +The man had just taken the herbs into his hand and was about to shred +them into small leaves for the poultice, when she uttered the last +words. He turned his eyes upon her; and in an instant that terrible +scowl, for which he was so remarkable, when in a state of passion, gave +its deep and deadly darkness to his already disfigured visage. His eyes +blazed, and one half of his face became ghastly with rage. + +“What do you mane?” he asked; “what does she mane, Sarah? I tell you, +wanst for all, you must give up ringing Providence into my ears, unless +you wish to bring my hand upon you, as you often did! mark that!” + +“Your ears,” she replied, looking at him calmly, and without seeming to +regard his threat; “oh, I only wish I could ring the fear of Providence +into your heart--I wish I I could; I'll do for yourself what you often +pretend to do for others: but I'll give you warnin'. I tell you now, +that Providence: himself is on your track--that his judgment's hangin' +over you--and that it'll fall upon! you before long. This is my +prophecy, and; a black one you'll soon find it.” + +That Nelly had been always a woman of some good nature, with gleams of +feeling and humanity appearing in a character otherwise apathetic, hard, +and dark, M'Gowan well knew; but that she was capable of bearding him +in one of his worst and most ferocious moods, was a circumstance which +amazed and absolutely overcame him. Whether it was the novelty or the +moral elevation of the position she so unexpectedly assumed, or some +lurking conviction within himself which echoed back the truth of her +language, it is difficult to say. Be that, however, as it might, he +absolutely quailed before her; and instead of giving way to headlong +violence or outrage, he sat down, and merely looked on her in silence +and amazement. + +Sarah thought he was unnecessarily tame on the occasion, and that +her prophecy ought not to have been listened to in silence. The utter +absence of all fear, however, on the part of the elder female, joined to +the extraordinary union of determination and indifference with which +she spoke, had something morally impressive in it; and Sarah, who +felt, besides, that there seemed a kind of mystery in the words of the +denunciation, resolved to let the matter rest between them, at least for +the present. + +A silence of some time now ensued, during which she looked from the one +to the other with an aspect of uncertainty. At length, she burst into a +hearty laugh-- + +“Ha, ha, ha!--well,” said she, “it's a good joke at any rate to see my +father bate with his own weapons. Why, she has frightened you more wid +her prophecy than ever you did any one wid one of your own. Ha, ha, ha!” + +To this Sally neither replied, nor seemed disposed to reply. + +“Here,” added Sarah, handing her stepmother a cloth, “remimber you have +to go to Darby Skinadre's for meal. I'd go myself, an' save you in the +journey, but that I'm afraid you might fall in love wid one another +in my absence. Be off now, you ould stepdivle, an' get the meal; or if +you're not able to go, I will.” + +After a lapse of a few minutes, the woman rose, and taking the cloth, +deliberately folded it up, and asked him for money to purchase the meal +she wanted. + +“Here,” said he, handing her a written paper, “give him that, an' it +will do as well as money. He expects Master Dick's interest for Dalton's +farm, an' I'll engage he'll attend to that.” + +She received the paper, and looking at it, said-- + +“I hope this is none of the villainy I suspect.” + +“Be off,” he replied, “get what you want, and that's all you have to +do.” + +“What's come over you?” asked Sarah of her father, after the other had +gone. “Did you get afeard of her?” + +“There's something in her eye,” he replied, “that I don't like, and that +I never seen there before.” + +“But,” returned the other, a good deal surprised, “what can there be in +her eye that you need care about? You have nobody's blood on your hands, +an' you stole nothing. What made you look afeard that time?” + +“I didn't look afeard.” + +“But I say you did, an' I was ashamed of you.” + +“Well, never mind--I may tell you something some o' these days about +that same woman. In the meantime, I'll throw myself on the bed, an' take +a sleep, for I slept but little last night.” + +“Do so,” replied Sarah; “but at any rate, never be cowed by a woman. Lie +down, an' I'll go over awhile to Tom Cassidy's. But first, I had better +make the poultice for your face, to take down the ugly swellin'.” + +Having made and applied the poultice, she went off, light-hearted as a +lark, leaving her worthy father to seek some rest if he could. + +She had no sooner disappeared than the prophet, having closed and +bolted the door, walked backwards and forwards, in a moody and unsettled +manner. + +“What,” he exclaimed to himself, “can be the matther with that woman, +that made her look at me in sich a way a while agone? I could not +mistake her eye. She surely knows more than I thought, or she would not +fix her eye into mine as she did. Could there be anything in that dhrame +about Dalton an' my coffin? Hut! that's nonsense. Many a dhrame I had +that went for nothin'. The only thing she could stumble on is the Box, +an' I don't think she would be likely to find that out, unless she +went to throw down the house; but, anyhow, it's no harm to thry.” He +immediately mounted the old table, and, stretching up, searched the +crevice in the wall where it had been, but, we need not add, in vain. He +then came down again, in a state of dreadful alarm, and made a general +search for it in every hole and corner visible, after, which his +agitation became wild and excessive. + +“She has got it!” he exclaimed--“she has stumbled on it, aided by the +devil'--an' may she soon be in his clutches!--and it's the only thing +I'm afeard of! But then,” he added, pausing, and getting somewhat +cool--“does she know it might be brought against me, or who owned it? +I don't think she does; but still, where can it be, and what could she +mane by Providence trackin' me out?--an' why did she look as if she: +knew something? Then that dhrame I can't get it out o' my head this +whole day--and the terrible one I had last night, too! But that last is +aisily 'counted for. As it is, I must only wait, and watch her; and if I +find she can be dangerous, why--it'll be worse for her--that's all!” + +He then threw himself on the wretched bed, and, despite of his +tumultuous reflections, soon fell asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. -- A Rustic Miser and His Establishment + + +There is to be found in Ireland, and, we presume, in all other +countries, a class of hardened wretches, who look forward to a period +of dearth as to one of great gain and advantage, and who contrive, by +exercising the most heartless and diabolical principles, to make +the sickness, famine, and general desolation which scourge their +fellow-creatures, so many sources of successful extortion and rapacity, +and consequently of gain to themselves. These are Country Misers or +Money-lenders, who are remarkable for keeping meal until the arrival of +what is termed a hard year, or a dear summer, when they sell it out at +an enormous or usurious prices, and who, at all times, and under all +circumstances, dispose of it only at terms dictated by their own griping +spirit and the crying necessity of the unhappy purchasers. + +The houses and places of such persons are always remarkable for a +character in their owners of hard and severe saving, which at a first +glance has the appearance of that rare virtue in our country, called +frugality--a virtue which, upon a closer inspection, is found to +be nothing with them but selfishness, sharpened up into the most +unscrupulous avarice and penury. + +About half a mile from the Sullivan's, lived a remarkable man of this +class, named Darby Skinadre. In appearance he was lank and sallow, +with a long, thin, parched looking face, and a miserable crop of yellow +beard, which no one could pronounce as anything else than “a dead +failure;” added to this were two piercing ferret eyes, always sore and +with a tear standing in each, or trickling down his fleshless cheeks; so +that, to persons disposed to judge only by appearances, he looked very +like a man in a state of perpetual repentance for his transgressions, +or, what was still farther from the truth, who felt a most Christian +sympathy with the distresses of the poor. In his house, and about it, +there was much, no doubt, to be commended, for there was much to mark +the habits of the saving man. Everything was neat and clean, not so +much from any innate love of neatness and cleanliness, as because +these qualities were economical in themselves. His ploughs and farming +implements were all snugly laid up, and covered, lest they might be +injured by exposure to the weather; and his house was filled with large +chests and wooden hogsheads, trampled hard with oatmeal, which, as they +were never opened unless during a time of famine, had their joints +and crevices festooned by innumerable mealy-looking cobwebs, which +description of ornament extended to the dresser itself, where they +might be seen upon most of the cold-looking shelves, and those neglected +utensils, that in other families are mostly used for food. His haggard +was also remarkable for having in it, throughout all the year, a +remaining stack or two of oats or wheat, or perhaps one or two large +ricks of hay, tanned by the sun of two or three summers into tawny +hue--each or all kept in the hope of a failure and a famine. + +In a room from the kitchen, he had a beam, a pair of scales, and a set +of weights, all of which would have been vastly improved by a visit from +the lord-mayor, had our meal-monger lived under the jurisdiction of that +civic gentleman. He was seldom known to use metal weights when disposing +of his property; in lieu of these he always used round stones, which, +upon the principle of the Scottish proverb, that “many a little makes +a muckle,” he must have found a very beneficial mode of transacting +business. + +If anything could add to the iniquity of his principles, as a plausible +but most unscrupulous cheat, it was the hypocritical prostitution of the +sacred name and character of religion to his own fraudulent impositions +upon the poor and the distressed. Outwardly, and to the eye of men, +he was proverbially strict and scrupulous in the observation of its +sanctions, but outrageously severe and unsparing upon all who appeared +to be influenced either by a negligent or worldly spirit, or who omitted +the least tittle of its forms. Religion and its duties, therefore, were +perpetually in his mouth but never with such apparent zeal and sincerity +as when enforcing his most heartless and hypocritical exactions upon +the honest and struggling creatures whom necessity or neglect had driven +into his meshes. + +Such was Darby Skinadre; and certain we are that the truth of the +likeness we have given of him will be at once recognized by our readers +as that of the roguish hypocrite, whose rapacity is the standing curse +of half the villages of the country, especially during the seasons of +distress, or failure of crops. + +Skinadre on the day we write of, was reaping a rich harvest from the +miseries of the unhappy people. In a lower room of his house, to the +right of the kitchen as you entered it, he stood over the scales, +weighing out with a dishonest and parsimonious hand, the scanty pittance +which poverty enabled the wretched creatures to purchase from him; +and in order to give them a favorable impression of his piety, and +consequently of his justice, he had placed against the wall a delf +crucifix, with a semi-circular receptacle at the bottom of it for +holding holy water This was as much as to say “how could I cheat you, +with the image of our Blessed Redeemer before my eyes to remind me of my +duty, and to teach me, as He did, to love my fellow-creatures?” And +with many of; the simple people, he actually succeeded in making the +impression he wished; for they could not conceive it possible, that any +principle, however rapacious, could drive a man to the practice of such +sacrilegious imposture. + +There stood Skinadre, like the very Genius of Famine, surrounded by +distress, raggedness, feeble hunger, and tottering disease, in all the +various aspects of pitiable suffering, hopeless desolation, and that +agony of the heart which impresses wildness upon the pale cheek, makes +the eye at once dull and eager, parches the mouth and gives to the voice +of misery tones that are hoarse and hollow. There he stood, striving to +blend consolation with deceit, and in the name of religion and charity +subjecting the helpless wretches to fraud and extortion. Around him +was misery, multiplied into all her most appalling shapes. Fathers of +families were there, who could read in each other's faces too truly the +gloom and anguish that darkened the brow and wrung the heart. The +strong man, who had been not long-before a comfortable farmer, now stood +dejected and apparently broken down, shorn of his strength, without a +trace of either hope or spirit; so wofully shrunk away too, from his +superfluous apparel, that the spectators actually wondered to think that +this was the large man, of such powerful frame, whose feats of strength +had so often heretofore filled them with amazement. But, alas! what will +not sickness and hunger do? There too was the aged man--the grand-sire +himself--bent with a double weight of years and sorrow--without food +until that late hour; forgetting the old pride that never stooped +before, and now coming with, the last feeble argument, to remind the +usurer that he and his father had been schoolfellows and friends, +and that although he had refused to credit his son and afterwards his +daughter-in-law, still, for the sake of old times, and of those who were +now no more, he hoped he would not refuse his gray hairs and tears, and +for the sake of the living God besides, that which would keep his son, +and his daughter-in-law, and his famishing grandchildren, who had not +a morsel to put in their mouths, nor the means of procuring it on +earth--if he failed them. + +And there was the widower, on behalf of his motherless children, coming +with his worn and desolate look of sorrow, almost thankful to God that +his Kathleen was not permitted to witness the many-shaped miseries of +this woful year; and yet experiencing the sharp and bitter reflection +that now, in all their trials--in his poor children's want and +sickness--in their moanings by day and their cries for her by night, +they have not the soft affection of her voice nor the tender touch of +her hand to soothe their pain--nor has he that smile, which was ever +his, to solace him now, nor that faithful heart to soothe him with its +affection, or to cast its sweetness into the bitter cup of affliction. +Alas! no; he knows that her heart will beat for him and them no more; +that that eye of love will never smile upon them again; and so he feels +the agony of her loss superadded to all his other sufferings, and in +this state he approaches the merciless usurer. + +And the widow--emblem of desolation and dependence--how shall she meet +and battle with the calamities of this fearful season? She out of whose +heart these very calamities draw forth the remembrances of him she has +lost, with such vividness that his past virtues are added to her +present sufferings; and his manly love as a husband--his tenderness as +a parent--his protecting hand and ever kind heart, crush her solitary +spirit by their memory, and drag it down to the utmost depths of +affliction. Oh! bitter reflection!--“if her Owen wore now alive, and +in health, she would not be here; but God took him to Himself, and now +unless he--the miser--has compassion on her, she and her children--her +Owen's children--must lie down and die! If it were not for their sakes, +poor darlings, she would I wish to follow him out of such a world; but +now she and the Almighty are all that they have to look to, blessed be +His name!” + +Others there were whose presence showed; how far the general destitution +had gone into the heart of society, and visited many whose circumstances +had been looked upon as beyond its reach. The decent farmer, for +instance, whom no one had suspected of distress, made his appearance +among them with an air of cheerfulness that was put on to baffle +suspicion. Sometimes he laughed as if his heart were light, and again +expressed a kind of condescending sympathy with some poor person or +other, to whom he spoke kindly, as a man would do who knew nothing +personally of the distress which he saw about him, but who wished to +encourage those who did with the cheering hope that it must soon pass +away. Then affecting the easy manner of one who was interesting himself +for another person, he asked to have some private conversation with the +usurer, to whom he communicated the immediate want that pressed upon him +and his family. + +It is impossible, however, to describe the various aspects and claims of +misery which presented themselves at Skinadre's house. The poor +people flitted to and fro silently and dejectedly, wasted, feeble, and +sickly--sometimes in small groups of twos and threes, and sometimes a +solitary individual might be seen hastening with earnest but languid +speed, as if the life of some dear child or beloved parent, of a husband +or wife, or perhaps, the lives of a whole farcify, depended upon his or +her arrival with food. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. -- A Panorama of Misery. + + +Skinadre, thin and mealy, with his coat off, but wearing a waistcoat to +which were attached flannel sleeves, was busily engaged in his agreeable +task of administering to their necessities. Such was his smoothness +of manner, and the singular control which a long life of hypocrisy had +given him over his feelings, that it was impossible to draw any correct +distinction between that which he only assumed, and that which he really +felt. This consequently gave him an immense advantage over every one +with whom he came in contact, especially the artless and candid, and +all who were in the habit of expressing what they thought. We shall, +however, take the liberty of introducing him to the reader, and allow +honest Skinadre to speak for himself. + +“They're beggars--them three--that woman and her two children; still my +heart bleeds for them, bekase we should love our neighbors as ourselves; +but I have given away as much meal in charity, an' me can so badly +afford it, as would--I can't now, indeed, my poor woman! Sick--troth +they look sick, an' you look sick yourself. Here, Paddy Lenahan, help +that woman an' her two poor children out of that half bushel of meal +you've got; you won't miss a handful for God's sake.” + +This he said to a poor man who had just purchased some oat-meal from +him; for Skinadre was one of those persons who, however he might have +neglected works of mercy himself, took great delight in encouraging +others to perform them. + +“Troth it's not at your desire I do it, Darby,” replied the man; “but +bekase she an' they wants it, God help them. Here, poor creature, take +this for the honor of God: an' I'm only sorry, for both our sakes, that +I can't do more.” + +“Well, Jemmy Duggan,” proceeded the miser, addressing a new-comer, +“what's the news wid you? They're hard times, Jemmy; we all know that +an' feel it too, and yet we live, most of us, as if there wasn't a God +ta punish us.” + +“At all events,” replied the man, “we feel what sufferin' is now, God +help us! Between hunger and sickness, the counthry was never in such a +state widin the memory of man, What, in the name o' God, will become of +the poor people, I know not. The Lord pity them an' relieve them!” + +“Amen, amen, Jemmy! Well, Jemmy, can I do any thing for you? But Jemmy, +in regard to that, the thruth is, we have brought all these scourges +on us by our sins and our transgressions; thim that sins, Jemmy, must +suffer.” + +“There's no one denyin' it, Darby; but you're axin' me can you do any +thing for me, an' my answer to that is, you can, if you like.” + +“Ah! Jemmy, you wor ever an' always a wild, heedless, heerum-skeerum +rake, that never was likely to do much good; little religion ever rested +on you, an' now I'm afeard no signs on it.” + +“Well, well, who's widout sin? I'm sure I'm not. What I want is, to know +if you'll credit me for a hundred of meal till the times mends a trifle. +I have the six o' them at home widout their dinner this day, an' must go +widout if you refuse me. When the harvest comes round, I'll pay you.” + +“Jemmy, you owe three half-year's, rent; an' as for the harvest an' what +it'll bring, only jist look at the day that's in it. It goes to my heart +to refuse you, poor man; but Jemmy, you see you have brought this on +yourself. If you had been an attentive, industrious man, an' minded +your religion, you wouldn't be as you are now. Six you have at home, you +say?” + +“Ay, not to speak of the woman; an' myself. I know you won't, refuse +them, Darby, bekase if we're hard pushed now, it's, a'most every body's +case as well as mine. Be what I may, you know I'm honest.” + +“I don't doubt your honesty, Jemmy; but Jemmy, if I sell my meal to a +man that can pay and won't, or if I sell my meal to a man that would pay +and can't, by which do I lose most? There it is, Jemmy--think o' that +now. Six in family, you say?” + +“Six in family, wid the woman an' myself.” + +“The sorra man livin' feels more for you than I do, an' I would let you +have the meal if I could; but the truth is, I'm makin' up my rent--an' +Jemmy, I lost so much last year by my foolish good nature, an' I gave +away so much on trust, that now I'm brought to a hard pass myself. Troth +I'll fret enough this night for havin' to refuse you. I know it was rash +of me to make the promise I did; but still, God forbid that ever any man +should be able to throw it in my face, an' say that Darby Skinadre ever +broke his promise.” + +“What promise?” + +“Why, never to sell a pound of meal on trust.” + +“God help us, then!--for what to do or where to go I don't know.” + +“It goes to my heart, Jemmy, to refuse you--six in family, an' the two +of yourselves. Troth it does, to my very heart itself; but stay, maybe +we may manage it. You have no money, you say?” + +“No money now, but won't be so long, plaise God.” + +“Well, but haven't you value of any kind?--: sure, God help them, they +can't starve, poor cratures--the Lord pity them!” Here he wiped away a +drop of villainous rheum which ran down his cheek, and he did it with +such an appearance of sympathy, that almost any one would have imagined +it was a tear of compassion for the distresses of the poor man's family. + +“Oh! no, they can't starve. Have you no valuables of any kind, +Jemmy!--ne'er a baste now, or anything that way?” + +“Why, there's a young heifer; but I'm strugglin' to keep it to help me +in the rent. I was obliged to sell my pig long ago, for I had no way of +feedin' it.” + +“Well, bring me the heifer, Jemmy, an' I won't let the crathurs starve. +We'll see what can be done when it comes here. An' now, Jemmy, let me ax +if you wint to hear mass on last Sunday?” + +“Troth I didn't like to go in this trim. Peggy has a web of frieze half +made this good while; it'll be finished some time, I hope.” + +“Ah! Jemmy, Jemmy, it's no wondher the world's the way it is, for indeed +there's little thought of God or religion in it. You passed last Sunday +like a haythen, an' now you see how you stand to-day for the same.” + +“You'll let me bring some o' the meal home wid me now,” said the man; +“the poor cratures tasted hardly anything to-day yet, an' they wor +cryin' whin I left home. I'll come back wid the heifer fullfut. Troth +they're in utther misery, Darby.” + +“Poor things!--an' no wondher, wid such a haythen of a father; but, +Jemmy, bring the heifer here first till I look at it, an' the sooner you +bring it here the sooner they'll have relief, the crathurs.” + +It is not our intention to follow up this iniquitous bargain any +further; it is enough to say that the heifer passed from Jemmy's +possession into his, at about the fourth part of its value. + +To those who had money he was a perfect honey-comb, overflowing with +kindness and affection, expressed in such a profusion of warm and sugary +words, that it was next to an impossibility to doubt his sincerity. + +“Darby,” said a very young female, on whose face was blended equal +beauty and sorrow, joined to an expression that was absolutely +death-like, “I suppose I needn't ax you for credit?” He shook his head. + +“It's for the couple,” she added, “an' not for myself. I wouldn't ax it +for myself. I know my fault, an' my sin, an' may God forgive myself in +the first place, an' him that brought me to it, an' to the shame that +followed it! But what would the ould couple do now widout me?” + +“An' have you no money? Ah, Margaret Murtagh! sinful creature--shame, +shame, Margaret. Unfortunate girl that you are, have you no money?” + +“I have not, indeed; the death of my brother Alick left us as we are; +he's gone from them now; but there was no fear of me goin' that wished +to go. Oh, if God in His goodness to them had took me an' spared him, +they wouldn't be sendin' to you this day for meal to keep life in them +till things comes round.” + +“Troth I pity them--from my heart I pity them now they're helpless and +ould--especially for havin' sich a daughter as you are; but if it was +my own father an' mother, God rest them, I couldn't give meal out on +credit. There's not in the parish a poorer man than I am. I'm done wid +givin' credit now, thank goodness; an' if I had been so long ago, it +isn't robbed, and ruined, an' beggared by rogues I'd be this day, but a +warm, full man, able and willin' too to help my neighbors; an' it is not +empty handed I'd send away any messenger from your father or mother, as +I must do, although my heart bleeds for them this minute.” + +Here once more he wiped away the rheum, with every appearance of regret +and sorrow. In fact, one would almost suppose that by long practice he +had trained one of his eyes--for we ought to have said that there was +one of them more sympathetic than the other--to shed its hypocritical +tear at the right place, and in such a manner, too, that he might claim +all the credit of participating in the very distresses which he refused +to relieve, or by which he amassed his wealth. + +The poor heart-broken looking girl, who by the way carried an +unfortunate baby in her arms, literally tottered out of the room, +sobbing bitterly, and with a look of misery and despair that it was +woeful to contemplate. + +“Ah, then, Harry Hacket,” said he, passing to another, “how are you? +an' how are you all over in Derrycloony, Harry? not forgettin' the ould +couple?” + +“Throth, middlin' only, Darby. My fine boy, Denis, is down wid this +illness, an' I'm wantin' a barrel of meal from you till towards +Christmas.” + +“Come inside, Harry, to this little nest here, till I tell you +something; an', by the way, let your father know I've got a new prayer +that he'll like to learn, for it's he that's the pious man, an' attinds +to his duties--may God enable him! and every one that has the devotion +in the right place; _amin a Chiernah!_” + +He then brought Hacket into a little out-shot behind the room in which +the scales were, and shutting the door, thus proceeded in a sweet, +confidential kind of whisper-- + +“You see, Harry, what I'm goin' to say to you is what I'd not say +to e'er another in the parish, the divil a one--God pardon me for +swearin'--_amin a Chiernah!_ I'm ruined all out--smashed down and broke +horse and foot; there's the Slevins that wint to America, an' I lost +more than thirty pounds by them.” + +“I thought,” replied Hacket, “they paid you before they went; they were +always a daicent and an honest family, an' I never heard any one speak +an ill word o' them.” + +“Not a penny, Harry.” + +“That's odd, then, bekaise it was only Sunday three weeks, that Murty +Slevin, their cousin, if you remember, made you acknowledge that they +paid you, at the chapel green.” + +“Ay, an' I do acknowledge; bekaise, Harry, one may as well spake +charitably of the absent as not; it's only in private to you that I'm +lettin' out the truth.” + +“Well, well,” exclaimed the other, rather impatiently, “what have they +to do wid us?” + +“Ay, have they; it was what I lost by them an' others--see now, don't +be gettin' onpatient, I bid you--time enough for that when you're +refused--that prevints me from bein' able to give credit as I'd wish. +I'm not refusin' you, Harry; but _achora_, listen; you'll bring your +bill at two months, only I must charge you a trifle for trust, for +chances, or profit an' loss, as the schoolmasther says; but you're to +keep it a saicret from livin' mortal, bekaise if it 'ud get known in +these times that I'd do sich a thing, I'd have the very flesh ait off +o' my bones by others wantin' the same thing; bring me the bill, then, +Harry, an' I'll fill it up myself, only be _dhe husth_ (* hold your +tongue) about it.” + +Necessity forces those who are distressed to comply with many a +rapacious condition of the kind, and the consequence was that Hacket did +what the pressure of the time compelled him to do, passed his bill to +Skinadre, at a most usurious price, for the food which was so necessary +to his family. + +It is surprising how closely the low rustic extortioner and the city +usurer upon a larger scale resemble each other in the expression of +their sentiments, in their habits of business, their plausibility, +natural tact, and especially, in that hardness of heart and utter want +of all human pity and sympathy, upon which the success of their black +arts of usury and extortion essentially depends. With extortion in all +its forms Skinadre, for instance, was familiar. From those who were poor +but honest, he got a bill such as he exacted from Hacket, because he +knew that, cost what it might to them, he was safe in their integrity. +If dishonest, he still got a bill and relied upon the law and its cruel +list of harassing and fraudulent expenses for security. From others he +got property of all descriptions; from some, butter, yarn, a piece of +frieze, a pig, a cow, or a heifer. In fact, nothing that possessed value +came wrong to him, so that it is impossible to describe adequately the +web of mischief which this blood-sucking old spider contrived to spread +around him, especially for those whom he knew to be too poor to avail +themselves of a remedy against his villany. + +“Molly Cassidy, how are you?” he said, addressing a poor looking woman +who carried a parcel of some description rolled up under her cloak; “how +are all the family, achora?” + +“Glory be to God for it, they can scarcely be worse;” replied the woman, +in that spirit of simple piety and veneration for the Deity, which in +all their misery characterizes the Irish people; “but sure we're only +sufferin' like others, an' indeed not so bad as many; there's Mick +Kelly has lost his fine boy Lanty; and his other son, young Mick, isn't +expected to live, an' all wid this sickness, that was brought on them, +as it is everywhere, wid bad feedin'.” + +“They're miserable times, Molly, at least I find them so; for I dunna +how it happens, but every one's disappointment falls upon me, till they +have me a'most out of house an' home--throth it 'ud be no wondher I'd +get hard-hearted some day wid the way I'm thrated an' robbed by every +one; aye, indeed, bekase I'm good-natured, they play upon me.” + +The poor creature gave a faint smile, for she knew the man's character +thoroughly. + +“I have a dish of butther here, Darby,” she said, “an' I want meal +instead of it.” + +“Butther, Molly; why thin, Molly, sure it isn't to me you're bringing +butther--me that has so much of it lyin' on my hands here already. Sure, +any way, it's down to dirt since the wars is over--butther is; if it +was anything else but butther, Molly: but--it's of no use; I've too +much of it.” + +“The sorra other thing I have, thin, Mr. Skinadre; but sure you had +betther look at it, an' you'll find it's what butther ought to be, firm, +claine, and sweet.” + +“I can't take it, achora; there's no market for it now.” + +“Here, as we're distressed, take it for sixpence a pound, and that's +the lowest price--God knows, if we wern't as we are, it isn't for that +you'd get it.” + +“Troth, I dar' say, you're ill off--as who isn't in these times? an' +it's worse they're gettin' an' will be gettin' every day. Troth, I say, +my heart bleeds for you; but we can't dale; oh, no! butther, as I said, +is only dirt now.” + +“For God's sake, thin,” exclaimed the alarmed creature, “take it for +whatever you like.” + +“It 'ud go hard wid me to see your poor family in a state of outther +want,” he replied, “an' it's not in my nature to be harsh to a +struggling person---so whether I lose or gain, I'll allow you +three-pence a pound for it.” + +A shade of bitterness came across her features at this iniquitous +proposal; but she felt the truth of that old adage in all its severity, +that necessity has no law. + +“God help us,” she exclaimed--“threepence a pound for such butther as +this!--however, it's the will of God sure, an' it can't be helped--take +it.” + +“Ay, it's aisy said, take it; but not to say what'll I do wid it, when +I have it; however, that's the man I am, an' I know how it'll end wid +me--sarvin' every one, workin' for every one, an' thinkin' of every one +but myself, an' little thanks or gratitude for all--I know I'm not fit +for sich a world--but still it's a consolation to be doin' good to our +fellow-creatures when we can, an' that's what lightens my heart.” + +A woman now entered, whose appearance excited general sympathy, as was +evident from the subdued murmurs of compassion which were breathed +from the persons assembled, as soon as she entered the room. There +was something about her which, in spite of her thin and worn dress, +intimated a consciousness of a position either then or at some previous +time, above that of the common description of farmer's wives. No one +could mistake her for a highly-educated woman--but there was in her +appearance that decency of manner resulting from habits of independence +and from moral feeling, which at a first glance, whether it be +accompanied by superior dress or not, indicates something which is felt +to entitle its proprietor to unquestionable respect. The miser, when she +entered, had been putting away the dish of butter into the outshot we +have mentioned, so that he had not yet an opportunity of seeing her, +and, ere he returned to the scales, another female possessing probably +not less interest to the reader, presented herself--this was Mave or +Mabel, the young and beautiful daughter of the pious and hospitable +Jerry Sullivan. + +Skinadre on perceiving the matron who preceded her, paused for a moment, +and looked at her with a wince in his thin features that might be taken +for an indication of either pleasure or pain. He' closed the sympathetic +eye, and wiped it--but this not seeming to satisfy him, he then closed +both, and blew his nose with a little skeleton mealy handkerchief that +lay on a sack beside him for that purpose. + +“Hem--a-hem! why, thin, Mrs. Dalton, it isn't to my poor place I +expected you would come.” + +“Darby,” she replied, “there is no use for any length of conversation +between you and me--I'm here contrary to the wishes of my family--but I +am a mother, and cannot look upon their destitution without feeling +that I should not allow my pride to stand between them and death: we are +starving, I mean--they are; and I'm come to ask you for credit; if we +are ever able to pay you, we will; if not, it's only one good act done +to a family that often did many to you when they thought you grateful.” + +“I'm the worst in the world--I'm the worst in the world,” replied +Skinadre; “but it wasn't till I knew that you'd be put out o' your farm +that I offered for it, and now you've taken away my carrecther, an' +spoken ill o' me everywhere, an' said that I bid for it over your heads; +ay, indeed, an' that it was your husband that set me up, by the way--oh, +yes--an' supposin' it was, an' I'm not denyin' it, but is that any +raisin that I'd not bid for a good farm, when I knew that yez 'ud be put +out of it?” + +“I am now spakin' about the distress of our family,” said Mrs. Dalton, +“you know that sickness has been among us, and is among us--poor Tom is +just able to be up, but that's all.” + +“Troth, an' it 'ud be well for you all, an' for himself too, that he had +been taken away afore he comes in a bad end. What he will come too, if +God hasn't said it. I hope he feels the affliction he brought on +poor Ned Munay an' his family by the hand he made of his unfortunate +daughter.” + +“He does feel it. The death of her brother and their situation has +touched his heart, an' he's only waitin' for better health and better +times to do her justice; but now what answer do you give me?” + +“Why, this: I'm harrished by what I've done for every one; an'--an'--the +short and the long of it is, that I've naither male nor money to throw +away. I couldn't afford it and I can't. I'm a rogue, Mrs. Dalton--a +miser, an extortioner, an ungrateful knave, and everything that is bad +an' worse than another; an' for that raison, I say, I have naither male +nor money to throw away. That's what I'd say if I was angry; but I'm not +angry. I do feel for you an' them; still I can't afford to do what you +want, or I'd do it, for I like to do good for evil, bad as I am. I'm +strivin' to make up my rent an' to pay an unlucky bill that I have +due to-morrow, and doesn't know where the money's to come from to meet +both.” + +“Mave Sullivan, achora, what can I--” + +Mrs. Dalton, from her position in the room, could not have noticed the +presence of Mave Sullivan, but even had she been placed otherwise, +it would have been somewhat difficult to get a glimpse of the young +creature's face. Deeply did she participate in the sympathy which was +felt for the mother of her mother, and so naturally delicate were her +feelings, that she had drawn up the hood of her cloak, lest the other +might have felt the humiliation to which Mave's presence must have +exposed her by the acknowledgment of her distress. Neither was this all +the gentle and generous girl had to suffer. She experienced, in her own +person, as well as Mrs. Dalton did, the painful sense of degradation +which necessity occasions, by a violation of that hereditary spirit of +decent pride and independence which the people consider as the prestige +of high respect, and which, even while it excites compassion and +sympathy, is looked upon, to a certain extent, as diminished by even a +temporary visitation of poverty. When the meal-man, therefore, addressed +her, she unconsciously threw the hood of her cloak back, and disclosed +to the spectators a face burning with blushes and eyes filled with +tears. The tears, however, were for the distress of Mrs. Dalton and her +family, and the blushes for the painful circumstances which compelled +her at once to witness them, and to expose those which were left under +her own careworn father's roof. Mrs. Dalton, however, on looking round +and perceiving what seemed to be an ebullition merely of natural shame, +went over to her with a calm but mournful manner that amounted almost to +dignity. + +“Dear Mave,” she said, “there is nothing here to be ashamed of. God +forbid that the struggle of an honest family with poverty should bring +a blot upon either your good name or mine. It does not, nor it will not: +so dry your tears, my darlin' girl; there are better times before us +all, I trust. Darby Skinadre,” she added, turning to the miser, “you +are both hard-hearted and ungrateful, or you would remember, in our +distress, the kindness we showed you in yours. If you can cleanse your +conscience from the stain of ingratitude, it must be by a change of +life.” + +“Whatever stain there may be on my ungrateful conscience,” he replied, +turning up his red eyes, as it were with thanksgiving, “there's not the +stain of blood and murdher on it--that's one comfort.” + +Mrs. Dalton did not seem to hear him, neither did she seem to look in +the direction of where he stood. As the words were uttered she had +been in the act of extending her hand to Mave Sullivan, who had hers +stretched out to receive it. There now occurred, however, a mutual +pause. Her hand was withdrawn, as was that of Mave also, who had +suddenly become pale as death. + +“God bless you, my darlin' girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Dalton, sighing, as +if with some hidden sorrow; “God bless you and yours, prays my unhappy +heart this day!” + +And with these words she was about to depart, when Mave, trembling and +much agitated, laid her hand gently and timidly upon her,--adding, in a +low, sweet, tremulous voice, + +“My heart is free from that suspicion--I can't tell why--but I don't +believe it.” + +And while she spoke, her small hand gradually caught that of Mrs. +Dalton, as a proof that she would not withhold the embrace on that +account. Mrs. Dalton returned her pressure, and at the same moment +kissed the fair girl's lips, who sobbed a moment or two in her arms, +where she threw herself. The other again invoked a blessing upon her +head, and walked out, having wiped a few tears from her pale cheeks. + +The miser looked upon this exhibition of feeling with some surprise; but +as his was not a heart susceptible of the impressions it was calculated +to produce, he only said in a tone of indifference: + +“Well, to be sure now, Mave, I didn't expect to see you shakin' hands +wid and kissin' Condy Dalton's wife, at any rate, considerin' all that +has happened atween the families. However, it's good to be forgivin'; +I hope it is; indeed I know that; for it comes almost to a feelin' in +myself. Well, _achora_, what am I to do for you?” + +“Will you let me speak to you inside a minute?” she asked. + +“Will I? Why, then, to be sure I will; an' who knows but it's my +daughter-in-law I might have you yet, _avillish!_ Yourself and Darby's +jist about an age. Come inside, _ahagur_.” + +Their dialogue was not of very long duration. Skinadre, on returning to +the scales, weighed two equal portions of oatmeal, for one of which Mave +paid him. + +“I will either come or send for this,” she said laying her hand on the +one for which she had paid. “If I send any one, I'll give the token I +mentioned.” + +“Very well, a suchar--very well,” he replied; “it's for nobody livin' +but yourself I'd do it; but sure, now that I must begin to coort you for +Darby, it won't be aisy to refuse you for anything in raison.” + +“Mind, then,” she observed, as she seized one of the portions, in order +to proceed home; “mind,” said she, laying her hand upon that which she +was leaving behind her; “mind it's for this one I have paid you.” + +“Very well, achora, it makes no difference; sure a kiss o' them red, +purty lips o' yours to Darby will pay the inthrest for all.” + +Two other females now made their appearance, one with whom our readers +are already acquainted. This was no other than the prophet's wife, +who had for her companion a woman whom neither she herself nor any one +present knew. + +“Mave Sullivan, darlin',” exclaimed the former, “I'm glad to see you. +Are you goin' home, now?” + +“I am, Nelly,” replied Mave, “jist on my step.” + +“Well, thin, if you stop a minute or two, I'll be part o' the way wid +you. I have somethin' to mention as we go along.” + +“Very well, then,” replied Mave; “make as much haste as you can, Nelly, +for I'm in a hurry;” and an expression of melancholy settled upon her +countenance as she spoke. + +The stranger was a tall thin woman, much about the age and height of the +prophet's 'wife, but neither so lusty nor so vigorous in appearance, +She was but indifferently dressed, and though her features had evidently +been handsome in her younger days, yet there was now a thin, shrewish +expression about the nose, and a sharpness about the compressed lips, +and those curves which bounded in her mouth, that betokened much +firmness if not obstinancy in her character, joined to a look which +might as well be considered an indication of trial and suffering, as of +a temper naturally none of the best. + +On hearing Mave Sullivan's name mentioned, she started, and looked at +her keenly, and for a considerable time; after which she asked for +a drink of water, which she got in the kitchen, where she sat, as it +seemed to rest a little. + +Nelly, in the meantime, put her hand in a red, three-cornered pocket +that hung by her side, and pulling out a piece of writing, presented it +to the meal man. That worthy gentleman, on casting his eye over it, read +as follows: + + +“Dear Skinadre: Give Daniel M'Gowan, otherwise the Black Prophet, any +quantity of meal necessary for his own family, which please charge, (and +you know why,) to your friend, + +“Dick o' the Grange, Jun.” + + +Skinadre's face, on perusing this document, was that of a man who felt +himself pulled in different directions by something at once mortifying +and pleasant. He smiled at first, then bit his lips, winked one eye, +then another; looked at the prophet's wife with complacency, but +immediately checked himself, and began to look keen and peevish. This, +however, appeared to be an error on the other side; and the consequence +was, that, after some comical alterations, his countenance settled down +into its usual expression. + +“Troth,” said he, “that same Dick o' the Grange, as he calls himself, +is a quare young gintleman; as much male as you want--a quare, mad--your +family's small, I think?” + +“But sharp an' active,” she replied, with a hard smile, as of one who +cared not for the mirth she made, “as far as we go.” + +“Ay,” said he, abruptly, “divil a much--God pardon me for swearin'--ever +they wor for good that had a large appetite. It's a bad sign of either +man or woman. There never was a villain hanged yet that didn't ait more +to his last breakfast than ever he did at a meal in his life before. +How-an-ever, one may as well have a friend; so I suppose, we must give +you a thrifle.” + +When her portion was weighed out, she and Mave Sullivan left this scene +of extortion together, followed by the strange woman, who seemed, as +it were, to watch their motions, or at least to feel some particular +interest in them. + +He had again resumed his place at the scales, and was about to proceed +in his exactions, when the door opened, and a powerful young man, tall, +big boned and broad shouldered, entered the room, leading or rather +dragging with him the poor young-woman and her child, who had just left +the place in such bitterness and affliction. He was singularly handsome, +and of such resolute and manly bearing, that it was impossible not to +mark him as a person calculated to impress one with a strong anxiety to +know who and what he might be. On this occasion his cheek was blanched +and his eye emitted a turbid fire, which could scarcely be determined as +that of indignation or illness. + +“Is it thrue,” he asked, “that you've dared to refuse to +this--this--unfor--is it thrue that you've dared to refuse this girl and +her starvin' father and mother the meal she wanted? Is this thrue, you +hard-hearted ould scoundrel?--bekaise if it is, by the blessed sky above +us, I'll pull the wind-pipe out of you, you infernal miser!” + +He seized unfortunate Skinadre by the neck, as he spoke, and almost at +the same moment forced him to project his tongue about three inches +out of his mouth, causing his face at the same time to assume, by the +violence of the act, an expression of such comic distress and terror, as +it was difficult to look upon with gravity. + +“Is it thrue,” he repeated, in a voice of thunder, “that you've dared to +do so scoundrelly an act, an' she, the unfortunate creature, famishing +wid hunger herself?” + +While he spake, he held Skinadre's neck as if in a vice--firm in the +same position--and the latter, of course, could do nothing more than +turn his ferret eyes round as well as he could, to entreat him to relax +his grip. + +“Don't choke him, Tom,” exclaimed Hacket, who came forward, to +interpose; “you'll strangle him; as Heaven's above, you will.” + +“An' what great crime would that be?” answered the other, relaxing his +awful grip of the miser. “Isn't he an' every cursed meal-monger like +him a curse and a scourge to the counthry--and hasn't the same counthry +curses and scourges enough widhout either him or them? Answer me now,” + he proceeded, turning to Skinadre, “why did you send her away widout the +food she wanted?” + +“My heart bled for her; but--” + +“It's a lie, you born hypocrite--it's a lie--your heart never bled for +anything, or anybody.” + +“But you don't know,” replied the miser, “what I lost by--” + +“It's a lie, I say,” thundered out the gigantic young fellow, once more +seizing the unfortunate meal-monger by the throat, when out again went +his tongue, like a piece of machinery touched by a spring, and again +were the red eyes now almost starting out of his head, turned round, +whilst he himself was in a state of suffocation, that rendered his +appearance ludicrous beyond description--“it's a lie, I say, for you +have neither thruth nor heart--that's what we all know.” + +“For Heaven's sake, let the man go,” said Hacket, “or you'll have his +death to answer for “--and as he spoke he attempted to unclasp the young +man's grip; “Tom Dalton, I say, let the man go.” + +Dalton, who was elder brother to the lover of Mave Sullivan, seized +Hacket with one of his hands, and spun him like a child to the other end +of the room. + +“Keep away,” he exclaimed, “till I settle wid him--here now, Skinadre, +listen to me--you refused my father credit when we wanted it, although +you knew we were honest--you refused him credit when we were turned out +of our place, although you knew the sickness was among us--well, you +know whether we that wor your friends, an'--my father at least--the +makin' of you”--and as he spoke, he accompanied every third word by +a shake or two, as a kind of running commentary upon what he said; +“ay--you did--you knew it well, and I could bear all that; but I can't +bear you to turn this unfortunate girl out of your place, widout what +she wants, and she's sinkin' wid hunger herself. If she's in distress, +'twas I that brought her to it, an' to shame an' to sorrow too--but I'll +set all right for you yet, Margaret dear--an' no one has a betther right +to spake for her.” + +“Tom,” said the young woman, with a feeble voice, “for the love of God +let him go or he'll drop.” + +“Not,” replied Dalton, “till he gives you what you come for. Come now,” + he proceeded, addressing the miser, “weigh her. How much will you be +able to carry, Margaret?” + +“Oh, never mind, now, Tom,” she replied, “I don't want any, it's the +ould people at home--it's them--it's them.” + +“Weigh her out,” continued the other, furiously; “weigh her out a stone +of meal, or by all the lies that ever came from your lips, I'll squeeze +the breath out of your body, you deceitful ould hypocrite.” + +“I will,” said the miser, panting, and adjusting his string of a cravat, +“I will, Tom; here, I ain't able, weigh it yourself--I'm not--indeed I'm +not able,” said he, breathless; “an' I was thinkin when you came in of +sendin' afther her, bekase, when I heard of the sickness among them, +that I mayn't sin, but I found my heart bleedin' inwar--” + + +[Illustration: PAGE 807-- Tom's clutches were again at his throat] + + +Tom's clutches were again at his throat. “Another lie,” he exclaimed, +“and you'r a gone man. Do what I bid you.” + +Skinadre appeared, in point of fact, unable to do so, and Dalton seeing +this, weighed the unhappy young woman a stone of oatmeal, which, on +finding it too heavy for her feeble strength, he was about to take up +himself when he put his hands to his temples, then staggered and fell. + +They immediately gathered about him to ascertain the cause of this +sudden attack, when it appeared that he had become insensible. His brow +was now pale and cold as marble, and a slight dew lay upon his broad +forehead; his shirt was open, and exposed to view a neck and breast, +which, although sadly wasted, were of surpassing whiteness and great +manly beauty. + +Margaret, on seeing him fall, instantly placed her baby in the hands of +another woman, and flying to him, raised his head and laid it upon her +bosom; whilst the miser, who had now recovered, shook his head, lifted +his hands, and looked as if he felt that his house was undergoing +pollution. In the meantime, the young woman bent her mouth down to his +ear, and said, in tones that were wild and hollow, and that had more of +despair than even of sorrow in them-- + +“Tom, oh, Tom, are you gone?--hear me!” + +But he replied not to her. “Ah! there was a day,” she added, looking +with a mournful smile around, “when he loved to listen to my voice; but +that day has passed forever.” + +He opened his eyes as she spoke; hers were fixed upon him. He felt a few +warm tears upon his face, and she exclaimed in a low voice, not designed +for other ears-- + +“I forgive you all, Tom, dear--I forgive you all!” + +He looked at her, and starting to his feet, exclaimed-- + +“Margaret, my own Margaret, hear me! She is dyin',” he shouted, in a +hoarse and excited voice--“she is dyin' with want. I see it all. She's +dead!” + +It was too true; the unhappy girl had passed into another life; but, +whether from a broken heart, caused by sin, shame, and desertion, or +from famine and the pressure of general destitution and distress, could +never properly be ascertained. + +“I see!” exclaimed Dalton, his eyes again blazing, and his voice hollow +with emotion--“I see--there she lies; and who brought her to that? But I +intended to set all right. Ay--there she lies. An' again, how are we at +home? Brought low down, down to a mud cabin! Now, Dick o' the Grange, +an' now, Darby Skinadre--now for revenge. The time is come. I'll take my +place at the head of them, and what's to be done, must be done. Margaret +Murtagh, you're lying dead before me, and by the broken heart you died +of--” + +He could add no more; but with these words, tottering and frantic, he +rushed out of the miser's house. + +“Wid the help o' God, the young savage is as mad as a March hare,” + observed Skinadre, coolly; “but, as it's all over wid the unfortunate +crature, I don't see why an honest man should lose his own, at any +rate.” + +Whilst uttering these words, he seized the meal, and deliberately +emptied it back into the chest from which young Dalton had taken it. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. -- A Middle Man and Magistrate--Master and Man. + + +Having mentioned a strange woman who made her appearance at Skinadre's, +it may be necessary, or, at least, agreeable to the reader, that +we should account for her presence under the roof of that worthy +individual, especially as she is likely to perform a part of some +interest in our tale. We have said already that she started on hearing +Mave Sullivan's name mentioned, and followed her and the Black Prophet's +wife like a person who watched their motions, and seemed to feel some +peculiar interest in either one or both. The reader must return, then, +to the Grey Stone already alluded to, which to some of the characters in +our narrative will probably prove to be a “stone of destiny.” + +Hanlon, having departed from Sarah M'Gowan in a state of excitement, +wended his way along a lonely and dreary road, to the residence of +his master, Dick o' the Grange. The storm had increased, and was still +increasing at every successive blast, until it rose to what might be +termed a tempest. It is, indeed, a difficult thing to describe the +peculiar state of his feelings as he struggled onwards, sometimes +blown back to a stand-still, and again driven forward by the gloomy and +capricious tyranny of the blast, as if he were its mere plaything. +In spite, however, of the conflict of the external elements as they +careered over the country around him, he could not shake from his +imagination the impression left there by the groan which he had heard at +the Grey Stone. A supernatural terror, therefore, was upon him, and +he felt as if he were in the presence of an accompanying spirit--of a +spirit that seemed anxious to disclose the fact that murder would not +rest; and so strongly did this impression gain upon him, that in the +fitful howling of the storm, and in its wild wailing and dying sobs +among the trees and hedges, as he went along, he thought he could +distinguish sounds that belonged not to this life. Still he proceeded, +his terrors thus translating, as it were, the noisy conflict of the +elements into the voices of the dead, or thanking Heaven that the strong +winds brought him to a calmer sense of his position, by the necessity +that they imposed of preserving himself against their violence. In this +anomalous state he advanced, until he came to a grove of old beeches +that grew at the foot of one of the hill-ranges we have described, and +here the noises he heard were not calculated to diminish his terrors. As +the huge trees were tossed and swung about in the gloomy moonlight, his +ears were assailed by a variety of wild sounds which had never reached +them before. The deep and repeated crashes of the tempest, as it +raged among them, was accompanied by a frightful repetition of hoarse +moanings, muffled groans, and wild unearthly shrieks, which encountered +him from a thousand quarters in the grove, and he began to feel +that horrible excitement which is known to be occasioned by the mere +transition from extreme cowardice to reckless indifference. + +Still he advanced homewards, repeating his prayers with singular energy, +his head uncovered notwithstanding the severity of the night, and the +rain pouring in torrents upon him, when he found it necessary to cross a +level of rough land, at all times damp and marshy, but in consequence of +the rains of the season, now a perfect morass. Over this he had advanced +about half a mile, and got beyond the frightful noises of the woods, +when some large object rose into the air from a clump of plashy rushes +before him, and shot along the blast, uttering a booming sound, so loud +and stunning that he stood riveted to the earth. The noise resembled +that which sometimes proceeds from a humming-top, if a person could +suppose one made upon such a gigantic scale as to produce the deep and +hollow buzz which this being emitted. Nothing could now convince him +that he was not surrounded by spirits, and he felt confident that the +voice of undiscovered murder was groaning on the blast--shrieking, as it +were, for vengeance in the terrible voice of the tempest. He once more +blessed himself, repeated a fresh prayer, and struggled forward, weak, +and nearly exhausted, until at length he reached the village adjoining +which his master, Dick o' the Grange, resided. + +The winds now, and for some minutes previously, had begun to fall, and +the lulls in the storm were calmer and more frequent, as well as longer +in duration. Hanlon proceeded to his master's, and peering through the +shutters, discovered that the servants had not yet retired to rest; +then bending his steps further up the village, he soon reached a small +isolated cabin, at the door of which he knocked, and in due time was +admitted by a thin, tall female. + +“God protect us, dear, you're lost!--blessed father, sich a night! Oh! +my, my! Well, well; sit near the spark o' fire, sich as it is; but, +indeed, it's little you'll benefit by it. Any way, sit down.” + +Hanlon sat on a stool, and laying his hat beside him on the floor, he +pressed the rain as well as he could out of his drenched hair, and for +some time did not speak, whilst the female, squatted upon the ground, +somewhat like a hare in her form, sat with the candle in her hand, which +she held up in the direction of his face, whilst her eyes were riveted +on him with a look of earnest and solemn inquiry. + +“Well,” she at length said, “did your journey end, as I tould you it +would, in nothing? And yet, God presarve me, you look--eh!--what has +happened?--you look like one that was terrified, sure enough. Tell me, +at wanst, did the dhrame come out thrue?” + +“I'll not have a light heart this many a day,” he replied; “let no one +say there's not a Providence above us to bring murdher to light.” + +“God of glory be about us!” she exclaimed, interrupting him; “something +has happened! Your looks would frighten one, an' your voice isn't like +the voice of a livin' man. Tell me--and yet, for all so curious as I +feel, I'm thremblin' this minute--but tell me, did the dhrame come out +thrue, I say?” + +“The dhrame came out thrue,” he replied, solemnly. “I know where the +tobaccy box is that he had about him; the same that transported my poor +uncle, or that was partly the means of doin' it.” + +The woman crossed herself, muttered a short ejaculatory prayer, and +again gathered her whole features into an expression of mingled awe and +curiosity. + +“Did you go to the place you dhramed of?” she asked. + +“I went to the Grey Stone,” he replied, “an' offered up a prayer for his +sowl, afther puttin' my right hand upon it in his name, jist as I did on +yesterday; afther I got an account of the tobaccy box, I heard a groan +at the spot--as heaven's above me, I did.” + +“Savior of earth, _gluntho shin!_” + +“But that wasn't all. On my way home, I heard, as I was passin' the ould +trees at the Rabbit Bank, things that I can't find words to tell you +of.” + +“Well acushla, glory be to God for everything! it's all his will, +blessed be his name! What did you hear, avick?--but wait till I throw a +drop o' the holy wather that I have hangin' in the little bottle at the +bed-post upon us.” + +She rose whilst speaking and getting the bottle alluded to, sprinkled +both herself and him, after which she hung it up again in its former +position. + +“There, now, nothin' harmful, at any rate, can come near us afther that, +blessed be his name. Well, what did you hear comin' home?--I mean at +the Rabbit Bank. Wurrah,” she added, shuddering, “but it's it that's the +lonely spot after night! What was it, dear?” + +“Indeed, I can scarcely tell you--sich groans, an' wild shoutins, an' +shrieks, man's ears never hard in this world, I think; there I hard them +as I was comin' past the trees, an' afther I passed them; an' when I +left them far behind me, I could hear, every now and then, a wild shriek +that made my blood run cowld. But there was still worse as I crossed the +Black Park; something got up into the air out o' the rushes before me, +an' went off wid a noise not unlike what Jerry Hamilton of the Band +makes when he rubs his middle finger up against the tamborine.” + +“Heaven be about us!” she exclaimed, once more crossing herself, and +uttering a short prayer for protection from evil; “but tell me, how did +you know it was his Box, and how did you find it out?” + +“By the letters P. M., and the broken hinge,” he replied. + +“Blessed be the name of God!” she exclaimed again--“He won't let the +murdher lie, that's clear. But what I want to know is, how did your +goin' to the Grey Stone bring you to the knowledge of the box?” + +He then gave her a more detailed account of his conversation with Sarah +M'Gowan, and the singular turn which it chanced to take towards the +subject of the handkerchief, in the first instance; but when the +coincidence of the letters were mentioned, together with Sarah's +admission that she had the box in her possession, she clasped her hands, +and looking upwards exclaimed-- + +“Blessed be the name of the Almighty for that! Oh, I feel there is no +doubt now the hand of God is in it, an' we'll come at the murdher or the +murdherers yet.” + +“I hope so,” he replied; “but I'm lost Wid wet an' cowld; so in the +meantime I'll be off home, an' to my bed. I had something to say to you +about another matther, but I'll wait till mornin'; dear knows, I'm in no +condition to spake about anything else to-night. This is a snug little +cabin; but, plaise God, in the coorse of a week or so, I'll have +you more comfortable than you are. If my own throuble was over me, I +wouldn't stop long in the neighborhood; but as the hand of God seems +to be in this business, I can't think of goin' till it's cleared up, as +cleared up it will be, I have no doubt, an' can have none, afther what +has happened this awful night.” + +Hanlon's situation with his master was one with which many of our +readers are, no doubt, well acquainted. He himself was a clever, active, +ingenious fellow, who could, as they say in the country, put a hand to +anything, and make himself useful in a great variety of employments. He +had in the spring of that year, been engaged as a common laborer by +Dick o' the Grange, in which capacity he soon attracted his employer's +notice, by his extraordinary skill in almost everything pertaining to +that worthy gentleman's establishment. It is true he was a stranger in +the country, of whom nobody knew anything--for there appeared to be some +mystery about him; but as Dick cared little of either his place of birth +or pedigree, it was sufficient for him to find that Hanlon was a +very useful, not to say valuable young man, about his house, that +he understood everything, and had an eye and hand equally quick and +experienced. The consequence was, that he soon became a favorite with +the father, and a kind of _sine qua non_ with the son, into whose rustic +gallantries he entered, with a spirit that satisfied the latter of his +capacity to serve him in that respect as well as others. Hanlon, +in truth, was just the person for such a master, and for such an +establishment as he kept. Dick o' the Grange was not a man who, either +by birth, education, or position in society, could entertain any +pretensions to rank with the gentry of the surrounding country. It is +true he was a magistrate, but then he was a middleman, and as such found +himself an interested agent in the operation of one of the worst and +most cruel systems that ever cursed either the country or the people. +We of course mean that which suffered a third party to stand between +the head landlord, and those who in general occupied the soil. Of this +system, it may be with truth said, that the iniquity lay rather in the +principal on which it rested, than in the individual who administered +it; because it was next to an impossibility that a man anxious to +aggrandize his family--as almost every man is--could, in the exercise of +the habits which enable him to do so, avoid such a pressure upon those +who were under him as amounted to great hardships and injustice. The +system held out so many temptations to iniquity in the management of +land, and in the remuneration of labor, that it required an amount of +personal virtue and self-denial to resist them, that were scarcely to +be expected from any one, so difficult was it to overlook or neglect the +opportunities for oppression and fraud which it thus offered. + +Old Dick, although bearing the character of being a violent and +outrageous man, was, however, one of those persons of whom there will +be always somebody found to speak favorably. Hot and ungovernable in +temper, he unquestionably was, and capable of savage and cruel acts; +but at the same time his capricious and unsteady impulses rendered him +uncertain, whether for good or evil; so much so, indeed, that it was +impossible to know when to ask him for a favor; nor was it extraordinary +to find him a friend this day to the man whose avowed enemy he +proclaimed himself yesterday; and this same point of character was +true the other way---for whilst certain that you had him for a friend, +perhaps you found him hard at work to oppress or over-reach you if he +could. The consequence of this peculiarity was that he had a two-fold +reputation in the country. Some were found to abuse him, and others to +mention many acts of generosity and kindness which he had been known to +perform under circumstances where they were least to be expected. This +perhaps was one reason why they made so strong an impression upon the +people, and were so distinctly remembered to his advantage. It is true +he was a violent party man, but then he wanted coolness to adjust his +principles, and thus make them subservient to his private interests. For +this reason, notwithstanding his strong and out-spoken prejudices, it +was a well know fact, that the Roman Catholic population preferred him +as a magistrate to many who were remarkable for a more equal and even +tenor of life, and in whom, under greater plausibility of manner, +there existed something which they would have readily exchanged for his +violent abuse of them and their creed. + +Such was Dick o' the Grange, a man who, as a middleman and a magistrate, +stood out a prominent representative of a class that impressed +themselves strongly upon their times, and who, whether as regards their +position or office, would not find at the present day in the ranks of +any party in Ireland a single man who could come forward and say they +were not an oppressive evil to the country. + +Dick o' the Grange, at this period of our narrative, was far advanced in +years, and had, some time past, begun to feel what is known in men +who have led a hard convivial life, as that breaking down of the +constitution, which is generally the forerunner of dissolution. On +this account he had for some time past resigned the management of his +property altogether to his son, young Dick, who was certainly wild and +unreflecting, but neither so impulsively generous, nor so habitually +violent as his father. The estimate of his character which went abroad +was such as might be expected--many thought him better than the old man. +He was the youngest son and a favorite--two circumstances which probably +occasioned his education to be neglected, as it had been. All his +sisters and brothers having been for some years married and settled in +life, he, and his father, who was a widower, kept a bachelor's house, +where we regret to say the parental surveillance over his morals was +not so strict as it ought to have been. Young Dick was handsome, and +so exceedingly vain of his person, that any one wishing to gain a favor +either from himself or his worthy sire, had little more to do than +dexterously apply a strong dose of flattery to this his weakest point, +and the favor was sure to be granted, for his influence over old Dick +was boundless. + +In this family, then, it was that Hanlon held the situation we have +described--that is, partly a gardener, and partly a steward, and partly +a laboring man. There was a rude and riotous character in and about +Dick's whole place, which marked it at once as the property of a person +below the character of a gentleman. Abundance there was, and great +wealth; but neither elegance nor neatness marked the house or furniture. +His servants partook of the same equivocal appearance, as did the father +and son, and the “Grange” in general; but, above all and everything in +his establishment, must we place, in originality and importance, Jemmy +Branigan, who, in point of fact, ought to receive credit for the greater +portion of old Dick's reputation, or at least for all that was good of +it. Jemmy was his old, confidential--enemy--for more than forty years, +during the greater portion of which period it could scarcely be said +with truth that, in Jemmy's hands, Dick o' the Grange ought to be looked +to as a responsible person. When we say “enemy,” we know perfectly well +what we mean; for if half a dozen battles between Jemmy and his master +every day during the period above mentioned constituted friendship, +then, indeed, the reader may substitute the word friend, if he pleases. + +In fact, Dick and Jemmy had become notorious throughout the whole +country; and we are certain that many of our readers will, at first +glance, recognize these two remarkable individuals. Truly, the +ascendancy which Jemmy had gained over the magistrate, was surprising; +and nothing could be more amusing than the interminable series of +communications, both written and oral, which passed between them, in the +shape of dismissals from service on the one side, and notices to leave +on the other; each of which whether written or oral, was treated by the +party noticed with the most thorough contempt. Nothing was right that +Jemmy disapproved of, and nothing wrong that had his sanction, and this +without any reference whatsoever to the will of his master, who, if he +happened to get into a passion about it, was put down by Jemmy, who +got into a greater passion still; so that, after a long course of +recrimination and Billinsgate on both sides, delivered by Jemmy in an +incomparably louder voice, and with a more consequential manner, old +Dick was finally forced to succumb. + +The worthy magistrate and his son were at breakfast next morning, when +young “Master Richard,” as he was called, rung the bell, and Jemmy +attended--for we must add, that Jemmy discharged the duties of butler, +together with any other duty that he himself deemed necessary, and that +without leave asked or given. + +“Where's Hanlon, Jemmy?” he asked. + +“Hanlon? troth, it's little matther where he is, an' devil a one o' +myself cares.” + +“Well, but I care, Jemmy, for I want him. Where is he?” + +“He's gone up to that ould streele's, that lives in the cabin above +there. I don't like the same Hanlon; nobody here knows anything about +him, nor he won't let them know anything about him. He's as close as +Darby Skinadre, and as deep as a dhraw-well. Altogether, he looks as if +there was a weight on his conscience, for all his lightness an' fun--an' +if I thought so, I'd discharge him at wanst.” + +“And I agree with you for once,” observed his master; “there is some +cursed mystery about him. I don't like him, either, to say the truth.” + +“An' why don't you like him?” asked Jemmy, with a contemptuous look. + +“I can't say; but I don't.” + +“No! you can't? I know you can't say anything, at all events, that you +ought to say,” replied Jemmy, who, like, his master, would have died +without contradiction; “but I can say why you don't like him; it's +bekaise he's the best sarvint ever was about your place; that's the +raison you don't like him. But what do you know about a good sarvint or +a bad one, or anything else that's useful to you, God help you.” + +“If you were near my cane, you old scoundrel, I'd pay you for your +impertinence, ay would I.” + +“Ould scoundrel, is it? Oh, hould your tongue; I'm not of your blood, +thank God!--and don't be fastenin' your name upon me. Ould scoundrel, +indeed!--Troth, we could spare an odd one now and then out of our own +little establishment.” + +“Jemmy, never mind,” said the son, “but tell Hanlon I want to speak to +him in the office after breakfast.” + +“If I see him I will, but the devil an inch I'll go out o' my way for +it--if I see him I will, an' if I don't I won't. Did you put a fresh +bandage to your leg, to keep in them Pharisee (* Varicose, we presume) +veins o' yours, as the docthor ordhered you?” + +This, in fact, was the usual style of his address to the old magistrate, +when in conversation with him. + +“Damn the quack!” replied his master: “no, I didn't.” + +“An' why didn't you?” + +“You're beginning this morning,” said the other, losing temper. “You had +better keep quiet, keep your distance, if you're wise--that's all.” + +“Why didn't you, I ax,” continued Jemmy, walking up to him, with his +hands in his coat pocket, and looking coolly, but authoritatively in his +face. “I tell you, and if you don't know how to take care of yourself, I +do, and I will. I'm all that's left over you now; an' in spite of all I +can do, it's a purty account I'd be able to give of you, if I was called +on.” + +“This to my face!” exclaimed Dick--“this to my face, you villain!”--and, +as he spoke, the cane was brandished over Jemmy's head, as if it would +descend every moment. + +“Ay,” replied Jemmy, without budging, “ay, indeed--an' a purty face it +is--a nice face hard drinkin' an' a bad life has left you. Ah! do it if +you dare,” he added, as the other swung his staff once or twice, as if +about to lay it down in reality; “troth, if you do, I'll know how to +act.” + +“What would you do, you old cancer--what would you do if I did?” + +“Troth, what you'll force me to do some day. I know you will, for heaven +an' earth couldn't stand you; an' if I do, it's not me you'll have to +blame for it. Ah, that same step you'll drive me to--I see that.” + +“What will you do, you old viper, that has been like a blister to me my +whole life--what will you do?” + +“Send you about your business,” replied Jemmy, coolly, but with all the +plenitude of authority in his manner; “send you from about the place, +an' then I'll have a quiet house. I'll send you to your youngest +daughter's or somewhere, or any where, out of this. So now that you know +my determination you had betther keep yourself cool, unless, indeed, you +wish to thravel. Oh, then heaven's above, but you wor a bitther sight to +me, an' but it was the unlucky day that ever the divil druv you acrass +me!” + +“Dick,” said the father, “as soon as you go into the office, write a +discharge, as bad a one, for that old vagabond, as the English language +can enable you to do--for by the light of heaven, he shan't sleep +another night under this roof.” + +“Shan't I?--we'll see that, though. To the divil I pitch yourself an' +your discharge--an' now mark my words: I'll be no longer throubled +wid you; you've been all my life a torment and a heart-break to me--a +blister of French flies was swan's down, compared to you, but by the +book, I'll end it at last--ay, will I--I give you up--I surrendher you +as a bad bargain--I wash my hands of you--This is Tuesday mornin', God +bless the day and the weather--an' woeful weather it is--but sure it's +betther than you desarve, an' I don't doubt but it's you and the likes +o' you that brings it on us! Ay, this is Tuesday mornin', an' I now give +you warnin' that on Saturday next, you'll see the last o' me--an' don't +think that this warnin' is like the rest, or that I'll relint again, +as I was foolish enough to do often before. No--my mind's made up--an' +indeed--” here his voice sank to a great calmness and philosophy, like a +man who was above all human passion, and who could consequently talk in +a voice of cool and quiet determination;--“An' indeed,” he added, “my +conscience was urgin' me to this for some time past--so that I'm glad +things has taken this turn.” + +“I hope you'll keep your word, then,” said his master, “but before you +go, listen to me.” + +“Listen to you--to be sure I will; God forbid I wouldn't; let there be +nothing at any rate, but civility between us while we're together. What +is it?” + +“You asked me last night to let widow Leary's cow out o' pound?” + +“Ay, did I!” + +“And I swore I wouldn't.” + +“I know you did. Who would doubt that, at any rate?” + +“Well, before you leave us, be off now, and let the animal out o' the +pound.” + +“Is that it? Oh, God help you! what'll you do when you'll be left to +yourself, as you will be on Saturday next? Let her out, says you. Troth, +the poor woman had her cow safe and sound at home wid her before she +went to bed last night, and her poor childre had her milk to kitchen +their praties, the craythurs. Do you think I'd let her stay in till the +maggot bit you? Oh, ay, indeed! In the mane time, as soon as you are +done breakfast, I want you in the study, to put the bindage on that +ould, good-for-nothin' leg o' yours; an' mark my words, let there be no +shirkin' now, for on it must go, an' will, too. If I see that Hanlon, +I'll tell him you want to see him, Master Richard; an' now that I'm on +it, I had betther say a word to you before I go; bekaise when I do go, +you'll have no one to guide you, God help you, or to set you a Christian +patthern. You see that man sittin' there wid that bad leg, stretched out +upon the chair?” + +“I do, Jemmy--ha, ha, ha! Well, what next?” + +“That man was the worst patthern ever you had. In the word, don't folly +his example in anything--in any one single thing, an' then there may be +some chance o' you still. I'll want you by-an'-by in the study, I tould +you.” + +These last words were addressed to his master, at whom he looked as +one might be supposed to do at a man whose case, in a moral sense, was +hopeless; after which, having uttered a groan that seemed to imitate +the woeful affliction he was doomed, day by day, to suffer, he left the +room. + +It is not our intention, neither is it necessary that we should enter +into the particulars of the interview which Hanlon had that morning with +young Dick. It is merely sufficient to state that they had a private +conversation in the old magistrate's office, at which the female +whom Hanlon had visited the night before was present. When this was +concluded, Hanlon walked with her a part of the way, evidently holding +serious and interesting discourse touching a subject which we may +presume bore upon the extraordinary proceedings of the previous night. +He closed by giving her directions how to proceed on her journey; for it +seemed that she was unacquainted with the way, being, like himself, but +a stranger in the neighborhood:--“You will go on,” said he, “till you +reach the height at Aughindrummon, from that you will see the trees at +the Rabbit Bank undher you; then keep the road straight till you come to +where it crosses the ford of the river: a little on this side, and where +the road turns to your right, you will find the Grey Stone, an' jist +opposite that you will see the miserable cabin where the Black Prophet +lives.” + +“Why do they call him the Black Prophet?” + +“Partly, they tell me, from his appearance, an' partly bekaise he takes +delight in prophesyin' evil.” + +“But could he have anything to do wid the murdher?” + +“I was thinkin' about that,” he replied, “and had some talk this mornin' +wid a man that's livin' a long time--indeed that was born--a little +above the place--and he says that the Black Prophet, or M'Gowan, did not +come to the neighborhood till afther the murdher. I wasn't myself cool +enough last night to ask his daughter many questions about it; an' I was +afraid, besides, to appear over-anxious in the business. So now that +you have your instructions in that and the other matthers, you'll manage +every thing as well as you can.” + +Hanlon then returned to the Grange, and the female proceeded on her +mission to the house, if house it could be called, of the Black Prophet, +for the purpose, if possible, of collecting such circumstances as might +tend to throw light upon a dark and mysterious murder. + +When Sarah left her father, after having poulticed his face, to go a +kailley, as she said, to a neighbor's house, she crossed the ford of the +river, and was proceeding in the same directions that had been taken by +Hanlon the preceding night, when she met a strange woman, or rather she +found her standing, apparently waiting for herself, at the Grey Stone. +From the position of the stone, which was a huge one, under one ledge +of which, by the way, there grew a little clump of dwarf elder, it was +impossible that Sarah could pass her, without coming in tolerable close +contact; for the road was an old and narrow one, though perfectly open +and without hedge or ditch on either side of it. + +“Maybe you could tell me, young woman, whereabouts here a man lives that +they call Donnel Dhu, or the Black Prophet; his real name is M'Gowan, I +think.” + +“I ought to be able to tell you, at any rate,” replied Sarah; “I'm his +daughter.” + +The strange woman, on surveying Sarah more closely, looked as if she +never intended to remove her eyes from her countenance and figure. +She seemed for a moment, as it were, to forget every other object in +life--her previous conversation with Hanlon--the message on which she +had been sent--and her anxiety to throw light upon the awful crime that +had been committed at the spot whereon she stood. At length she sighed +deeply, and appeared to recover her presence of mind, and to break +through the abstraction in which she had been wrapped. “You're his +daughter, you say?” + +“Ay, I do say so.” + +“Then you know a young man by name Pierce--och, what am I sayin'!--by +name Charley Hanlon?” + +“To be sure I do--I'm not ashamed of knowin' Charles Hanlon.” + +“You have a good opinion of him, then?” + +“I have a good opinion of him, but not so good as I had thought.” + +“Mush a why then, might one ask?” + +“I'm afeard he's a cowardly crathur, and rather unmanly a thrifle. I +like a man to be a man, an' not to get as white as a sheet, an' cowld as +a tombstone, bekaise he hears what he thinks to be a groan at night, an' +it may be nothin' but an owld cow behind a ditch. Ha! ha! ha!” + +“An' where did he hear the groan?” + +“Why, here where we're standin'. Ha! ha! ha! I was thinkin' of it since, +an' I did hear somethin' very like a groan; but what about it? Sich a +night as last night would make any one groan that had a groan in them.” + +“You spoke about ditches, but sure there's no ditches here.” + +“Divil a matther--who cares what it was? What did you want wid my +father?” + +“It was yourself that I wanted to see.” + +“Faix, an' you've seen me, then, an' the full o' your eye you tuck out +o' me. You'll know me again, I hope.” + +“Is your mother livin'?” + +“No.” + +“How long is she dead, do you know?” + +“I do not; I hardly remember anything about her. She died when I was +a young slip--a mere child, I believe. Still,” she proceeded, rather +slowly, musing and putting her beautiful and taper fingers to her +chin--“I think that I do remember--it's like a dhrame to me though, an' +I dunna but it is one--still it's like a dhrame to me, that I was wanst +in her arms, that I was cryin', an' that she kissed me--that she +kissed me! If she had lived, it's a different life maybe I'd lead an' a +different creature I'd be to-day, maybe, but I never had a mother.” + +“Did your father marry a second time?” + +“He did.” + +“Then you have a step-mother?” + +“Ay have I.” + +“Is she kind to you, an' do you like her?” + +“Middlin'--she's not so bad--better than I deserve, I doubt; I'm sorry +for what I did to her; but then I have the divil's temper, an' have no +guide o' myself when it comes on me. I know whatever she may be to me, +I'm not the best step-daughter to her.” + +The strange female was evidently much struck with the appearance +and singularly artless disposition of Sarah, as well as with her +extraordinary candor; and indeed no wonder; for as this neglected +creature spoke, especially with reference to her mother, her eyes +flashed and softened with an expression of brilliancy and tenderness +that might be said to resemble the sky at night, when the glowing +corruscations of the Aurora Borealis sweep over it like expanses of +lightning, or fade away into those dim but graceful undulations which +fill the mind with a sense of such softness and beauty. + +“I don't know,” observed her companion, sighing and looking at her +affectionately, “how any step-mother could be harsh to you.” + +“Ha! ha! ha! don't you, indeed? Faix, then, if you had me, maybe you +wouldn't think so--I'm nothin' but a born divil when the fit's on me.” + +“Charley Hanlon,” proceeded the strange woman, “bid me ax you for the +ould tobaccy-box you promised him last night.” + +“Well, but he promised me a handkerchy; have you got it?” + +“I have,” replied the other, producing it; “but, then, I'm not to give +it to you, unless you give me the box for it.” + +“But I haven't the box now,” said Sarah, “how-and-ever, I'll get it for +him.” + +“Are you sure that you can an' will?” inquired the other. + +“I had it in my hand yesterday,” she said, “an' if it's to be had I'll +get it.” + +“Well, then,” observed the other mildly, “as soon as you get him the +box, he'll give you this handkerchy, but not till then.” + +“Ha!” she exclaimed, kindling, “is that his bargain; does he think I'd +thrick him or cheat him?--hand it here.” + +“I can't,” replied the other; “I'm only to give it to you when I get the +box.” + +“Hand it here, I say,” returned Sarah, whose eyes flashed in a moment; +“it's Peggy Murray's rag, I suppose--hand it here, I bid you.” + +The woman shook her head and replied, “I can't--not till you get the +box.” + +Sarah replied not a word, but sprang at it, and in a minute had it in +her hands. + +“I would tear it this minute into ribbons,” she exclaimed, with eyes of +fire and glowing cheeks, “and tramp it undher my feet too; only that I +want it to show her, that I may have the advantage over her.” + +There was a sharp, fierce smile of triumph on her features as she spoke; +and altogether her face sparkled with singular animation and beauty. + +“God bless me!” said the strange woman, looking at her with a wondering +yet serious expression of countenance; “I wanst knew a face like yours, +an' a temper the aiquil of it--at any rate, my good girl, you don't pay +much respect to a stranger. Is your stepmother at home?” + +“She is not, but my father is; however, I don't think he'll see you now. +My stepmother's gone to Darby Skinadre, the meal-monger's.” + +“I'm goin' there.” + +“An' if you see her,” replied the other, “you'll know her; a score on her +cheek--ha, ha, ha; an' when you see it, maybe you'll thank God that I am +not your step-daughter.” + +“Isn't there a family named Sullivan that lives not far from +Skinadre's?” + +“There is; Jerry Sullivan, it's his daughter that's the beauty--_Gra +Gal_ Sullivan. Little she knows what's preparin' for her!” + +“How am I to go to Skinadre's from this?” asked the woman. + +“Up by that road there; any one will tell you as you go along.” + +“Thank you, dear,” replied the woman, tenderly; “God bless you; you are +a wild girl, sure enough; but above all things, afore I go, don't forget +the box for--for--och, for--Charley Hanlon. God bless you, a _colleen +machree_, an' make you what you ought to be!” + +Sarah, during many a long day, had not heard herself addressed in an +accent of kindness or affection; for it would be wrong to bestow upon +the rude attachment which her father entertained for her, or his surly +mode of expressing it, any term that could indicate tenderness, even in +a remote degree. She looked, therefore, at the woman earnestly, and as +she did, her whole manner changed to one of melancholy and kindness. A +soft and benign expression came like the dawn of breaking day over +her features, her voice fell into natural melody and sweetness, and, +approaching her companion, she took her hand and exclaimed-- + +“May God bless you for them words! it's many a day since I heard the +voice o' kindness. I'll get the box, if it's to be had, if it was only +for your own sake.” + +She then passed on to her neighbor's house, and the next appearance of +her companion was that in which the reader caught, a glimpse of her in +the house of Darby Skinadre, from which she followed Nelly M'Gowan and +Mave Sullivan with an appearance of such interest. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. -- Meeting of Strangers--Mysterious Dialogue. + + +_Gra Gal_ Sullivan and the prophet's wife, having left the meal-shop, +proceeded in the direction of Aughamurran, evidently in close, and if +one could judge by their gestures, deeply important conversation. The +strange woman followed them at a distance, meditating, as might be +perceived by her hesitating manner, upon the most seasonable moment of +addressing either one or both, without seeming to interrupt or disturb +their dialogue. Although the actual purport of the topic they discussed +could not be known by a spectator, yet even to an ordinary observer, it +was clear that the elder female uttered something that was calculated to +warn or alarm the younger. + +She raised her extended forefinger, looked earnestly into the face +of her companion, then upwards solemnly, and, clasping her hands with +vehemence, appeared to close her assertion by appealing to heaven in +behalf of its truth; the younger looked at her with wonder, seemed +amazed, paused suddenly on her step, raised her hands, and looked as +if about to express terror; but, checking herself, appeared as it were +perplexed by uncertainty and doubt. After this the elder woman seemed +to confide some secret or sorrow to the other, for she began to +weep bitterly, and to wring her hands as if with remorse, whilst her +companion looked like one who had been evidently transformed into an +impersonation of pure and artless sympathy. She caught the rough hand of +the other--and, ere she had proceeded very far in her narrative, a few +tears of compassion stole down her youthful cheek--after which she +began to administer consolation in a manner that was at once simple and +touching. She pressed the hand of the afflicted woman between hers, then +wiped her eyes with her own handkerchief, and soothed her with a +natural softness of manner that breathed at once of true tenderness and +delicacy. + +As soon as this affecting scene had been concluded, the strange woman +imperceptibly mended her pace, until her proximity occasioned them to +look at her with that feeling which prompts us to recognize the wish of +a person to address us, as it is often expressed, by an appearance of +mingled anxiety and diffidence, when they approach us. At length Mave +Sullivan spoke-- + +“Who is that strange woman that is followin' us, an' wants to say +something, if one can judge by her looks?” + +“Well, I don't know,” replied Nelly; “but whatsomever it may be, she +wishes to speak to you or me, no doubt of it.” + +“She looks like a poor woman,'”* said Mave, “an' yet she didn't ask +anything in Skinadre's, barring a drink of water; but, God pity her if +she's comin' to us for relief poor creature! At any rate, she appears to +have care and distress in her face; I'll spake to her.” + + * A common and compassionate name for a person forced + to ask alms. + +She then beckoned the female to approach them, who did so; but they +could perceive as she advanced, that they had been mistaken in supposing +her to be one of those unhappy beings whom the prevailing famine had +driven to mendicancy. There was visible in her face a feeling of care +and anxiety certainly, but none of that supplicating expression which is +at once recognized as the characteristic of the wretched class to which +they supposed her to belong. This circumstance particularly embarrassed +the inexperienced girl, whose gentle heart at the moment sympathized +with the stranger's anxieties, whatever they may have been, and she +hesitated a little, when the woman approached, in addressing her. At +length she spoke: + +“We wor jist sayin' to one another,” she observed, “that it looked as if +you wished to spake to either this woman or me.” + +“You're right enough, then,” she replied; “I have something to say to +her, and a single word to yourself, too.” + +“An' what is it you have to say to me?” asked Nelly; “I hope it isn't to +borrow money from me, bekase if it is, my banker has failed, an' left me +as poor as a church mouse.” + +“Are you in distress, poor woman,” inquired the generous and +kind-hearted girl. “Maybe you're hungry; it isn't much we can do for +you; but little as it is, if you come home with me, you'll come to a +family that won't scruple to share the little they have now with any one +that's worse off than themselves.” + +“Ay, you may well say 'now,'” observed the prophet's wife; “for until +now, it's they that could always afford it; an' indeed it was the ready +an' the willin' bit was ever at your father's table.” + +The stranger looked upon the serene and beautiful features of Mave with +a long gaze of interest and admiration; after which she added, with a +sigh: + +“And you, I believe, are the girl they talk so much about for the fair +face and good heart? Little pinetration it takes to see that you have +both, my sweet girl. If I don't mistake, your name is Mave Sullivan, or +_Gra Gal_, as the people mostly call you.” + +Mave, whose natural delicacy was tender and pure as the dew-drop of +morning, on hearing her praises thus uttered by the lips of a stranger, +blushed so deeply, that her whole neck and face became suffused with +that delicious crimson of modesty which, alas! is now of such rare +occurrence among the sex, unconscious that, in doing so, she was adding +fresh testimony to the impressions which had gone so generally abroad +of her extraordinary beauty, and the many unostentatious virtues which +adorned her humble life. + +“Mave Sullivan is my name,” she replied, smiling through her blushes: +“as to the nickname, the people will call one what they like, no matther +whether it's right or wrong.” + +“The people's seldom wrong, then, in givin' names o' the kind,” returned +the stranger; “but in your case, they're right at all events, as any +one may know that looks upon you: that sweet face an' them fair looks is +seldom if ever found with a bad heart. May God guard you, my purty and +innocent girl, an' keep you safe from all evil, I pray his holy name.” + +The prophet's wife and Mave exchanged looks as the woman spoke: and the +latter said: + +“I hope you don't think there's any evil before me.” + +“Who is there,” replied the stranger, “that can say there's not? Sure +it's before us and about us every hour in the day; but in your case, +darlin', I jist say, be on your guard, an' don't trust or put belief in +any one that you don't know well. That's all I can say, an' indeed all I +know.” + +“I feel thankful to you,” replied Mave; “and now that you wish me well, +(for I'm sure you do,) maybe you'd grant me a favor?” + +“If it is widin the bounds of my power, I'll do it,” returned the other; +“but it's little I can do, God help me.” + +“Nelly,” said Mave, “will you go on to the cross-roads there, an' I'll +be with you in a minute.” + +The cross-roads alluded to were only a couple of hundred yards before +them. The prophet's wife proceeded, and Mave renewed the conversation. + +“What I want you to do for me is this--that is if you can do it--maybe +you could bring a couple of stones of meal to a family of the name +of--of--” here she blushed again, and her confusion became so evident +that she felt it impossible to proceed until she had recovered in some +degree her composure. “Only two or three years agone,” she continued, +“they were the daicentest farmers in the parish; but the world went +against them as it has of late a'most against every one, owing to the +fall of prices, and now they're out of their farm, very much reduced, +and there's sickness amongst them, as well as want. They've been +living,” she proceeded, wiping away the tears which were now fast +flowing, “in a kind of cabin or little cottage not far from the fine +house an' place that was not long ago their own. Their name,” she added, +after a pause in which it was quite evident that she struggled strongly +with her feelings, “is--is--Dal-ton.” + +“O was the young fellow one of them,” asked the woman, “that was so +outrageous awhile ago in the miser's? I think I heard the name given to +him.” + +“Oh, I have nothing to say for him,” replied Mave; “he was always wild, +but they say never bad-hearted; it's the rest of the family I'm thinking +about--and even that young man isn't more than three or four days up out +o' the fever. What I want you to do is to bring the male I'm spakin' of +to that family; any one will show you their little place; an' to leave +it there about dusk this evenin', so that no one will ever know that you +do it; an' as you love God an' hope for mercy, don't breathe my name in +the business at all.” + +“I will do it for you,” replied the other; “but in the meantime where am +I to get the meal?” + +“Why, at the miser's,” replied Mave; “and when you go there, tell him +that the person who told him they wouldn't forget it to him, sent you +for it, an' you'll get it.” + +“God forbid I refused you that much,” said the stranger; “an' although +it'll keep me out longer than I expected, still I'll manage it for you, +an' come or go what will, widout mentioning your name.” + +“God bless you for that,” said Mave, “an grant that you may never be +brought to the same hard pass that they're in, and keep you from ever +having a heavy or a sorrowful heart.” + +“Ah, _acushla oge_,” replied the woman with a profound sigh, “that +prayer's too late for me; anything else than a heavy and sorrowful heart +I've seldom had: for the last twenty years and upwards little but care +and sorrow has been upon me. + +“Indeed, one might easily guess as much,” said Mave, “you have a look of +heart-break and sorrow, sure enough. But answer me this: how do you know +that there's evil before me or, about me?' + +“I don't know much about it,” returned the other; “but I'm afeard +there's something to your disadvantage planned or plannin' against you. +When I seen you awhile ago I didn't know you till I heard your name; +I'm a stranger here, not two weeks in the neighborhood, and know hardly +anybody in it.” + +“Well,” observed Mave, who had fallen back upon her own position, and +the danger alluded to by the stranger, “I'll do nothing that's wrong +myself, and if there's danger about me, as I hear there is, it's a good +thing to know that God can guard me in spite of all that any one can do +against me.” + +“Let that be your principle, ahagur--sooner or latter the hand o' God +can and will make everything clear, and after all, dear, he is the best +protection, blessed be his name!” + +They had now reached the cross-roads already spoken of, where the +prophet's wife again joined them for a short time, previous to her +separation from Mave, whose way from that point lay in a direction +opposite to theirs. + +“This woman,” said Mave, “wishes to go to Condy Dalton's in the course +of the evening, and you, Nelly, can show her from the road the poor +place they now live in, God help them.” + +“To be sure,” replied the other, “an' the house where they did live when +they wor as themselves, full, an' warm, an' daicent; an' it is a hard +case on them, God knows, to be turned out like beggars from a farm that +they spent hundreds on, and to be forced to see the landlord, ould Dick +o' the Grange, now settin' it at a higher rent and putting into his +own pocket the money they had laid out upon improvin' it an' makin' it +valuable for him and his; troth, it's open robbery an' nothin' else.” + +“It in a hard case upon them, as every body allows,” said Mave, “but +it's over now, and can't be helped. Good-bye, Nelly, an' God bless you; +an' God bless you too,” she added, addressing the strange woman, whose +hand she shook and pressed. “You are a great deal oulder than I am, +an' as I said, every one may read care an' sorrow upon your face. Mine +doesn't show it yet, I know, but for all that the heart within me is +full of both, an' no likelihood of its ever bein' otherwise with me.” + +As she spoke, the tears again gushed down her cheeks; but she checked +her grief by an effort, and after a second hurried good-bye, she +proceeded on her way home. + +“That seems a mild girl,” said the strange woman, “as she is a lovely +creature to look at.” + +“She's better than she looks,” returned the prophet's wife, “an' that's +a great deal to say for her.” + +“That's but truth,” replied the stranger, “and I believe it; for indeed +she has goodness in her face.” + +“She has and in her heart,” replied Nelly; “no wondher, indeed, that +every one calls her the _Gra Gal_, for it's she that well deserves it. I +You are bound for Condy Dalton's, then?” she added, inquiringly. “I +am,” said the other. “I think you must be a stranger in the country, +otherwise I'd know your face,” continued Nelly--“but maybe you're a +relation of theirs.” + +“I am a stranger,” said the other; “but no relation.” + +“The Daltons,” proceeded Nelly, “are daicent people,--but hot and hasty, +as the savin' is. It's the blow before the word wid them always.” + +“Ah, tut they say,” returned her companion, “that a hasty heart was +never a bad one.” + +“Many a piece o' nonsense they say as well as that,” rejoined Nelly; “I +know them that 'ud put a knife into your heart hastily enough--ay, +an' give you a hasty death, into the bargain. They'll first break +your head--cut you to the skull, and then, indeed, they'll give you a +plaisther. That was ever an' always the carrecther of the same Daltons; +an', if all accounts be thrue, the hand of God is upon them, an' will be +upon them till the bloody deed is brought to light.” + +“How is that?” inquired the other, with intense interest, whilst her +eyes became riveted upon Nelly's hard features. + +“Why, a murdher that was committed betther than twenty years ago in this +neighborhood.” + +“A murdher!” exclaimed the stranger. “Where?--when?--how?” + +“I can tell you where, an' I can tell you when,” replied Nelly; “but +there I must stop--for unless I was at the committin' of it, you might +know very well I couldn't tell you how.” + +“Where then?” she asked, and whilst she did so, it was by a considerable +effort that she struggled to prevent her agitation from being noticed by +the prophet's wife. + +“Why, near the Grey Stone at the crossroads of Mallybenagh--that's the +where!” + +“An' now for the when?” asked the stranger, who almost panted with +anxiety as she spoke. + +“Let me see,” replied Nelly, “fourteen and six makes twenty, an' two +before that or nearly--I mane the year of the rebellion, Why it's not +all out two-and-twenty years, I think.” + +“Aisey,” said the other, “I'm but very weak an' feeble--will you jist +wait till I rest a minute upon this green bank by the road.” + +“What ails you?” asked Nelly. “You look as if you got suddenly ill.” + +“I did get a little--but it'll soon pass away,” she answered--“thrue +enough,” she added in a low voice, and as if in a soliloquy; “God is a +just Judge--he is--he is! Well, but--oh, I'll soon get better--well, but +listen, what became of the murdhered man?--was the body ever got?” + +“Nobody knows that--the body was never got--that is to say nobody knows +where it's now lyin', snug enough too.” + +“Ha!” thought the stranger, eying her furtively--“snug enough!--there's +more knowledge where that came from. What do you mane by snug enough?” + she asked abruptly. + +“Mane!” replied the other, who at once perceived the force of the +unguarded expression she had used;--“mane, why what could I mane, but +that whoever did the deed, hid the body where very few would be likely +to find it.” + +Her companion now stood up, and approaching the prophet's wife, raised +her hand, and said in a tone that was both startling and emphatic-- + +“I met you this day as you may think, by accident; but take my word for +it, and, as sure as we must both account for our acts, it was the hand +o' God that brought us together. I now look into your face, and I tell +you that I see guilt and throuble there--ay, an' the dark work of a +conscience that's gnawin' your heart both night and day.” + +Whilst speaking, she held her face within about a foot of Nelly's, into +which she looked with an expression so searching and dreadful in its +penetration, that the other shrunk back, and felt for a moment as if +subdued by a superior spirit. It was, however, only for a moment; the +sense of her subjection passed away, and she resumed that hard and +imperturbable manner, for which she had been all her life so remarkable, +unless, like Etna and Vesuvius, she burst out of this seeming coldness +into fire and passion. There, however, they stood looking sternly into +each others' faces, as if each felt anxious that the other should quail +before her gaze--the stranger, in order that her impressions might be +confirmed, and the prophet's wife, that she should, by the force of her +strong will, fling off those traces of inquietude which she knew very +well were often too legible in her countenance. + +“You are wrong,” said Nelly, “an' have only mistaken my face for a +lookin'-glass. It was your own you saw, all it was your own you wor +spaking of--for if ever I saw a face that publishes an ill-spent life on +the part of its owner, yours is it.” + +“Care an' sorrow I have had,” replied the other, “an' the sin that +causes sorrow, I grant; but there's somethin' that's weighin' down your +heart, an' that won't let you rest until you give it up. You needn't +deny it, for you can't hide it--hard your eye is, but it's not clear, +and I see that it quivers, and is unaisy before mine.” + +“I said you're mistaken,” replied the other; “but even supposin' you wor +not, how is it your business whether my mind is aisy or not? You won't +have my sins to answer for.” + +“I know that,” said the stranger; “and God sees my own account will be +too long and too heavy, I doubt. I now beg of you, as you hope to meet +judgment, to think of what I said. Look into your own heart, and it will +tell you whether I am right or whether I am wrong. Consult your husband, +and if he has any insight at all into futurity, he must tell you that, +unless you clear your conscience, you'll have a hard death-bed of it.” + +“You're goin' to Condy Dalton's,” replied Nelly, with much coolness, but +whether assumed or not it is difficult to say; “look into his face, and +try what you can find there. At any rate, report has it that there's +blood upon his hand, an' that the downfall of himself and his family is +only the vengeance of God, an' the curse of murdher that's pursuin' him +and them.” + +“Why,” inquired the other, eagerly, “was he accused of it?” + +“Ay, an' taken up for it; but bekaise the body wasn't found, they could +do nothing to him.” + +“May Heaven assist me!” exclaimed the stranger, “but this day +is----however, God's will be done, as it will be done! Are you goin'?” + +“I'm goin',” replied Nelly; “by crossin' the fields here, I'll save +a great deal of ground; and when you get as far as the broken bridge, +you'll see a large farm-house widout any smoke from it; about a quarter +of a mile or less beyant that you'll find the house you're lookin' +for--the house where Condy Dalton lives.” + +Having thus directed the stranger, the prophet's wife entered a gap that +led into a field, and proceeded on her way homewards, having, ere +she parted, glanced at her with a meaning which rendered it extremely +difficult to say whether the singular language addressed to her had left +behind it any such impression as the speaker wished to produce. Their +glances met and dwelt on each other for a short time: the strange +woman pointed solemnly towards the sky, and the prophet's wife smiled +carelessly; but yet, by a very keen eye, it might have been noticed +that, under this natural or affected indifference, there lurked a blank +or rather an unquiet expression, such as might intimate that something +within her had been moved by the observations of her strange companion. + + + + +CHAPTER X. -- The Black Prophet makes a Disclosure. + + +The latter proceeded on her way home, having marked the miserable hovel +of Condy Dalton. At present our readers will accompany us once more to +the cabin of Donnel Dhu, the prophet. + +His wife, as the reader knows, had been startled into something like +remorse, by the incidents which had occurred within the last two days, +and especially by the double discovery of the dead body and the Tobacco +box. Sarah, her step-daughter, was now grown, and she very reasonably +concluded, her residence in the same house with this fiery and violent +young female was next to an impossibility.--The woman herself was +naturally coarse and ignorant; but still there was mixed, up in her +character a kind of apathetic or indolent feeling of rectitude or +vague humanity, which rendered her liable to occasional visitations of +compunction for whatever she did that was wrong. The strongest principle +in her, however, was one which is frequently to be found among her +class--I mean such a lingering impression of religious feeling as is +not sufficiently strong to prevent the commission of crime, but yet +is capable by its influence to keep the conscience restless and uneasy +under its convictions. Whether to class this feeling with weakness or +with virtue, is indeed difficult; but to whichsoever of them it may +belong, of one thing we are certain, that many a mind, rude and hardened +by guilt, is weak or virtuous only on this single point. Persons so +constituted are always remarkable for feelings of strong superstition, +and are easily influenced by the occurrence of slight incidents, to +which they are certain to attribute a peculiar significance, especially +when connected with anything that may occasion them uneasiness for the +time, or which may happen to occupy their thoughts, or affect their own +welfare or interests. + +The reader need not be surprised, therefore, on learning that this +woman, with all her apathy of character on the general matters of life, +was accessible to the feeling or principle we have just described, nor +that the conversation she had just had with the strange woman, both +disturbed and alarmed her. + +On returning, she found her husband and step-daughter both at home; the +latter hacking up some white thorn wood with an old hatchet, for the +fire, and the other sitting with his head bent gloomily upon his hand, +as if ruminating upon the vicissitudes of a troubled or ill-spent life. + +Having deposited her burthen, she sat down, and drawing a long breath, +wiped her face with the corner of a blue praskeen which she always wore, +and this she did with a serious and stern face, intimating, as it were, +that her mind was engaged upon matters of deep interest, whatever they +might have been. + +“What's that you're doin'?” she inquired of Sarah, in a grave, sharp +voice. + +“Have you no eyes?” replied the other; “don't you see what I am doin'?” + +“Where did you get them white thorns that you're cuttin' up?” + +“Where did I get them, is it?” + +“Ay; I said so.” + +“Why, where they grew--ha, ha, ha! There's information for you.” + +“Oh, God help you! how do you expect to get through life at all?” + +“Why, as well as I can--although not, maybe, as well as I wish.” + +“Where did you cut them thorns, I ax?” + +“An' I tould you; but since that won't satisfy you, I cut them on the +_Rath_ above there.” + +“Heaven presarve us, you hardened jade, have you no fear of anything +about you?” + +“Divil a much that I know of, sure enough.” + +“Didn't you know that them thorns belongs to the fairies, and that some +evil will betide any one that touches or injures a single branch o' +them.” + +“Divil a single branch I injured,” replied Sarah, laughing; “I cut down +the whole tree at wanst.” + +“My sowl to glory, if I think its safe to live in the house wid you, you +hardened divil.” + +“Troth, I think you may well say so, afther yesterday's escape,” + returned Sarah; “an' I have no objection that you should go to glory, +body an' soul; an' a purty piece o goods will be in glory when you're +there--ha, ha, ha!” + +“Throw out them thorns, I bid you.” + +“Why so? Don't we want them for the fire?” + +“No matther for that; we don't want to bring 'the good people'--this +day's Thursday, the Lord stand between us an' harm--amin!--about our +ears. Out wid them.” + +“No, the sorra branch.” + +“Out wid them, I say, Are you afeard of neither God nor the divil?” + +“Not overburdened with much fear of either o' them,” replied the daring +young creature. + +“Aren't you afeard o' the good people, then?” + +“If they're good people, why should we be afeard o' them? No, I'm not.” + +“Put the thorns out, I bid you again.” + +“Divil a chip, mother dear; if your own evil conscience or your dirty +cowardice makes you afeard o' the fairies, don't think I am. I don't +care that about them. These same thorns must boil the dinner in spite +of all the fairies in Europe; so don't fret either yourself or me on the +head o' them.” + +“Oh, I see what's to come! There's a doom over this house, that's all, +an' over some, if not all o' them that's in it. Everything's leadin' to +it; an' come it will.” + +“Why, mother, dear, at this rate you'll leave my father nothin' to say. +You're keepin' all the black prophecies to yourself. Why don't you rise +up, man alive,” she added, turning to him, “and let her hear how much +of the divil's lingo you can give?--It's hard, if you can't prophesy as +much evil as she can. Shake yourself, ruffle your feathers, or clap your +wings three times, in the divil's name, an' tell her she'll be hanged; +or, if you wish to soften it, say she'll go to Heaven in a string. Ha, +ha, ha!” + +At this moment, a poor, famine-struck looking woman, with three or four +children, the very pictures of starvation and misery, came to the door, +and, in that voice of terrible destitution, which rings feeble and +hollow from an empty and exhausted frame, she implored them for some +food. + +“We haven't it for you, honest woman,” said Nelly, in her cold, +indifferent voice--“it's not for you now.” + +The hope of relief was nearly destroyed by the unfeeling tones of the +voice in which she was answered. She looked, however, at her famishing +children, and once more returned to the door, after having gone a few +steps from it. + +“Oh, what will become of these?” she added, pointing to the children. “I +don't care about myself--I think my cares will soon be over.” + +“Go to the divil out o' that!” shouted the prophet--“don't be tormentin' +us wid yourself and your brats.” + +“Didn't you hear already,” repeated his wife, “that you got your answer? +We're poor ourselves, and we can't help every one that comes to us. It's +not for you now.” + +“Don't you hear that there's nothing for you?” again cried the prophet, +in an angry voice; “yet you'll be botherin' us!” + +“Indeed, we haven't it, good woman,” repeated Nelly; “so take your +answer.” + +“Don't you know that's a lie?” said Sarah, addressing her step-mother. +“You have it, if you wish to give it.” + +“What's a lie?” said her father, starting, for he had again relapsed into +his moodiness. “What's a lie?--who--who's a liar?” + +“You are!” she replied, looking him coolly and contemptuously in the +face; “you tell the poor woman that there's nothing for her. Don't you +know that's a lie? It may be very well to tell a lie to them that can +bear it--to a rich bodagh, or his proud lady of a wife--although it's a +mean thing even to them; but to tell a lie to that heartbroken woman +and her poor childhre--her childhre--aren't they her own?--an' who would +spake for them if she wouldn't. If every one treated the poor that way, +what would become of them? Ay, to look in her face, where there's want +an' hunger, and answer distress wid a lie--it's cruel--cruel!” + +“What a kind-hearted creature she is,” said her step-mother, looking +towards her father--“isn't she?” + +“Come here, poor woman,” said Sarah, calling her back; “it is for +you. If these two choose to let you and your childhre die or starve, I +won't;” and she went to the meal to serve them as she spoke. + +The woman returned, and looked with considerable surprise at her; but +Nelly went also to the meal, and was about to interpose, when Sarah's +frame became excited, and her eyes flashed, as they always did when in a +state of passion. + +“If you're wise, don't prevent me,” she said. “Help these creatures I +will. I'm your match now, an' more than your match, thank God; so be +quiet.” + +“If I was to die for it, you won't have your will now, then,” said +Nelly. + +“Die when you like, then,” replied Sarah; “but help that poor woman an' +her childhre I will.” + +“Fight it out,” said Donnel Dhu, “its a nice quarrel, although Sal has +the right on her side.” + +“If you prevent me,” said she, disregarding her step-mother, “you'll +rue it quickly; or hould--I'm beginnin' to hate this kind of +quarrellin'--here, let her have as much meal as will make my supper; +I'll do without any for the sake of the childhre, this night.” + +This was uttered in a tone of voice more mitigated, but at the same +time so resolute, that Nelly stepped back and left her to pursue her own +course. + +She then took a wooden trencher, and with a liberal hand assisted the +poor creatures, who began to feel alarmed at the altercation which their +distress had occasioned in the family. + +“You're starvin', childre,” said she, whilst emptying the meal into the +poor woman's bag. + +“May the blessin' of God rest upon you,” whispered the woman, “you've +saved my orphans;” and, as she uttered the words, her hollow eyes +filled, and a few tears ran slowly down her cheeks. + +Sarah gave a short, loud laugh, and snatching up the youngest of the +children, stroked its head and patted its cheek, exclaiming-- + +“Poor thing; you won't go without your supper this night, at any rate.” + +She then laughed again in the same quick, abrupt manner, and returned +into the house. + +“Why, then,” said her step-mother, looking at her with mingled anger +and disdain, “is it tears you're sheddin'--cryin', no less! Afther that, +maricles will never cease.” + +Sarah turned towards her hastily; the tears, in a moment, were dried +upon her cheeks, and as she looked at her hard, coarse, but well-shaped +features, her eyes shone with a brilliant and steady light for more than +a minute. The expression was at once; lofty and full of strong contempt, +and, as she stood in this singular but striking mood, it would indeed be +difficult to conceive a finer type of energy, feeling, and beauty, +than that which was embodied in her finely-turned and exquisite figure. +Having thus contemplated the old woman for some time, she looked upon +the ground, and her face passed rapidly into a new form and expression +of beauty. It at once became soft and full of melancholy, and might have +been mistaken for an impersonation of pity and sorrow. + +“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, in a low voice, that was melody itself; +“I never got it from either the one or the other--the kind or soft +word--an' it's surely no wondher that I am as I am.” + +And as she spoke she wept. Her heart had been touched by the distress of +her fellow creatures, and became, as it were, purified and made tender +by its own sympathies, and she wept. Both of them looked at her; but as +they were utterly incapable of understanding what she felt, this natural +struggle of a great but neglected spirit excited nothing on their part +but mere indifference. + +At this moment, the prophet, who seemed laboring under a fierce but +gloomy mood, rose suddenly up, and exclaimed-- + +“Nelly--Sarah!--I can bear this, no longer; the saicret must come out. I +am--” + +“Stop,” screamed Sarah, “don't say it--don't say it! Let me leave the +counthry. Let me go somewhere--any where--let me--let me--die first.” + +“I am----,” said he. + +“I know it,” replied his wife; “a murdherer! I know it now--I knew it +since yesterday mornin'.” + +“Give him justice,” said Sarah, now dreadfully excited, and seizing +him by the breast of his coat,--“give him common justice--give the man +justice, I say. You are my father, aren't you? Say how you did it. It +was a struggle--a fight; he opposed you--he did, and your blood riz, and +you stabbed him for fear he might stab you. That was it. Ha! ha! I know +it was, for you are my father, and I am your daughter; and that's what I +would do like a man. But you never did it--ah! you never did it in cowld +blood, or like a coward.” + +There was something absolutely impressive and commanding in her +sparkling eyes, and the energetic tones of her voice, whilst she +addressed him. + +“Donnel,” said the wife, “it's no saicret to me; but it's enough now +that you've owned it. This is the last night that I'll spend with a +murdherer. You know what I've to answer for on my own account; and so, +in the name of God, we'll part in the mornin'.” + +“Ha!” exclaimed Sarah, “you'd leave him now, would you? You'd desart him +now; now that all the world will turn against him; now that every tongue +will abuse him; that every heart will curse him; that every eye will +turn away from him with hatred; now that shame, an' disgrace, an' guilt +is all upon his head; you'd leave him, would you, and join the world +against him? Father, on my knees I go to you;” and she dropped down as +she spoke; “here on my knees I go to you, an' before you spake, mark, +that through shame an' pain, an' sufferin', an' death, I'll stay by you, +an' with you. But, I now kneel to you--what I hardly ever did to God--an +for his sake, for God's sake, I ask you; oh say, say that you did not +kill the man in cowld blood; that's all! Make me sure of that, and I'm +happy.” + +“I think you're both mad,” replied Donnel. “Did I say that I was a +murdherer? Why didn't you hear me out?” + +“You needn't,” returned Nelly; “I knew it since yestherday mornin'.” + +“So you think,” he replied, “an' it's but nathural you should, I was +at the place this day, and seen where you dug the _Casharrawan_. I have +been strugglin' for years to keep this saicret, an' now it must come +out; but I'm not a murdherer.” + +“What saicret, father, if you're not a murdherer?” asked Sarah; “what +saicret; but there is not murder on you; do you say that?” + +“I do say it; there's neither blood nor murdher on my head! but I know +who the murdherer is, an' I can keep the saicret no longer!” + +Sarah laughed, and her eyes sparkled up with singular vividness. +“That'll do,” she exclaimed; “that'll do; all's right now; you're not +a murdherer, you killed no man, aither in cowld blood or otherwise; ha! +ha! you're a good father; you're a good father; I forgive you all now, +all you ever did.” + +Nelly stood contemplating her husband with a serious, firm, but +dissatisfied look; her chin was supported upon her forefinger and thumb; +and instead of seeming relieved by the disclosure she had just heard, +which exonerated him from the charge of blood, she still kept her eyes +riveted upon him with a stern and incredulous aspect. + +“Spake out, then,” she observed coolly, “an' tell us all, for I am not +convinced.” + +Sarah looked as if she would have sprang at her. + +“You are not convinced,” she exclaimed; “you are not convinced! Do you +think he'd tell a lie on such a subject as this?” But no sooner had +she uttered the words than she started as if seized by a spasm. “Ah, +father,” she exclaimed, “it's now your want of truth comes against you; +but still, still I believe you.” + +“Tell us all about it,” said Nelly, coldly; “let us hear all.” + +“But you both promise solemnly, in the sight of God, never to breathe +this to a human being till I give yez lave.” + +“We do; we do,” replied Sarah; “in the sight of God, we do.” + +“You don't spake,” said he, addressing Nelly. + +“I promise it.” + +“In the sight of God?” he added, “for I know you.” + +“Ay.” said she, “in the sight of God, since you must have it so.” + +“Well, then,” said he, “the common report is right; the man that +murdhered him is Condy Dalton. I have kept it in till I can bear it no +longer. It's my intention to go to a magistrate's as soon as my face +gets well. For near two-and-twenty years, now, this saicret is lyin' +hard upon me; but I'll aise my mind, and let justice take it's coorse. +Bad I have been, but never so bad as to take my fellow-crature's life.” + +“Well, I'm glad to hear it,” said his wife; “an' now I can undherstand +you.” + +“And I'm both glad and sorry,” exclaimed Sarah; “sorry for the sake of +the Daltons. Oh! who would suppose it! and what will become of them?” + +“I have no peace,” her father added; “I have not had a minute's peace +ever since it happened; for sure, they say, any one that keeps their +knowledge of murdher saicret and won't tell it, is as bad as the +murdherer himself. There's another thing I have to mention,” he added, +after a pause; “but I'll wait for a day or two; it's a thing I lost, +an', as the case stands now, I can do nothing widout it.” + +“What is it, father?” asked Sarah, with animation; “let us know what it +is.” + +“Time enough yet,” he replied; “it'll do in a day or two; in the mean +time it's hard to tell but it may turn up somewhere or other; I hope it +may; for if it get into any hands but my own--” + +He paused and bent his eyes with singular scrutiny first upon Sarah, who +had not the most distant appreciation of his meaning. Not so Nelly, who +felt convinced that the allusion he made was to the Tobacco-box, and her +impression being that it was mixed up in some way with an act of murder, +she determined to wait until he should explain himself at greater length +upon the subject. Had Sarah been aware of its importance, she would have +at once disclosed all she knew concerning it, together with Hanlon's +anxiety to get it into his possession. But of this she could know +nothing, and for that reason there existed no association, in her mind, +to connect it with the crime which the Prophet seemed resolved to bring +to light. + +When Donnel Dhu laid himself down upon the bed that day, he felt that by +no effort could he shake a strong impression of evil from off him. The +disappearance of the Box surprised him so much, that he resolved +to stroll out and examine a spot with which the reader is already +acquainted. On inspecting the newly-disturbed earth, he felt satisfied +that the body had been discovered, and this circumstance, joined with +the disappearance of the Tobacco-box, precipitated his determination to +act as he was about to do; or, perhaps altogether suggested the notion +of taking such steps as might bring Condy Dalton to justice. At present +it is difficult to say why he did not allude to the missing Box openly, +but perhaps that may be accounted for at a future and more appropriate +stage of our narrative. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. -- Pity and Remorse. + + +The public mind, though often obtuse and stupid in many matters, is +in others sometimes extremely acute and penetrating. For some years +previous to the time laid in our tale, the family of Condy Dalton began +to decline very perceptibly in their circumstances. There had been +unpropitious seasons; there had been failure of crops and disease +among the cattle--and, perhaps what was the worst scourge of all, there +existed a bad landlord in the person of Dick-o'-the-Grange. So long, +however, as they continued prosperous, their known principles of +integrity and strict truth caused them to be well spoken of and +respected, in spite of the imputation which had been made against them +as touching the murder of Sullivan. In the course of time, however, when +the evidences of struggle succeeded those of comfort and independence, +the world began to perceive the just judgments of God as manifested in +the disasters which befel them, and which seemed to visit them as with +a judicial punishment. Year after year, as they sank in the scale of +poverty, did the almost forgotten murder assume a more prominent and +distinct shape in the public mind, until at length it became too certain +to be doubted, that the slow but sure finger of God's justice was laid +upon them as an additional proof that crime, however it may escape the +laws of men, cannot veil itself from the all-seeing eye of the Almighty. + +There was, however, an individual member of the family, whose piety and +many virtues excited a sympathy in her behalf, as general as it was deep +and compassionate. This was Mrs. Dalton, towards whom only one universal +impression of good-will, affection, and respect prevailed. Indeed, it +might be said that the whole family were popular in the country; +but, notwithstanding their respectability, both individually and +collectively, the shadow of crime was upon them; and as long as the +people saw that everything they put their hand to failed, and that a +curse seemed to pursue them, as if in attestation of the hidden murder, +so long did the feeling that God would yet vindicate His justice by +their more signal punishment, operate with dreadful force against them, +with the single exception we have mentioned. + +Mrs. Dalton, on her return home from her unsuccessful visit to the +miser's, found her family in the same state of grievous privation in +which she had left them. 'Tis true she had not mentioned to any of them +her intention of appealing to the gratitude or humanity of Skinadre; yet +they knew, by an intuitive perception of her purpose, that she had gone +to him, and although their pride would not allow them to ask a +favor directly from him, yet they felt pleased that she had made the +experiment, and had little doubt that the miser, by obliging her in +the request she went to prefer, would gladly avail himself of the +circumstance to regain their good will, not so much on their own +account, as for the sake of standing well in the world, in whose opinion +he knew he had suffered by his treachery towards them in the matter of +their farm. She found her husband seated in an old arm-chair, which, +having been an heir-loom in the family for many a long year, had, with +one or two other things, been purchased in at the sheriff's sale. +There was that chair, which had come down to them from three or four +generations; an old clock, some smaller matters, and a grey sheep, the +pet of a favorite daughter, who had been taken away from them by decline +during the preceding autumn. There are objects, otherwise of little +value, to which we cling for the sake of those unforgotten affections, +and old mournful associations that invest indifferent things with a +feeling of holiness and sorrow by which they are made sacred to the +heart. + +Condy Dalton was a man tolerably well stricken in years; his face was +pale, but not unhealthy looking; and his hair, which rather flowed about +his shoulders, was almost snow white--a circumstance which, in this +case, was not attributed to the natural progress of years, but to that +cankered remorse which turns the head grey before its time. Their family +now consisted of two sons and two daughters, the original number having +been two sons and three daughters--one of the latter having fallen a +victim to decline, as we have already stated. The old man was sitting in +the arm-chair, in which he leant back, having his chin at the same time +on his breast, a position which gave something very peculiar to his +appearance. + +As Mrs. Dalton had occupied a good deal of time in unsuccessfully +seeking for relief from other sources, it is unnecessary to say that the +day had now considerably advanced, and the heavy shadows of this dismal +and unhealthy evening had thrown their gloom over the aspect of all +nature, to which they gave an appearance of desolation that was in +painful keeping with the sickness and famine that so mercilessly +scourged the kingdom at large. A pot of water hung upon a dark slow +fire, in order that as little time as possible might be lost in +relieving their physical wants, on Mrs. Dalton's return with the relief +which they expected. + +“Here's my mother,” said one of her daughters, looking with a pale cheek +and languid eye out of the door; for she, too, had been visited by +the prevailing illness; “an', my God! she's comin' as she went--empty +handed!” + +The other sister and Con, her brother, went also to look out, and there +she was, certainly without relief. + +“She isn't able to carry it herself,” said their father; “or maybe she's +comin' to get one of you--Con, I suppose--to go for it. Bad as Skinadre +is, he wouldn't have the heart to refuse us a lock o' meal to keep the +life in us. Oh! no, he'd not do that.” + +In a few moments Mrs. Dalton entered, and after looking upon the scene +of misery about her, she sat down and burst into tears. “Mother,” said +the daughter, “there's no relief, then? You came as you went, I see.” + +“I came as I went, Nanty; but there is relief. There's relief for the +poor of this world in Heaven; but on this earth, an' in this world, +there is none for us--glory be to the name of God, still.” + +“So Skinadre refused, then?” said her husband; “he wouldn't give the +meal?” + +“No,” she replied, “he would not; but the truth is, our woful' state +is now so well known, that nobody will trust us; they know there's no +chance of ever bein' paid, an' they all say they can't afford it.” + +“I'm not surprised at what Tom says,” observed our friend, young Con, +“that the meal-mongers and strong farmers that keep the provisions up +on the poor desarves to be smashed and tramped under foot; an' indeed +they'll get it, too, before long, for the people can't stand this, +especially when one knows that there's enough, ay, and more than enough, +in the country.” + +“If had tobacco,” said the old man, “I didn't care--that would keep +the hunger off o' me; but it's poor Mary, here, now recoverin' from the +sickness, that I pity; don't cry, Mary, dear; come here, darlin', come +here, and turn up that ould creel, and sit down beside me. It's useless +to bid you not to cry, avourneen machree, bekaise we all know what +you feel; but you have one comfort--you are innocent--so are you +all--there's nothing on any of your minds--no dark thought to lie upon +your heart--oh, no, no; an' if it was only myself that was to suffer, I +could bear it; but to see them that's innocent sufferin' along wid me, +is what kills me. This is the hand of God that's upon us, an' that will +be upon us, an' that has been upon us, an' I knew it would be so; +for ever since that black night, the thought--the thought of what +happened!--ay, it's that that's in me, an' upon me--it's that that has +put wrinkles in my cheek before their time, an' that has made my hair +white before its time, and that has--” + +“Con, dear,” observed his wife, “I never wished you to be talkin' of +that before them; sure you did as much as a man could do; you repented, +an' were sorry for it, an' what more could be expected from you?” + +“Father, dear,” said Mary, drying, or struggling to dry her tears, +“don't think of me, or of any of us, nor don't think of anything that +will disturb your mind--don't think of the, at any rate--I'm very +weak, but I'm not so hungry as you may think; if I had one mouthful +of anything just to take this feelin' that I have inwardly, an' this +weakness away, I would be satisfied--that would do me; an' although +I'm cryin' it's more to see your misery, father dear, an' all your +miseries, than for what I'm sufferin' myself; but there's a kiss for +you, it's all I have to give you.” + +“Mary, dear,” said her sister, smote to the heart by her words, “you're +sufferin' more than any of us, you an' my father,” and she encircled +her lovingly and mournfully in her arms as she spoke, and kissed her +wan lips, after which she went to the old man, and said in a voice of +compassion and consolation that was calculated to soothe any hearers-- + +“Oh, father, dear, if you could only banish all uneasy thoughts from +your mind--if you could only throw that darkness that's so often over +you, off you, we could bear anything--anything--Oh, anything, if we seen +you aisy in your mind, an' happy!” + +Mrs. Dalton had dried her tears, and sat upon a low stool musing and +silent, and apparently revolving in her mind the best course to be +pursued under such circumstances. It was singular to observe the change +that had taken place in her appearance even within a few hours; the +situation of her family, and her want of success in procuring them food, +had so broken down her spirits and crushed her heart, that the lines of +her face were deepened and her features sharpened and impressed with +the marks of suffering as strongly as if they had been left there by the +affliction of years. Her son leant himself against a piece of the broken +wall that partially divided their hut into something like two rooms, if +they could be called so, and from time to time he glanced about him, now +at his father, then at his poor sisters, and again at his heart-broken +mother, with an impatient agony of spirit that could scarcely be +conceived. + +“Well,” said he, clenching his hands and grinding his teeth, “it is +expected that people like us will sit tamely undher sich tratement as we +have resaved from Dick o' the Grange. Oh, if we had now the five hundre +good pounds that we spent upon our farm--spent, as it turned out, not +for ourselves, but to enable that ould villain of a landlord to set it +to Darby Skinadre; for I b'lieve it's he that's to get it, with strong +inthrest goin' into his pocket for all our improvements; if we had now,” + he continued, his passion rising, “if we had that five hundre pounds +now, or one hundre, or one pound, great God! ay, or one shillin' now, +wouldn't it save some of you from starving” + +This reflection, which in the young man excited only wrath, occasioned +the female portion of the family to burst into fresh sorrow; not so the +old man; he arose hastily, and paced up and down the floor in a state of +gloomy indignation and fury which far transcended that of his son. + +“Oh!” said he, “if I was a young man, as I was wanst--but the young men +now are poor, pitiful, cowardly--I would--I would;” he paused suddenly, +however, looked up, and clasping his hands, exclaimed--“forgive me, +O God! forgive the thought that was in my unhappy heart! Oh, no, no, +never, never allow yourself, Con, dear, to be carried away by anger, +for 'fraid you might do in one minute, or in a short fit of anger, what +might make you pass many a sleepless night, an' maybe banish the peace +of God from your heart forever!” + +“God bless you for them last words, Condy!” exclaimed his wife, “that's +the way I wish you always to spake; but what to do, or where to go, or +who to turn to, unless to God himself, I don't know.” + +“We're come to it at last,” said their daughter Peggy; “little we +thought of it, but at all events, it's betther to do that than to do +worse--betther than to rob or steal, or do an ondaicent act of any +kind. In the name of God, then, rather than you should die of hunger, +Mary--you an' my father an' all of yez--I'll go out and beg from the +neighbors.” + +“Beg!” shouted the old man, with a look of rage--“beg!” he repeated, +starting to his feet and seizing his staff--“beg! you shameless and +disgraceful strap. Do you talk of a Dalton goin' out to bee? taka that!” + +And as he spoke, he hit her over the arm with a stick he always carried. + +“Now that will teach you to talk of beg-gin'. No!--die--die first--die +at wanst; but no beggin' for any one wid the blood of a Dalton in their +veins. Death--death--a thousand times sooner!” + +“Father--oh! father, father, why, why did you do that?” exclaimed his +son, “to strike poor kind an' heart-broken Peggy, that would shed her +blood for you or any of us. Oh! father, I am sorry to see it.” + +The sorrowing girl turned pale by the blow, and a few tears came down +her cheeks; but she thought not of herself, nor of her sufferings. After +the necessary pause caused by the pain, she ran to him, and, throwing +her arms about his neck, exclaimed in a gush of sorrow that was +perfectly heart-rending to witness-- + +“Oh! father dear, forgive me--your own poor Peggy; sure it was chiefly +on your account and Mary's I was goin' to do it. I won't go, then, since +you don't wish it; but I'll die with you.” + +The old man flung the stick from him, and clasping her in his arms, he +sobbed and wept aloud. + +“My darlin' child,” he exclaimed, “that never yet gave one of us a bad +word or angry look--will you forgive your unhappy father, that doesn't +know what he's doin'! Oh! I feel that this state we're in--this outher +desolation an' misery we're in--will drive me mad! but that hasty blow, +_avourneen machree_--that hasty blow an' the hot temper that makes me +give it, is my curse yet, has always been my curse, an' ever will be +my curse; it's that curse that's upon me now, an' upon all of us this +minute--it is, it is!” + +“Condy,” said his wife, “we all know that you're not as bad as you make +yourself. Within the last few years your temper has been sorely tried, +and your heart too, God knows; for our trials and our downcome in this +world has been great. In all these trials, however, and sufferings, its +a consolation to us, that we never neglected to praise an' worship the +Almighty--we are now brought almost to the very last pass--let us go to +our knees, then, an' throw ourselves upon His mercy, and beg of Him to +support us, an' if it's His holy will, to aid us, and send us relief.” + +“Oh, Mary dear,” exclaimed her husband, “but you are the valuable and +faithful wife! If ever woman was a protectin' angel to man, you wor to +me. Come children, in the name of the merciful God, let us kneel and +pray.” + +The bleak and depressing aspect of twilight had now settled down upon +the sweltering and deluged country, and the air was warm, thick, moist, +and consequently unhealthy. The cabin of the Daltons was placed in a +low, damp situation; but fortunately it was approached by a remnant of +one of those old roads or causeways which had once been peculiar to the +remote parts of the country, and also of very singular structure, the +least stone in it being considerably larger than a shilling loaf. This +causeway was nearly covered with grass, so that in addition to the +antique and desolate appearance which this circumstance gave it, the +footsteps of a passenger could scarcely be heard as they fell upon the +thick close grass with which its surface was mostly covered. + +Along this causeway, then, at the very hour when the Daltons, moved by +that piety which is characteristic of our peasantry, had gone to prayer, +was the strange woman whom we have already noticed, proceeding with that +relief which it may be God in His goodness had ordained should reach +them in answer to the simple but trustful spirit of their supplications. +On reaching the miserable looking cabin, she paused, listened, and heard +their voices blend in those devout tones that always mark the utterance +of prayer among the people. They were, in fact, repeating a Rosary, and +surely, it is not for those who differ with them in creed, or for any +one who feel the influence of true charity, to quarrel with the form +of prayer, when the heart is moved as theirs were, by earnestness and +humble piety. + +The strange woman on approaching the door more nearly, stood again for a +minute or two, having been struck more forcibly by something which +gave a touching and melancholy character to this simple act of domestic +worship. She observed, for instance, that their prayers were blended +with many sighs, and from time to time, a groan escaped from one of +the males, which indicated either deep remorse or a sense of some great +misery. One of the female voices, too, was so feeble as scarcely to be +heard, yet there ran through it, she felt, a spirit of such tender and +lowly resignation, mingled with such an expression of profound sorrow, +as almost moved her to tears. The door was open, and the light so dim, +that she could not distinctly see their persons--two circumstances which +for a moment induced her to try if it were possible to leave the meal +there without their knowledge. She determined otherwise, however, and as +their prayers were almost immediately concluded, she entered the house. +The appearance of a stranger in the dusky gloom carrying a burden, +caused them to suppose that it was some poor person coming to ask +charity, or permission to stop for the night. + +“Who is this?” asked Condy. “Some poor person, I suppose, axin' +charity,” he added. “But God's will be done, we haven't it to give this +many a long day. Glory be to his name!” + +“This is Condy Dalton's house?” said the strange woman in a tone of +inquiry. + +“Sich as it is, it's his house, an' the best he has, my poor creature. I +wish it was betther both for his sake and yours,” he replied, in a calm +and resigned voice, for his heart had been touched and solemnized by the +act of devotion which had just concluded. + +Mrs. Dalton, in the meantime, had thrown a handful of straw on the fire +to make a temporary light. + +“Here,” said the stranger, “is a present of meal that a' friend sent +you.” + +“Meal!” exclaimed Peggy Dalton, with a faint scream of joy; “did you say +meal?” she asked. + +“I did,” replied the other; “a friend that heard of your present +distress, and thinks you don't desarve it, sent it to you.” + +Mrs. Dalton raised the burning straw, and looked for about half a minute +into her face, during which the woman carried the meal over and placed +it on the hearth. + +“I met you to-day, I think,” said Mrs. Dalton, “along with Donnel Dhu's +wife on your way to Darby Skinadre's?” + +“You might,” replied the woman; “for I went there part o' the road with +her.” + +“And who are we indebted to for the present?” she asked again. + +“I'm not at liberty to say,” replied the other; “barrin' that it's from +a friend and well-wisher.” + +Mrs. Dalton clasped her hands, and looking with an appearance of +abstraction, on the straw as it burned in the fire, said in a voice that +became infirm by emotion-- + +“Oh! I know it; it can be no other. The friend that she speaks of is +the girl--the blessed girl--whose goodness is in every one's mouth--_Gra +Gal_ Sullivan. I know it, I feel it.” + +“Now,” said the woman, “I must go; but before I go, I wish to look on +the face of Condy Dalton.” + +“There's a bit of rush on the shelf there,” said Mrs. Dalton to one of +her daughters; “bring it over and light it.” + +The girl did so, and the strange woman, taking the little taper in her +hand, approached Dalton, and looking with a gaze almost fearfully solemn +and searching into his face. + +“You are Condy Dalton?” she asked. + +“I am,” said he. + +“Answer me now,” she proceeded, “as if you were in the presence of God +at judgment, are you happy?” + +Mrs. Dalton, who felt anxious for many reasons, to relieve her +unfortunate husband from this unexpected and extraordinary catechist, +hastened to reply for him. + +“How, honest woman, could a man be happy who is in a state of such +destitution, or who has had such misfortunes as he has had;” and as she +spoke her eyes filled with tears of compassion for her husband. + +“Don't break it upon me,” said the woman, solemnly, “but let me ax my +question, an' let him give his answer. In God's name and presence, are +you a happy man?” + +“I can't speak a lie to that, for I must yet meet my judge--I am not.” + +“You have one particular thought that makes you unhappy.” + +“I have one particular thought that makes me unhappy.” + +“How long has it made you unhappy?” + +“For near two-and-twenty years.” + +“That's enough,” she replied; “God's hand is in it all--I must now go. +I have done what I was axed to do; but there's a higher will at work. +Honest woman,” she added, addressing Mrs. Dalton, “I wish you and your +childre good night!” + +The moment she went they almost ceased to think of her. The pot still +hung on the fire, and little time was lost in preparing a meal of food. + +From the moment _Gra Gal_ Sullivan's name was mentioned, the whole +family observed that young Con started and appeared to become all at +once deeply agitated; he walked backwards and forwards--sat down--and +rose up--applied his hands to his forehead--appeared sometimes flushed, +and again pale--and altogether seemed in a state which it was difficult +to understand. + +“What is the matter with you, Con?” asked his mother, “you seem +dreadfully uneasy.” + +“I am ill, mother,” he replied--“the fever that was near taking Tom +away, is upon me; I feel that I have it by the pains that's in my head +and the small o' my back.” + +“Lie down a little, dear,” she added, “its only the pain, poor boy, of +an empty stomach--lie down on your poor bed, God help you, and when the +supper's ready you'll be better.” + +“It's her,” he replied--“it's her--I know it”--and as he uttered the +words, touched by her generosity, and the consciousness of his own +poverty, he wept bitterly, and then repaired to his miserable bed, where +he stretched himself in pain and sorrow. + +“Now, Con,” said his wife, in a tone of consolation and encouragement, +“will you ever despair of God's mercy, or doubt his goodness, after what +has happened?” + +“I'm an unhappy man, Nancy,” he replied, “but it never went to that with +me, thank God--but where is that poor wild boy of ours, Tom,--oh, where +is he now, till he gets one meal's mate?” + +“He is up at the Murtaghs,” said his sister, “an' I had better fetch +him home; I think the poor fellow's almost out of his senses since Peggy +Murtagh's death--that an' the dregs of the fever has him that he doesn't +know what he's doin', God help him.” + + + + +CHAPTER XII. -- Famine, Death, and Sorrow. + + +It has never been our disposition, either in the living life we lead, +or in the fictions, humble and imperfect as they are, which owe their +existence to our imagination, to lay too heavy a hand upon human +frailty, any more than it has been to countenance or palliate vice, +whether open or hypocritical. Peggy Murtagh, with whose offence and +death the reader is already acquainted, was an innocent and affectionate +girl, whose heart was full of kind, generous, and amiable feelings. She +was very young, and very artless, and loved not wisely but too well; +while he who was the author of her sin, was nearly as young and artless +as herself, and loved her with a first affection. She was, in fact, one +of those gentle, timid, and confiding creatures who suspect not evil in +others, and are full of sweetness and kindness to every one. Never did +there live--with the exception of her offence--a tenderer daughter, or +a more affectionate sister than poor Peggy, and for this reason, the +regret was both sincere and general, which was felt for her great +misfortune. Poor girl! she was but a short time released from her early +sorrows, when her babe followed her, we trust, to a better world, where +the tears were wiped from her eyes, and the weary one got rest. + +The scene in her father's house on this melancholy night, was such as +few hearts could bear unmoved, as well on account of her parents' grief, +as because it may be looked upon as a truthful exponent both of the +destitution of the country, and of the virtues and sympathies of our +people. + +Stretched upon a clean bed in the only room that was off the kitchen, +lay the fair but lifeless form of poor Peggy Murtagh. The bed was, as is +usual, hung with white, which was simply festooned about the posts and +canopy, and the coverlid was also of the same spotless color, as +were the death clothes in which she was laid out. To those who +are beautiful--and poor Peggy had possessed that frequently fatal +gift--death in its first stage, bestows an expression of mournful +tenderness that softens while it solemnizes the heart. In her case there +was depicted all the innocence and artlessness that characterized her +brief and otherwise spotless life. Over this melancholy sweetness lay a +shadow that manifested her early suffering and sorrow, made still +more touching by the presence of an expression which was felt by the +spectator to have been that of repentance. Her rich auburn hair +was simply divided on her pale forehead, and it was impossible to +contemplate the sorrow and serenity which blended into each other upon +her young brow, without feeling that death should disarm us of our +resentments, and teach us a lesson of pity and forgiveness to our poor +fellow-creatures, who, whatever may have been their errors, will never +more offend either God or man. Her extreme youthfulness was touching in +the highest degree, and to the simplicity of her beauty was added that +unbroken stillness which gives to the lifeless face of youth the only +charm that death has to bestow, while it fills the heart I to its utmost +depths with the awful conviction that that is the slumber which no human +care nor anxious passion shall ever break, The babe, thin and pallid, +from the affliction of its young and unfortunate mother, could hardly +be looked, upon, in consequence of its position, without tears. They +had placed it by her side, but within her arm, so that by this touching +arrangement all the brooding tenderness of the mother's love seemed to +survive and overcome the power of death itself. There they lay, victims +of sin, but emblems of innocence, and where is the heart that shall, +in the inhumanity of its justice, dare to follow them out of life, +and disturb the peace they now enjoy by the heartless sentence of +unforgiveness? + +It was, indeed, a melancholy scene. The neighbors having heard of her +unexpected death, came to the house, as is customary, to render every +assistance in their power to the bereaved old couple, who were now left +childless. And here too, might we read the sorrowful impress of the +famine and illness which desolated the land. The groups around the poor +departed one were marked with such a thin and haggard expression as +general destitution always is certain to leave behind it. The skin of +those who, with better health and feeding, had been fair and glossy +as ivory, was now wan and flaccid;--the long bones of others +projected sharply, and as it were offensively to the feelings of the +spectators--the over-lapping garments hung loosely about the wasted +and feeble person, and there was in the eyes of all a dull and languid +motion, as if they turned in their socket by an effort. They were +all mostly marked also by what appeared to be a feeling of painful +abstraction, which, in fact, was nothing else than that abiding desire +for necessary food, which in seasons of famine keeps perpetually +gnawing, as they term it, at the heart, and pervades the system by that +sleepless solicitation of appetite, which, like the presence of guilt, +mingles itself up, while it lasts, with every thought and action of +one's life. + +In this instance it may be remembered, that the aid which the poor girl +had come to ask from Skinadre was, as she said, 'for the ould couple,' +who had, indeed, been for a long time past their last meal, a very +common thing during such periods, and were consequently without a morsel +of food. The appearance of her corpse, however, at the house, an event +so unexpected, drove, for the time, all feelings of physical want from +their minds; but this is a demand which will not be satisfied, no matter +by what moral power or calamity it may be opposed, and the wretched +couple were now a proof of it. Their conduct to those who did not +understand this, resembled insanity or fatuity more than anything else. +The faces of both were ghastly, and filled with a pale, vague expression +of what appeared to be horror, or the dull staring stupor, which +results from the fearful conflict of two great opposing passions in the +mind--passions, which in this case were the indomitable ones of hunger +and grief. After dusk, when the candles were lighted, they came into +the room where their daughter was laid out, and stood for some time +contemplating herself and her infant in silence. Their visages were +white and stony as marble, and their eyes, now dead and glassy, +were marked by no appearance of distinct consciousness, or the usual +expression of reason. They had no sooner appeared, than the sympathies +of the assembled neighbors were deeply excited, and there was nothing +heard for some minutes, but groans, sobbings, and general grief. Both +stood for a short time, and looked with amazement about them. At length, +the old man, taking the hand of his wife in his, said-- + +“Kathleen, what's this?--what ails me? I want something.” + +“You do, Brian--you do. There s Peggy there, and her child, poor thing; +see how quiet they are! Oh, how she loved that child! an' see her +darlin'--see how she keeps her arm about it, for fear anything! might +happen it, or that any one might take it away from her; but that's her, +all over--she loved everything.” + +“Ay,” said the old man, “I know how she loved it; but, somehow, she was +ever and always afeard, poor thing, of seemin' over fond of it before +us or before strangers, bekaise you know the poor unhappy--bekaise you +know--what was I goin' to say? Oh, ay, an' I'll tell you, although I +didn't let on to her, still I loved the poor little thing myself--ay, +did I. But, ah! Kathleen, wasn't she the good an' the lovin' daughter?” + The old woman raised her head, and looked searchingly around the room. +She seemed uneasy, and gave a ghastly smile, which it was difficult to +understand. She then looked into her husband's face, after which she +turned her eyes upon the countenances of the early dead who lay before +her, and going over to them, stooped and looked closely into their still +but composed faces, She then put her hand upon her daughter's forehead, +touched her lips with her fingers, carried her hand down along her arm, +and felt the pale features of the baby with a look of apparent wonder; +and whilst she did this, the old man left the room and passed into the +kitchen. + +“For God's love, an' take her away,” said a neighboring woman, with +tears in her eyes; “no one can stand this.” + +“No, no,” exclaimed another, “it's best to let her have her own will; +for until they both shed plenty of tears, they won't get the betther of +the shock her unexpected death gave them.” + +“Is it thrue that Tom Dalton's gone mad, too?” asked another; “for it's +reported he is.” + +“No; but they say he's risin' the counthry to punish Dick o' the +Grange and Darby Skinadre--the one, he says, for puttin' his father +and themselves out o' their farm; and the other for bein' the death, he +says, of poor Peggy there and the child; an' for tak in', or offerin' to +take, the farm over their heads.” + +The old woman then looked around, and, asked-- + +“Where is Brian? Bring him to me--I want him here. But wait,” she added, +“I will find him myself.” + +She immediately followed him into the I kitchen, where the poor old man +was found searching every part of the house for food. + +“What are you looking for, Brian?” asked another of his neighbors. + +“Oh,” he replied, “I am dyin' wid fair hunger--wid fair hunger, an' I +want something to ait;” and as he spoke, a spasm of agony came over his +face. “Ah,” he added, “if Alick was livin' it isn't this way we'd be, +for what can poor Peggy do for us afther her 'misfortune?' However, she +is a good girl--a good daughter to us, an' will make a good wife, too, +for all that has happened yet; for sure they wor both young and foolish, +an' Tom is to marry her. She is now all we have to depend on, poor +thing, an' it wrings my heart to catch her in lonesome places, cryin' +as if her heart would break; for, poor thing, she's sorry--sorry for her +fault, an' for the shame an' sorrow it has brought her to; an' that's +what makes her pray, too, so often as she does; but God's good, an' +he'll forgive her, bekaise she has repented.” + +“Brian,” said his wife, “come away till I show you something.” + +As she spoke, she led him into the other room. + +“There,” she proceeded, “there is our dearest and our best--food--oh, +I am hungry, too; but I don't care for that--sure the mother's love is +stronger than hunger or want either: but there she is, that was wanst +our pride and our delight, an' what is she now? She needn't cry now, the +poor heartbroken child; she needn't cry now; all her sorrow, and all her +shame, and all her sin is over. She'll hang her head no more, nor her +pale cheek won't get crimson at the sight of any one that knew her +before her fall; but for all her sin in that one act, did her heart ever +fail to you or me? Was there ever such love an' care, an' respect, as +she paid us? an' we wouldn't tell her that we forgave her; we wor too +hardhearted for that, an' too wicked to say that one word that she +longed for so much--oh an' she our only one--but now--daughter of our +hearts--now we forgive you when it's too late--for, Brian, there they +are! there they lie in their last sleep--the sleep that they will never +waken from! an' it's well for them, for they'll waken no more to care +an' throuble, and shame! There they lie! see how quiet an' calm they +both lie there, the poor broken branch, an' the little withered flower!” + +The old man's search for food in the kitchen had given to the neighbors +the first intimation of their actual distress, and in a few minutes it +was discovered that there was not a mouthful of anything in the house, +nor had they tasted a single morsel since the morning before, when they +took a little gruel which their daughter made for them. In a moment, +with all possible speed, the poor creatures about them either went or +sent for sustenance, and in many a case, almost the last morsel was +shared with them, and brought, though scanty and humble, to their +immediate assistance. In this respect there is not in the world any +people so generous and kind to their fellow-creatures as the Irish, +or whose sympathies are so deep and tender, especially in periods of +sickness, want, or death. It is not the tear alone they are willing to +bestow--oh no--whatever can be done, whatever aid can be given, whatever +kindness rendered, or consolation offered, even to the last poor +shilling, or, “the very bit out of the mouth,” as they say themselves, +will be given with a good will, and a sincerity that might in vain +be looked for elsewhere. But alas! they know what it is to want this +consolation and assistance themselves, and hence their promptitude and +anxiety to render them to others. The old man, touched a little by the +affecting language of his wife, began to lose the dull stony look we +have described, and his eyes turned upon those who were about him with +something like meaning, although at that moment it could scarcely be +called so. + +“Am I dhramin'?” he asked. “Is this a dhrame? What brings the people +all about us? Where's Alick from us--an' stay--where's her that I loved +best, in spite of her folly? Where's Peggy from me--there's something +wrong wid me--and yet she's not here to take care o' me?” + +“Brian, dear,” said a poor famished-looking woman approaching him, +“she's in a betther place, poor thing.” + +“Go long out o' that,” he replied, “and don't put your hands on me. It's +Peggy's hands I want to have about me, an' her voice. Where's Peggy's +voice, I say? 'Father, forgive me,' she said, 'forgive me, father, or +I'll never be happy more;' but I wouldn't forgive her, although my heart +did at the same time; still I didn't say the word: bring her here,” he +added, “tell her I'm ready now to forgive her all; for she, it's she +that was the forgivin' creature herself; tell her I'm ready now to +forgive her all, an' to give her my blessin' wanst more.” + +It was utterly impossible to hear this language from the stunned and +heart-broken father, and to contemplate the fair and lifeless form +of the unhappy young creature as she lay stretched before him in the +peaceful stillness of death, without being moved even to tears. There +were, indeed, few dry eyes in the house as he spoke. + +“Oh, Brian dear,” said her weeping mother, “we helped ourselves to break +her heart, as well as the rest. We wouldn't forgive her; we wouldn't +say the word, although her heart was breakin' bekaise we did not. Oh, +Peggy,” she commenced in Irish, “oh, our daughter--girl of the one +fault! the kind, the affectionate, and the dutiful child, to what corner +of the world will your father an' myself turn now that you're gone from +us? You asked us often an' often to forgive you, an' we would not. +You said you were sorry, in the sight of God an' of man, for your +fault--that your heart was sore, an' that you felt our forgiveness +would bring you consolation; but we would not. Ould man,” she exclaimed +abruptly, turning to her husband, “why didn't you forgive our only +daughter? Why, I say, didn't you forgive her her one fault--you wicked +ould man, why didn't you forgive her?” + +“Oh, Kathleen, I'll die,” he replied, mournfully, “I'll die if I don't +get something to ait. Is there no food? Didn't Peggy go to thry Darby +Skinadre, an' she hoped, she said, that she'd bring us relief; an' so +she went upon our promise to forgive her when she'd come back wid it.” + +“I wish, indeed, I had a drop o' gruel or something myself,” replied his +wife, now reminded of her famished state by his words. + +At this moment, however, relief, so far as food was concerned, did +come. The compassionate neighbors began, one by one, to return each +with whatever could be spared from their own necessities, so that in +the course of a little time this desolate old couple were supplied with +provisions sufficient to meet the demands of a week or fortnight. + +It is not our intention to describe, or rather to attempt to describe, +the sorrow of Brian Murtagh and his wife, as soon as a moderate meal +of food had awakened them, as it were, from the heavy and stupid frenzy +into which the shock of their unhappy daughter's death, joined to the +pangs of famine, had thrown them. It may be sufficient to say, that +their grief was wild, disconsolate, and hopeless. She was the only +daughter they had ever had: and when they looked back upon the gentle +and unfortunate girl's many virtues, and reflected that they had, up +to her death, despite her earnest entreaties, withheld from her their +pardon for her transgression, they felt, mingled with their affliction +at her loss, such an oppressive agony of remorse as no language could +describe. + +Many of the neighbors now proposed the performance of a ceremony, which +is frequently deemed necessary in cases of frailty similar to that of +poor Peggy Murtagh:--a ceremony which, in the instance before us, +was one of equal pathos and beauty. It consisted of a number of these +humble, but pious and well-disposed people joining in what is termed +the Litany of the Blessed Virgin, which was an earnest solicitation of +mercy, through her intercession with her Son, for the errors, frailties, +and sins of the departed; and, indeed, when her youth and beauty, and +her artlessness and freedom from guile, were taken into consideration, +in connection with her unexpected death, it must be admitted that this +act of devotion was as affecting as it was mournful and solemn. When +they came to the words, “Mother most pure, Mother most chaste, Mother +undefiled, Mother most loving, pray for her!”--and again to those, +“Morning Star, Health of the Weak, Refuge of Sinners, Comfortress of the +Afflicted, pray for her!”--their voices faltered, became broken, and, +with scarcely a single exception, they melted into tears. And it was a +beautiful thing to witness these miserable and half-famished creatures, +shrunk and pinched with hunger and want, laboring, many of them, with +incipient illness, and several only just recovered from it, forgetting +their own distress and afflictions, and rendering all the aid and +consolation in their power to those who stood in more need of it +than themselves. When these affecting prayers for the dead had been +concluded, a noise was heard at the door, and a voice which in a moment +hushed them into silence and awe. The voice was that of him whom the +departed girl had loved with such fatal tenderness. + +“In the name of God,” exclaimed one of them, “let some of you keep that +unfortunate boy out; the sight of him will kill the ould couple.” The +woman who spoke, however, had hardly concluded, when Thomas Dalton +entered the room, panting, pale, tottering through weakness, and almost +frantic with sorrow and remorse. On looking at the unhappy sight before +him, he paused and wiped his brow, which was moistened by excitement and +over-exertion. + +There was now the silence of death in the room so deep, that the +shooting of a spark from one of the death-candles was heard by every +one present, an incident which, small as it was, deepened the melancholy +interest of the moment. + +“An' that's it,” he at last exclaimed, in a voice which, though weak, +quivered with excess of agony--“that's it, Peggy dear--that's what your +love for me has brought you to! An' now it's too late, I can't help +you now, Peggy dear. I can't bid you hould your, modest face up, as the +darlin' wife of him who loved you betther than all this world besides, +but that left you, for all that a stained name an' a broken heart! Ay! +an' there's what your love for me brought you to! What can I do now for +you, Peggy dear? All my little plans for us both--all that I dreamt of +an' hoped to come to pass, where are they now, Peggy dear? And it wasn't +I, Peggy, it was poverty--oh you know how I loved you!--it was the +downcome we got--it was Dick-o'-the-Grange, that oppressed us--that +ruined us--that put us out without house or home--it was he, and it was +my father--my father that they say has blood on his hand, an' I don't +doubt it, or he wouldn't act the part he did--it was he, too that +prevented me from doin' what my heart encouraged me to do for you! O +blessed God,” he exclaimed, “what will become of me! when I think of the +long, sorrowful, implorin' look she used to give me. I'll go mad!--I'll +go mad!--I've killed her--I've murdhered her, an' there's no one to take +me up an' punish me for it! An' when I was ill, Peggy dear, when I had +time to think on my sick bed of all your love and all your sorrow and +distress and shame on my account, I thought I'd never see you in time +to tell you what I was to do, an' to give consolation to your breakin' +heart; but all that's now over; you are gone from me, an' like the +lovin' crathur you ever wor, you brought your baby along wid you! An' +when I think of it--oh God, when I think of it, before your shame, my +heart's delight, how your eye felt proud out of me, an' how it smiled +when it rested on me. Oh, little you thought I'd hould back to do you +justice--me that you doted on--an' yet it was I that sullied you--I! me! +Here,” he shouted--“here, is there no one to saize a murdherer!--no one +to bring him to justice!” + +Those present now gathered about him, and attempted as best they might, +to soothe and pacify him; but in vain. + +“Oh,” he proceeded, “if she was only able to upbraid me--but what am I +sayin'--upbraid! Oh, never, never was her harsh word heard--oh, nothing +ever to me but that long look of sorrow--that long look of sorrow, that +will either drive me mad, or lave me a broken heart! That's the look +that'll always, always be before me, an' that, 'till death's day, will +keep me from ever bein' a happy man.” + +He now became exhausted, and received a drink of water, after which he +wildly kissed her lips, and bathed her inanimate face, as well as those +of their infant, with tears. + +“Now,” said he, at length; “now, Peggy dear, listen--so may God never +prosper me, if I don't work bitther vengeance on them that along wid +myself, was the means of bringin' you to this--Dick-o'-the-Grange, an' +Darby Skinadre, for if Darby had given you what you wanted, you might +be yet a livin' woman. As for myself, I care not what becomes of me; you +are gone, our child is gone, and now I have nothing in this world that +I'll ever care for; there's nothing in it that I'll ever love again.” + +He then turned to leave the room, and was in the act of going out of it, +when her father, who had nearly recovered the use of his reason, said: + +“Tom Dalton, you are lavin' this house, an' may the curse of that girl's +father, broken-hearted as you've left him, go along wid you.” + +“No,” exclaimed his wife, “but may the blessin' of her mother rest upon +you for the sake of the love she bore you!” + +“You've spoken late, Kathleen Murtagh,” he replied; “the curse of the +father is on me, an' will folly me; I feel it.” + +His sister then entered the room to bring him home, whither he +accompanied her, scarcely conscious of what he did, and ignorant of the +cloud of vengeance which was so soon to break upon his wretched father's +head. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. -- Sarah's Defence of a Murderer. + + +Our readers are not, perhaps, in general, aware that a most iniquitous +usage prevailed among Middlemen Landlords, whenever the leases under +which their property was held were near being expired. Indeed, as a +landed proprietor, the middleman's position differed most essentially +from that of the man who held his estate in fee. The interest of +the latter is one that extends beyond himself and his wants, and is +consequently transmitted to his children, and more remote descendants; +and on his account he is, or ought to be, bound by the ties of a +different and higher character, to see that it shall not pass down to +them in an impoverished or mutilated condition. The middleman, on the +contrary, feels little or none of this, and very naturally endeavors to +sweep from off the property he holds, whilst he holds it, by every means +possible, as much as it can yield, knowing that his tenure of it is +but temporary and precarious. For this reason, then, it too frequently +happened that on finding his tenant's leases near expiring, he resorted +to the most unscrupulous and oppressive means to remove from his land +those who may have made improvements upon it, in order to let it to +other claimants at a rent high in proportion to these very improvements. + +Our readers know that this is not an extreme case, but a plain, +indisputable fact, which has, unfortunately, been one of the standing +grievances of our unhappy country, and one of the great curses attending +the vicious and unsettled state of property in Ireland. + +Dick-o'-the-Grange's ejectment of Condy Dalton and his family, +therefore, had, in the eyes of many of the people, nothing in it so +startlingly oppressive as might be supposed. On the contrary, the act +was looked upon as much in the character of a matter of right on his +part, as one of oppression to them. Long usage had reconciled the +peasantry to it, and up to the period of our tale, there had been no one +to awaken and direct public feeling against it. + +A fortnight had now elapsed since the scene in which young Dalton had +poured out his despair and misery over the dead body of Peggy Murtagh, +and during that period an incident occurred, which, although by no +means akin to the romantic, had produced, nevertheless, a change in the +position of Dick-o'-the-Grange himself, without effecting any either in +his designs or inclinations. His own leases had expired, so that, in one +sense, he stood exactly in the same relation to the head landlord, +in which his own tenants did to him. Their leases had dropped about a +twelvemonth or more before his, and he now waited until he should take +out new ones himself, previous to his proceeding any further in the +disposition and readjustment of his property. Such was his position +and theirs, with reference to each other, when one morning, about a +fortnight or better subsequent to his last appearance, young Dick, +accompanied by the Black Prophet, was seen to proceed towards the +garden--both in close conversation. The Prophet's face was now free from +the consequences of young Dalton's violence, but it had actually +gained in malignity more than it had lost by the discoloration and +disfigurement resulting from the blow. There was a calm, dark grin +visible when he smiled, that argued a black and satanic disposition; and +whenever the lips of his hard, contracted, and unfeeling mouth expanded +by his devilish sneer, a portion of one of his vile side fangs became +visible, which gave to his features a most hateful and viper-like +aspect. It was the cold, sneering, cowardly face of a man who took +delight in evil for its own sake, and who could neither feel happiness +himself, nor suffer others to enjoy it. + +As they were about to enter the garden Donnel Dhu saw approaching him at +a rapid and energetic pace, his daughter Sarah, whose face, now lit up +by exercise, as well as by the earnest expression of deep interest which +might be read in it, never before appeared so strikingly animated and +beautiful. + +“Who is this lovely girl approaching us?” asked the young man, whose +eyes at once kindled with surprise and admiration. + +“That is my daughter,” replied Donnel, coldly; “what can she want with +me now, and what brought her here?” + +“Upon my honor, Donnel, that girl surpasses anything I have seen yet. +Why she's perfection--her figure is--is--I haven't words for it--and her +face--good heavens! what brilliancy and animation!” + + +[Illustration: PAGE 834-- The Prophet's brow darkened] + + +The Prophet's brow darkened at his daughter's unseasonable appearance in +the presence of a handsome young fellow of property, whose character for +gallantry was proverbial in the country. + +“Sarah, my good girl,” said he, whilst his voice, which at once became +low and significant, quivered with suppressed rage--“what brought you +here, I ax? Did any one send for you? or is there a matther of life and +death on hands, that you tramp afther me in this manner--eh?” + +“It may be life an' death for any thing I know to the contrary,” she +replied; “you are angry at something, I see,” she proceeded--“but to +save time, I want to spake to you.” + +“You must wait till I go home, then, for I neither can nor will spake to +you now.” + +“Father, you will--you must,” she replied--“and in some private place +too. I won't detain you long, for I haven't much to say, and if I don't +say it now, it may be too late.” + +“What the deuce, M'Gowan!” said Dick, “speak, to the young woman--you +don't know but she may have something of importance to say to you.” + +She glanced at the speaker, but with a face of such indifference, as if +she had scarcely taken cognizance of him, beyond the fact that she found +some young man there in conversation with her father. + +Donnel, rather to take her from under the libertine gaze of his young +friend, walked a couple of hundred yards to the right of the garden, +where, under the shadow of some trees that over-hung a neglected +fishpond, she opened the purport for her journey after him to the +Grange. + +“Now, in the divil's name,” he asked, “what brought you here?” + +“Father,” she replied, “hear me, and do not be angry, for I know--at +laste I think--that what I am goin' to say to you is right.” + +“Well, madame, let us hear what you have to say.” + +“I will--an' I must spake plain, too. You know me; that I cannot think +one thing and say another.” + +“Yes, I know you very well--go on--ay, and so does your unfortunate +step-mother.” + +“Oh--well!” she replied--“yes, I suppose so--ha! ha!” In a moment, +however, her face became softened with deep feeling; “O, father,” she +proceeded, “maybe you don't know me, nor she either; it's only now I'm +beginnin' to know myself. But listen--I have often observed your +countenance, father--I have often marked it well. I can see by you when +you are pleased or angry--but that's aisy; I can tell, too, when the bad +spirit is up in you by the pale face but black look that scarcely any +one could mistake. I have seen every thing bad, father, in your +face--bad temper, hatred, revenge--an' but seldom any thing good. +Father, I'm your daughter, an' don't be angry!” + +“What, in the devil's name, are you drivin' at, you brazen jade?” + +“Father, you said this mornin', before you came out, that you felt your +conscience troublin' you for not discoverin' the murdher of Sullivan; +that you felt sorry for keepin' it to yourself so long--sorry!--you said +you were sorry, father!” + +“I did, and I was.” + +“Father, I have been thinkin' of that since; no, father--your words were +false; there was no sorrow in your face, nor in your eye,--no, father, +nor in your heart. I know that--I feel it. Father, don't look so: you +may bate me, but I'm not afraid.” + +“Go home out o'this,” he replied--“be off, and carry your cursed madness +and nonsense somewhere else.” + +“Father, here I stand--your own child--your only daughter; look me in +the face--let your eye look into mine, if you can. I challenge you to +it! Now mark my words--you are goin' to swear a murdher against the head +of a poor and distressed family--to swear it--and, father, you know he +never murdhered Sullivan!” + +The Prophet started and became pale, but he did not accept the +challenge. + +He looked at her, however, after a struggle to recover his composure, +and there she stood firm--erect; her beautiful face animated with +earnestness, her eyes glowing with singular lustre, yet set, and +sparkling in the increasing moisture which a word or thought would turn +into tears. + +“What do you mane, Sarah?” said he, affecting coolness; “What do you +mane? I know! Explain yourself.” + +“Father, I will. There was a bad spirit in your face and in your heart +when you said you were sorry; that you repented for consalin' the +murdher so long; there was, father, a bad spirit in your heart, but no +repentance there!” + +“An' did you come all the way from home to tell me this?” + +“No, father, not to tell you what I have said, but, father, dear, what +I am goin' to say; only first answer me. If he did murdher Sullivan, +was it in his own defence? was it a cool murdher? a cowardly murdher? +because if it was, Condy Dalton is a bad man. But still listen: it's now +near two-an'-twenty years since the deed was done. I know little about +religion, father; you know that; but still I have heard that God is +willin' to forgive all men their sins if they repent of them; if they're +sorry for them. Now, father, it's well known that for many a long year +Condy Dalton has been in great sorrow of heart for something or other; +can man do more?” + +“Go home out o' this, I say; take yourself away.” + +“Oh, who can tell, father, the inward agony and bitther repentance that +that sorrowful man's heart, maybe, has suffered. Who can tell the tears +he shed, the groans he groaned, the prayers for mercy he said, maybe, +and the worlds he would give to have that man that he killed--only by +a hasty blow, maybe--again alive and well! Father, don't prosecute him; +leave the poor heartbroken ould man to God! Don't you see that God has +already taken him an' his into His hands; hasn't He punished them a +hundred ways for years? Haven't they been brought down, step by step, +from wealth an' respectability, till they're now like poor beggars, in +the very dust? Oh, think, father, dear father, think of his white +hairs; think of his pious wife, that every one respects; think of his +good-hearted, kind daughters; think of their poverty, and all they have +suffered so long; an' above all, oh, think, father dear, of what they +will suffer if you are the manes of takin' that sorrowful white-haired +ould man out from the middle of his poor, but lovin' and dacent and +respected family, and hangin' him for an act that he has repented for, +maybe, and that we ought to hope the Almighty himself has forgiven him +for. Father, I go on my knees to you to beg that you won't prosecute +this ould man; but leave him to God!” + +As she uttered the last few sentences, the tears fell in torrents from +her cheeks; but when she knelt--which she did--her tears ceased to +flow, and she looked up into her father's face with eyes kindled into +an intense expression, and her hands clasped as if her own life and +everlasting salvation depended upon his reply. + +“Go home, I desire you,” he replied, with a cold sneer, for he had now +collected himself, and fell back into his habitual snarl; “Go home, I +desire you, or maybe you'd wish to throw yourself in the way of that +young profligate that I was spakin' to when you came up. Who knows, +affcher all, but that's your real design, and neither pity nor +compassion for ould Dalton.” + +“Am I his daughter?” she replied, whilst she started to her feet, and +her dark eyes flashed with disdain: “Can I be his daughter?” + +“I hope you don't mean to cast a slur upon your--.” He paused a moment +and started as if a serpent had bitten him; but left the word “mother” + unuttered. + +Again she softened, and her eyes filled with tears. “Father, I never had +a mother!” she said. + +“No,” he replied; “or if you had, her name will never come through my +lips.” + +She looked at him with wonder for a few moments, after which she turned, +and with a face of melancholy and sorrow, proceeded with slow and +meditating steps in the direction of their humble cabin. + +Her father, who felt considerably startled by some portions of her +appeal, though by no means softened, again directed his steps towards +the garden gate, where he left young Dick standing. Here he found this +worthy young gentleman awaiting his return, and evidently amazed at the +interview between him and his daughter; for although he had been at too +great a distance to hear their conversation, he could, and did see, by +the daughter's attitudes, that the subject of their conversation was +extraordinary, and consequently important. + +On approaching him, the Prophet now, with his usual coolness, pulled out +the tress which he had, in some manner, got from _Gra Gal_ Sullivan, and +holding it for a time, placed it in Dick's hands. + +“There's one proof,” said he, alluding to a previous part of their +conversation, “that I wasn't unsuccessful, and, indeed, I seldom am, +when I set about a thing in earnest.” + +“But is it possible,” asked the other, “that she actually gave this +lovely tress willingly--you swear that?” + +“As Heaven's above me,” replied the Prophet, “there never was a ringlet +sent by woman to man with more love than she sent that. Why, the purty +creature actually shed tears, and begged of me to lose no time in givin' +it. You have it now, at all events--an' only for young Dalton's outrage, +you'd have had it before now.” + +“Then there's no truth in the report that she's fond of him?” + +“Why--ahem--n--no--oh, no--not now--fond of him she was, no doubt; an' +you know it's never hard to light a half-burned turf, or a candle +that was lit before. If they could be got out of the counthry, at all +events--these Daltons--it would be so much out of your way, for between, +you an' me, I can tell you that your life won't be safe when he comes to +know that you have put his nose out of joint with the _Gra Gal_.” + +“It is strange, however, that she should change so soon!” + +“Ah, Master Richard! how little you know of woman, when you say so. +They're a vain, uncertain, selfish crew--women are--there's no honesty +in them, nor I don't think there's a woman alive that could be trusted, +if you only give her temptation and opportunity; none of them will stand +that.” + +“But how do you account for the change in her case, I ask?” + +“I'll tell you that. First and foremost, you're handsome--remarkably +handsome.” + +“Come, come, no nonsense, Donnel; get along, will you, ha! ha! +ha!--handsome indeed! Never you mind what the world says--well!” + +“Why,” replied the other, gravely, “there's no use in denyin' it, you +know; it's a matther that tells for itself, an' that a poor girl with +eyes in her head can judge of as a rich one--at any rate, if you're not +handsome, you're greatly belied; an' every one knows that there's never +smoke without fire.” + +“Well, confound you!--since they'll have it so, I suppose I may as well +admit it--I believe I am a handsome dog, and I have reason to know that, +that----” here he shook his head and winked knowingly: “Oh, come Donnel, +my boy, I can go no further on that subject--ha! ha! ha!” + +“There is no dispute about it,” continued Donnel, gravely; “but still +I think, that if it was not for the mention made of the dress, an' +grandeur, and state that she was to come to, she'd hardly turn round +as she did. Dalton, you know, is the handsomest young fellow, barring +yourself, in the parish; an' troth on your account an' hers, I wish he +was out of it. He'll be crossin' you--you may take my word for it--an' a +dangerous enemy he'll prove--that I know.” + +“Why? what do you mean?” Here the prophet, who was artfully trying +to fill the heart of his companion with a spirit of jealousy against +Dalton, paused for a moment, as if in deep reflection, after which he +sighed heavily. “Mane!” he at length replied; “I am unhappy in my mind, +an' I know I ought to do it, an' yet I'm loth now after sich a length of +time. Mane, did you say, Masther Richard?” + +“Yes, I said so, and I say so; what do you mean by telling me that young +Dalton will be a dangerous enemy to me?” + +“An' so he will; an' so he would to any one that he or his bore ill-will +against. You know there's blood upon their hands.” + +“No, I don't know any such thing; I believe he was charged with the +murder of Mave Sullivan's uncle, but as the body could not be found, +there were no grounds for a prosecution. I don't, therefore, know that +there's blood upon his hand.” + +“Well, then, if you don't--may God direct! me!” he added, “an' guide me +to the best--if you don't, Masther Richard--Heaven direct me agin!--will +I say it?--could you get that family quietly out of the counthry, +Masther Richard? Bekaise if you could, it would be betther, maybe, for +all parties.” + +“You seem to know something about these Daltons, Mr. M'Gowan?” asked +Dick, “and to speak mysteriously of them?” + +“Well, then, I do,” he replied; “but! what I have to say, I ought to say +it to your father, who is a magistrate.” + +The other stared at him with surprise, but said nothing for a minute or +two. + +“What is this mystery?” he added at length; “I cannot understand you; +but it is clear that you mean something extraordinary.” + +“God pardon me, Masther Richard, but you are right enough. No; I can't +keep it any longer. Listen to me, sir, for I am goin' to make a strange +and a fearful discovery; I know who it was that murdhered Sullivan; +I'm in possession of it for near the last two-an'-twenty years; I have +travelled every where; gone to England, to Wales, Scotland, an' +America, but it was all of no use; the knowledge of the murdher! and the +murdherer was here,” he laid his! hand upon his heart as he spoke; “an' +durin' all that time I had peace neither by night nor by day.” + +His companion turned towards him with amazement, and truly his +appearance was startling, if not frightful; he looked as it were into +vacancy; his eyes had become hollow and full of terror; his complexion +assumed the hue of ashes; his voice got weak and unsteady, and his limbs +trembled excessively, whilst from every pore the perspiration came out, +and ran down his ghastly visage in large drops. + +“M'Gowan,” said his companion, “this is a dreadful business. As yet you +have said nothing, and from what I see, I advise you to reflect before +you proceed further in it. I think I can guess the nature of your +secret; but even if you went to my father, he would tell you, that you +are not bound to criminate yourself.” + +The Prophet, in the mean time, had made an effort to recover himself, +which, after a little time, was successful. + +“I believe you think,” he added, with a gloomy and a bitter smile, “that +it was I who committed the murdher; oh no! if it was, I wouldn't be +apt to hang myself, I think. No! but I must see your father, as a +magistrate; an' I must make the disclosure to him. The man that did +murdher Sullivan is livin', and that man is Condy Dalton. I knew of +this, an' for two-an'-twenty years let that murdherer escape, an' that +is what made me so miserable an' unhappy. I can prove what I say; an' I +know the very spot where he buried Sullivan's body, an' where it's lyin' +to this very day.” + +“In that case, then,” replied the other, “you have only one course to +pursue, and that is, to bring Dalton to justice.” + +“I know it,” returned the Prophet; “but still I feel that it's a +hard case to be the means of hangin' a fellow-crature; but of the two +choices, rather than bear any longer what I have suffered an' am still +sufferin', I think it betther to prosecute him.” + +“Then go in and see my father at once about it, and a devilish difficult +card you'll have to play with him; for my part, I think he is mad ever +since Jemmy Branigan left him. In fact, he knows neither what he is +saying or doing without him, especially in some matters; for to tell you +the truth,” he added, laughing, “Jemmy, who was so well acquainted with +the country and every one in it, took much more of the magistrate on him +than ever my father did; and now the old fellow, when left to himself, +is nearly helpless in every sense. He knows he has not Jemmy, and he can +bear nobody else near him or about him.” + +“I will see him, then, before I lave the place; an' now, Masther +Richard, you know what steps you ought to take with regard to _Gra Gal_ +Sullivan. As she is willin' herself, of course there is but one way of +it.” + +“Of course I am aware of that,” said Dick; “but still I feel that it's +devilish queer she should change so soon from Dalton to me.” + +“That's bekaise you know nothing about women,” replied the Prophet. +“Why, Masther Richard, I tell you that a weathercock is constancy itself +compared with them. The notion of you an' your wealth, an' grandeur, an' +the great state you're to keep her in--all turned her brain; an' as a +proof of it, there you have a lock of her beautiful hair that she gave +me with her own hands. If that won't satisfy you it's hard to say what +can; but indeed I think you ought to know by this time o' day how far +a handsome face goes with them. Give the divil himself but that, and +they'll take his horns, hooves, and tail into the bargain--ay, will +they.” + +This observation was accompanied by a grin so sneering and bitter, that +his companion, on looking at him, knew not how to account for it, unless +by supposing that he must during the course of his life have sustained +some serious or irreparable injury at their hands. + +“You appear not to like the women, Donnel; how is that?” + +“Like them!” he replied, and as he spoke his face, which had been, a +little before, ghastly with horror, now became black and venomous; “ha! +ha! how is that, you say? oh, no matther now; they're angels; angels of +perdition; their truth is treachery, an' their--but no matther. I'll +now go in an' spake to your father on this business; but I forgot to +say that I must see _Gra Gal_ soon, to let her know our plans; so do you +make your mind aisy, and lave the management of the whole thing in my +hands.” + + + + +CHAPTEE XIV. -- A Middleman Magistrate of the Old School, and his Clerk. + + +Dick-o'-the-Grange--whose name was Henderson--at least such is the name +we choose to give him--held his office, as many Irish magistrates +have done before him, in his own parlor; that is to say, he sat in an +arm-chair at one of the windows, which was thrown open for him, while +those who came to seek justice, or, as they termed it, law, at his +hands, were compelled to stand uncovered on the outside, no matter +whether the weather was stormy or otherwise. We are not now about +to pronounce, any opinion upon the constitutional spirit of Dick's +decisions--inasmuch as nineteen out of every twenty of them were come +to by the only “Magistrates' Guide” he ever was acquainted with--to wit, +the redoubtable Jemmy Branigan. Jemmy was his clerk, and although he +could neither read nor write, yet in cases where his judgments did not +give satisfaction, he was both able and willing to set his mark upon +the discontented parties m a fashion that did not allow his blessed +signature to be easily forgotten. Jemmy, however, as the reader +knows, was absent on the morning we are writing about, having actually +fulfilled his threat of leaving his master's service--a threat, by the +way, which was held out and acted upon at least once every year since he +and the magistrate had stood to each other in the capacity of master and +servant. Not that we are precisely correct in the statement we had made +on this matter, for sometimes his removal was the result of dismissal +on the part of his master, and sometimes the following up of the notice +which he himself had given him to leave his service. Be this as it may, +his temporary absences always involved a trial of strength between the +parties, as to which of them should hold out, and put a constraint upon +his inclinations the longest; for since the truth must be told of Jemmy, +we are bound to say that he could as badly bear to live removed from the +society of his master, as the latter could live without him. For many +years of his life, he had been threatening to go to America, or to live +with a brother that he had in the Isle of White, as he called it, and on +several occasions he had taken formal leave of the whole family, (always +in the presence of his master, however,) on his departure for either +the one place or the other, while his real abode was a snug old +garret, where he was attended and kept in food by the family and his +fellow-servants, who were highly amused at the outrageous distress of +his master, occasioned sometimes by Jemmy's obstinate determination to +travel, and sometimes by his extreme brotherly affection. + +Donnel, having left his son cracking a long whip which he held in his +hand, and looking occasionally at the tress of Mave Sullivan's beautiful +hair, approached the hall door, at which he knocked, and on the +appearance of a servant, requested to see Mr. Henderson. The man waived +his hand towards the space under the window, meaning that he should take +his stand there, and added-- + +“If it's law you want, I'm afeard you'll get more abuse than justice +from him now, since Jemmy's gone.” + +The knowing grin, and the expression of comic sorrow which accompanied +the last words, were not lost upon the prophet, who, in common with +every one in the neighborhood for a circumference of many miles, was +perfectly well aware of the life which master and man both led. + +“Is that it?” said the prophet; “however, it can't be helped. Clerk, +or no clerk, I want to see him on sarious business, tell him; but I'll +wait, of coorse, till he's at leisure.” + +“Tom,” said Henderson from within, “Who's there?--is that him? If it +is, tell him, confound him! to come in, and I'll forgive him. If he'll +promise to keep a civil tongue in his head, I'll forget all, say. Come +in, you old scoundrel, I'm not angry with you; I want to speak to you, +at all events.” + +“It's not him, sir; it's only Donnel M'Gowan, the Black Prophet, that +wants some law business.” + +“Send him to the devil for law business What brings him here now? Tell +him he shall have neither law nor justice from me. Did you send to his +brother-in-law? May be he's there?” + +“We did, sir. Sorra one of his seed, breed, or generation but we sent +to. However, it's no use--off to America he's gone, or to the Isle o' +White, at any rate.” + +“May the devil sink America and the Isle of White both in the ocean, an' +you, too; you scoundrel, and all of you! Only for the cursed crew that's +about me, I'd have him here still--and he the only man that understood +my wants and my wishes, and that could keep me comfortable and easy.” + +“Troth, then, he hadn't an overly civil tongue in his head, sir,” + replied the man; “for, when you and he, your honor, were together, there +was little harmony to spare between you.” + +“That was my own fault, you cur. No servant but himself would have had +a day's patience with me. He never abused me but when I deserved it--did +he?” + +“No, your honor; I know he didn't, in troth.” + +“You lie, you villain, you know no such thing. Here am I with my +sore leg, and no one to dress it for me. Who's to help me upstairs or +downstairs?--who's to be about me?--or, who cares for me, now that he's +gone? Nobody--not a soul.” + +“Doesn't Masther Richard, sir?” + +“No sir; Master Richard gives himself little trouble about me. He has +other plots and plans on his hands--other fish to fry--other irons in +the fire. Masther Richard, sirra, doesn't care a curse if I was under +the sod to-morrow, but would be glad of it; neither does, any one about +me--but he did; and you infernal crew, you have driven him away from +me.” + +“We, your honor?” + +“Yes, all of you; you put me first out of temper by your neglect and +your extravagance; then I vented it on him, because he was the only +one among you I took any pleasure in abusin'--speaking to. However, +my mind's made up--I'll call an auction--sell everything--and live in +Dublin as well as I can. What does that black hound want?” + +“Some law business, sir; but I donna what it is.” + +“Is the scoundrel honest, or a rogue?” + +“Throth it's more than I'm able to tell your honor, sir. I don't know +much about him. Some spakes well, and some spakes ill of him--just like +his neighbors--ahem!” + +“Ay, an' that's all you can say of him? but if he was here, I could soon +ascertain what stuff he's made of, and what kind of a hearing he ought +to get. However, it doesn't matter now--I'll auction everything--in this +grange I won't live; and to be sure but I was a precious-old scoundrel +to quarrel with the best servant a man ever had.” + +Just at this moment, who should come round from a back passage, carrying +a small bundle in his hand, but the object of all his solicitude. He +approached quietly on tiptoe, with a look in which might be read a most +startling and ludicrous expression of anxiety and repentance. + +“How is he?” said he--“how is his poor leg? Oh, thin, blessed saints, +but I was the double distilled villain of the airth to leave him as I +did to the crew that was about him! The best masther that ever an ould +vagabond like me was ongrateful to! How is he, Tom?” + +“Why,” replied the other, “if you take my advice, you'll keep from him +at all events. He's cursin' an' abusin' you ever since you went, and +won't allow one of us even to name you.” + +“Troth, an' it only shows his sense; for I desarved nothing else at his +hands. However, if what you say is true, I'm afeared he's not long for +this world, and that his talkin' sense at last is only the lightening +before death, poor gintleman! I can stay no longer from him, any how, +let him be as he may; an' God pardon me for my ongratitude in desartin' +him like a villain as I did.” + +He then walked into the parlor; and as the prophet was beckoned as far +as the hall, he had an opportunity of witnessing the interview which +took place between this extraordinary pair. Jemmy, before entering, +threw aside his bundle and his hat, stripped off his coat, and in +a moment presented himself in the usual striped cotton jacket, with +sleeves, which he alway's wore. Old Dick was in the act of letting fly +an oath at something, when Jemmy, walking in, just as if nothing had +happened, exclaimed-- + +“Why, thin, Mother o' Moses, is it at the ould work I find you? Troth, +it's past counsel, past grace wid you--I'm afraid you're too ould to +mend. In the manetime, don't stare as if you seen a ghost--only tell us +how is that unfortunate leg of yours?” + +“Why--eh?--ay,--oh, ah,--you're back are you?--an' what the devil +brought you here again?--eh?” + +“Come now, keep yourself quiet, you onpenitent ould sinner, or it'll be +worse for you. How is your leg?” + +“Ah, you provokin' ould rascal--eh?--so you are back?” + +“Don't you see I am--who would stick to you like myself, afther all? +Troth I missed your dirty tongue, bad as it is--divil a thing but rank +pace and quietness I was ever in since I seen you last.” + +“And devil a scoundrel has had the honesty to give me a single word of +abuse to my face since you left me.” + +“And how often did I tell you that you couldn't depind upon the crew +that's around you--the truth's not in them--an' that you ought to know. +However, so far as I am concerned, don't fret--Grod knows I forgive you +all your folly and _feasthalaga_, (* nonsense,) in hopes always that +you'll mend your life in many respects. You had meself before you as +an example, though I say it, that ougtn't to say it, but you know you +didn't take pattern by me as you ought.” + +“Shake hands, Jemmy; I'm glad to see you again; you were put to expense +since you went.” + +“No, none; no, I tell you.” + +“But I say you were.” + +“There, keep yourself quiet now; no I wasn't; an' if I was, too, what is +it to you?” + +“Here, put that note in your pocket.” + +“Sorra bit, now,” replied Jemmy, “to plaise you,” gripping it tightly at +the same time as he spoke; “do you want to vex me again?” + +“Put it in your pocket, sirra, unless you want me to break your head.” + +“Oh, he would,” said Jemmy, looking with a knowing face of terror +towards Tom Booth and the Prophet,--“it's the weight of his cane I'd +get, sure enough--but it's an ould sayin' an' a true one, that when the +generosity's in, it must come out. There now, I've put it in my pocket +for you--an' I hope you're satisfied. Devil a sich a tyrant in Europe,” + said he, loudly, “when he wishes--an' yet, after all,” he added, in +a low, confidential voice, just loud enough for his master to +hear,--“where 'ud one get the like of him? Tom Booth, desire them to +fetch warm water to the study, till I dress his poor leg, and make him +fit for business.” + +“Here is Donnel Dhu,” replied Booth, “waitin' for law business.” + +“Go to the windy, Donnel,” said Jemmy, with an authoritative air; “go to +your ground; but before you do--let me know what you want.” + +“I'll do no such thing,” replied the Prophet; “unless to say, that it's +a matter of life an' death.” + +“Go out,” repeated Jemmy, with brief and determined authority, “an wait +till it's his honor's convanience, his full convanience, to see you. As +dark a rogue, sir,” he continued, having shoved the Prophet outside, and +slapped the door in his face; “and as great a schamer as ever put a coat +on his back. He's as big a liar too, when he likes, as ever broke bread; +but there's far more danger in him when he tells the truth, for then you +may be sure he has some devil's design in view.” + +Dick-o'-the-Grange, though vulgar and eccentric, was by no means +deficient in shrewdness and common sense--neither was he, deliberately, +an unjust man; but, like too many in the world, he generally suffered +his prejudices and his interests to take the same side. Having had his +leg dressed, and been prepared by Jemmy for the business of the day, he +took his place, as usual, in the chair of justice, had the window thrown +open, and desired the Prophet to state the nature of his business. + +The latter told him that the communication must be a private one, as it +involved a matter of deep importance, being no less than an affair of +life and death. + +This startled the magistrate, who, with a kind of awkward embarrassment, +ordered, or rather requested Jemmy to withdraw, intimating that he would +be sent for, if his advice or opinion should be deemed necessary. + +“No matther,” replied Jemmy; “the loss will be your own; for sure I know +the nice hand you make of law when you're left to yourself. Only before +I go, mark my words;--there you stand, Donnel Dhu, an' I'm tellin' him +to be on his guard against you--don't put trust, plaise your honor, in +either his word or his oath--an' if he's bringin' a charge against any +one, give it in favor of his enemy, whoever he is. I hard that he was +wanst tried for robbery, an' I only wondher it wasn't for murdher, too; +for in troth and sowl, if ever a man has both one and the other in his +face, he has. It's known to me that he's seen now and then colloguin' +an' skulkin' behind the hedges, about dusk, wid red Rody Duncan, that +was in twiste for robbery. Troth it's birds of a feather wid them--and +I wouldn't be surprised if we were to see them both swing from the +same rope yet. So there's my carrecther of you, you villain,” he added, +addressing M'Gowan, at whom he felt deeply indignant, in consequence of +his not admitting him to the secret of the communication he was about to +make. + +Henderson, when left alone with the Prophet, heard the disclosures which +the latter made to him, with less surprise than interest. He himself +remembered the circumstances perfectly well, and knew that on the +occasion of Condy Dalton's former arrest, appearances had been very +strong against him. It was then expected that he would have disclosed +the particular spot in which the body had been concealed, but as he +strenuously persisted in denying any knowledge of it, and, as the body +consequently could not be produced, they were obliged of necessity to +discharge him, but still under strong suspicions of his guilt. + +The interview between Henderson and M'Gowan was a long one; and the +disclosures made were considered of too much importance for the former +to act without the co-operation and assistance of another magistrate. He +accordingly desired the Prophet to come to him on the following day but +one, when he said he would secure the presence of a Major Johnson; who +was also in the commission, and by whose warrant old Condy Dalton had +been originally arrested on suspicion of the murder. It was recommended +that every thing that had transpired between them should be kept +strictly secret, lest the murderer, if made acquainted with the charge +which was about to be brought home to him, should succeed in escaping +from justice. Young Dick, who had been sent for by his father, +recommended this, and on those terms they separated. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. -- A Plot and a Prophecy. + + +Our readers cannot forget a short dialogue which took place between +Charley Hanlon and the strange female, who has already borne some part +in the incidents of our story. It occurred on the morning she had been +sent to convey the handkerchief which Hanlon had promised to Sarah +M'Gowan, in lieu of the Tobacco-Box of which we have so frequently made +mention, and which, on that occasion, she expected to have received from +Sarah. After having inquired from Hanlon why Donnel Dhu was called the +Black Prophet, she asked: + +“But could he have anything to do with the murdher?” + +To which Hanlon replied, that “he had been thinkin' about that, an' had +some talk, this mornin', wid a man that's livin' a long time--indeed, +that was born a little above the place, an' he says that the Black +Prophet, or M'Gowan, did not come to the neighborhood till afther the +murdher.” + +Now this person was no other than Red Rody Duncan, to whom our friend +Jemmy Branigan made such opprobrious allusion in the character of the +Black Prophet to Dick-o'-the-Grange. This man, who was generally known +by the sobriquet of Red Body, had been for some time looking after the +situation of bailiff or driver to Dick-o'-the-Grange; and as Hanlon was +supposed to possess a good deal of influence with young Dick, Duncan +very properly thought he could not do better than cultivate his +acquaintance. This was the circumstance which brought them together at +first, and it was something of a dry, mysterious manner which Hanlon +observed in this fellow, when talking about the Prophet and his +daughter, that caused him to keep up the intimacy between them. + +When Donnel Dhu had closed his lengthened conference with Henderson, he +turned his steps homewards, and had got half-way through the lawn, when +he was met by Red Rody. He had, only a minute or two before, left young +Dick, with whom he held another short conversation; and as he met Rody, +Dick was still standing within about a hundred yards of them, cracking +his whip with that easy indolence and utter disregard of everything but +his pleasures, which chiefly constituted his character. + +“Don't stand to spake to me here,” said the Prophet; “that young +scoundrel will see us. Have you tried Hanlon yet, and will he do? Yes or +no?” + +“I haven't tried him, but I'm now on way to do so.” + +“Caution!” + +“Certainly; I'm no fool, I think. If we can secure him, the business may +be managed aisily; that is, provided the two affairs can come off on the +same night.” + +“Caution, I say again.” + +“Certainly; I'm no fool, I hope. Pass on.” + +The Prophet and he passed each other very slowly during this brief +dialogue; the former, when it was finished, pointing naturally towards +the Grange, or young Dick, as if he I had been merely answering a few +questions respecting some person about the place that the other was +going to see. Having passed the Prophet, he turned to the left, by a +back path that led to the garden, where, in fact, Hanlon was generally +to be found, and where, upon this occasion, he found him. After a good +deal of desultory chat, Rody at last inquired if Hanlon thought there +existed any chance of his procuring the post of bailiff. + +“I don't think there is, then, to tell you the truth,” replied Hanlon; +“old Jemmy is against you bitterly, an' Masther Richard's interest in +this business isn't as strong as his.” + +“The blackguard ould villain!” exclaimed Rody; “it will be a good job to +give him a dog's knock some night or other.” + +“I don't see that either,” replied Hanlon; “Ould Jemmy does a power of +good in his way; and indeed many an act of kindness the master himself +gets credit for that ought to go to Jemmy's account.” + +“But you can give me a lift in the drivership, Charley, if you like.” + +“I'm afeard not, so long as Jemmy's against you.” + +“Ay, but couldn't you thry and twist that ould scoundrel himself in my +favor?” + +“Well,” replied the other, “there is something in that, and whatever I +can do with him, I will, if you'll thry and do me a favor.” + +“Me! Name it, man--name it, and it's done, if it was only to rob the +Grange. Ha! ha! An' by the way, I dunna what puts robbin' the Grange +into my head!” + +And, as he spoke, his eye was bent with an expression of peculiar +significance on Hanlon. + +“No!” replied Hanlon with indifference; “it is not to rob the Grange. I +believe you know something about the man they call the Black Prophet?” + +“Donnel Dhu? Why--ahem!--a little--not much. Nobody, indeed, knows or +cares much about him. However, like most people, he has his friends and +his enemies.” + +“Don't you remember a murdher that was committed here about +two-and-twenty-years ago?” + +“I do.” + +“Was that before or afther the Black Prophet came to live in this +counthry?” + +“Afther it--afther it. No, no!'” he replied, correcting himself; “I am +wrong; it was before he came here.” + +“Then he could have had no hand in it?” + +“Him! Is it him! Why, what puts such a thing as that into your head'?” + +“Faith, to tell you the truth, Rody, his daughter Sarah an' myself is +beginnin' to look at one another; an', to tell you the truth again, I'd +wish to know more about the same Prophet before I become his son-in-law, +as I have some notion of doin'.” + +“I hard indeed that you wor pullin' a string wid her, an' now that I +think of it, if you give me a lift wid ould Jemmy, I'll give you one +there. The bailiff's berth is jist the thing for me; not havin' any +family of my own, you see I could have no objection to live in the +Grange, as their bailiff always did; but, aren't you afeard to tackle +yourself to that divil's clip, Sarah?” + +“Well, I don't know,” replied the other; “I grant it's a hazard, by all +accounts.” + +“An' yet” continued Rody, “she's a favorite with every one; an' indeed +there's not a more generous or kinder-hearted creature alive this day +than she is. I advise you, however, not to let her into your saicrets, +for if it was the knockin' of a man on the head and that she knew it, +and was asked about it, out it would go, rather than she'd tell a lie.” + +“They say she's handsomer than _Gra Gal_ Sullivan,” said Hanlon; “and I +think myself she is.” + +“I don't know; it's a dead tie between them; however, I can give you +a lift with her father, but not with herself, for somehow, she doesn't +like a bone in my skin.” + +“She and I made a swop,” proceeded Hanlon, “some time ago, that 'ud take +a laugh out o' you: I gave her a pocket-hand-kerchy; and she was to give +me an ould Tobaccy-Box--but she says she can't find it, altho' I +have sent for it, an' axed it myself several times. She thinks the +step-mother has thrown it away or hid it somewhere.” + +Body looked at him inquiringly. + +“A Tobaccy-Box,” he exclaimed; “would you like to get it?” + +“Why,” replied Hanlon, “the poor girl has nothing else to give, an' I'd +like to have something from her, even if a ring never was to go on us, +merely as a keepsake.” + +“Well, then,” replied Duncan, with something approaching to solemnity +in his voice, “mark my words--you promise to give me a lift for the +drivership with old Jemmy and the two Dicks?” + +“I do.” + +“Well, then, listen: If you will be at the Grey Stone to-morrow night at +twelve o'clock--midnight--I'll engage that Sarah will give you the box +there.” + +“Why, in troth, Eody, to tell you the truth if she could give it to me +at any other time an' place, I'd prefer it. That Grey Stone is a wild +place to be in at midnight.” + +“It is a wild place; still it's there, an' nowhere else, that you must +get the box. And now that the bargain's made, do you think it's +thrue that this old Hendherson”--here he looked very cautiously about +him--“has as much money as they say he has?” + +“I b'lieve he's very rich.” + +“It is thrue that he airs the bank notes in the garden here, and turns +the guineas in the sun, for fraid--for fraid--they'd get blue-mowled--is +it?” + +“It may, for all I know; but it's more than I've seen yet.” + +“An' now between you and me, Charley--whisper--I say, isn't it a +thousand pities--nobody could hear us, surely?” + +“Nonsense--who could hear us?” + +“Well, isn't it a thousand pities, Charley, avia, that dacent fellows, +like you and me, should be as we are, an' that mad ould villain havin' +his house full 'o money? eh, now?” + +“It's a hard case,” replied Hanlon, “but still we must put up with our +lot. His father I'm tould was as poor in the beginnin' as either of us.” + +“Ay, but it's the son we're spakin about--the ould tyrannical villain +that dhrives an' harries the poor! He has loads of money in the house, +they say--eh?” + +“Divil a know myself knows, Rody:--nor--not makin' you an ill +answer--divil a hair myself cares, Rody. Let him have much, or let him +have little, that's your share an' mine of it.” + +“Charley, they say America's a fine place; talkin' about money--wid a +little money there, they say a man could do wondhers.” + +“Who says that?” + +“Why Donnel Dhu, for one; an' he knows, for he was there.” + +“I b'lieve that Donnel was many a place;--over half the world, if all's +thrue.” + +“Augh! the same Donnel's a quare fellow--a deep chap--a cute follow; +but, I know more about him than you think--ay, do I.” + +“Why, what do you know?” + +“No matther--a thing or two about the same Donnel; an' by the same +token, a betther fellow never lived--an' whisper--you're a strong +favorite wid him, that I know, for we wor talkin' about you. In the +meantime I wish to goodness we had a good scud o' cash among us, an' we +safe an' snug in America! Now shake hands an' good bye--an' mark me--if +you dhrame of America an' a long purse any o' these nights, come to me +an' I'll riddle your dhrame for you.” + +He then looked Hanlon significantly in the face, wrung his hand, and +left him to meditate on the purport of their conversation. + +The latter as he went out gazed at him with a good deal of surprise. + +“So,” thought he, “you were feelin' my pulse, were you? I don't think +it's hard to guess whereabouts you are; however I'll think of your +advice at any rate, an' see what good may be in it. But, in the name of +all that's wondherful, how does it come to pass that that red ruffian +has sich authority over Sarah M'Gowan as to make her fetch me the very +thing I want?--that tobacco-box; an' at sich a place, too, an' sich an +hour! An' yet he says that she doesn't like a bone in his skin, which +I b'lieve! I'm fairly in the dark here; however time will make it all +clear, I hope; an' for that we must wait.” + +He then resumed his employment. + +Donnel Dhu, who was a man of much energy and activity, whenever his +purposes required it, instead of turning his steps homewards, directed +them to the house of our kind friend Jerry Sullivan, with whose +daughter, the innocent and unsuspecting Mave, it was his intention to +have another private interview. During the interval that had elapsed +since his last journey to the house of this virtuous and hospitable +family, the gloom that darkened the face of the country had become +awful, and such as wofully bore out to the letter the melancholy truth +of his own predictions. Typhus fever had now set in, and was filling the +land with fearful and unexampled desolation. Famine, in all cases the +source and origin of contagion, had done, and was still doing, its work. +The early potato crop, for so far as it had come in, was a pitiable +failure; the quantity being small, and the quality watery and bad. The +oats, too, and all early grain of that season's growth, were still more +deleterious as food, for it had all fermented and become sour, so that +the use of it, and of the bad potatoes, too, was the most certain means +of propagating the pestilence which was sweeping away the people in such +multitudes. Scarcely any thing presented itself to him as he went along +that had not some melancholy association with death or its emblems. To +all this, however, he paid little or no attention. When a funeral met +him, he merely turned back three steps in the direction it went, as was +usual; but unless he happened to know the family from which death had +selected its victim, he never even took the trouble of inquiring who +it was they bore to the grave--a circumstance which strongly proved +the utter and heartless selfishness of the man's nature. On arriving +at Sullivan's, however, he could not help feeling startled, hard and +without sympathy as was his heart, at the wild and emaciated evidences +of misery and want which a couple of weeks' severe suffering had +impressed upon them. The gentle Mave herself, patient and uncomplaining +as she was, had become thin and cheerless; yet of such a character was +the sadness that rested upon her, that it only added a mournful and +melancholy charm to her beauty--a charm that touched the heart of the +beholder at once with love and compassion. As yet there had been no +sickness among them; but who could say to-day that he or she might not +be stricken down at once before to-morrow. + +“Donnel,” said Sullivan, after he had taken a seat, “how you came to +prophecy what would happen, an' what has happened, is to me a wondher; +but sure enough, _fareer gair_, (* bitter misfortune) it has all come to +pass.” + +“I can't tell myself,” replied the other, “how I do it; all I know is, +that the words come into my mouth, an' I can't help spakin' them. At +any rate, that's not surprisin'. I'm the seventh son of the seventh son, +afther seven generations; that is I'm the seventh seventh son that was +in our family; an' you must know that the knowledge increases as they go +on. Every seventh son knows more than thim that wint before him till +it comes to the last, and he knows more than thim all. There were six +seventh sons before me, so that I'm the last; for it was never known +since the world began that ever more than seven afther one another had +the gift of prophecy in the same family. That's the raison, you see, +that I have no sons--the knowledge ends wid me.” + +“It's very strange,” replied Sullivan, “an' not to be accounted for by +any one but God--glory be to his name!” + +“It is strange--an' when I find that I'm goin' to foretell any thing +that's bad or unlucky, I feel great pain or uneasiness in my mind--but +on the other hand, when I am to prophesy what's good, I get quite +light-hearted and aisy--I'm all happiness. An' that's the way I feel +now, an' has felt for the last day or two.” + +“I wish to God, Donnel,” said Mrs. Sullivan, “that you could prophesize +something good for us.” + +“Or,” continued her charitable and benevolent husband, “for the +thousands of poor creatures that wants it more still than we do--sure +it's thankful to the Almighty we ought to be--an' is, I hope--that +this woful sickness hasn't come upon us yet. Even Condy Dalton an' +his family--ay, God be praised for givin' me the heart to do it--I can +forgive him and them.” + +“Don't say them, Jerry ahagur,” observed his wife, “we never had any bad +feelin' against them.” + +“Well, well,” continued the husband, “I can forgive him an' all o' +them now--for God help them, they're in a state of most heart-breakin' +distitution, livin' only upon the bits that the poor starvin' neighbors +is able to crib from their own hungry mouths for them!” And here the +tears--the tears that did honor not only to him, but to human nature +and his country--rolled slowly down his emaciated cheeks, for the deep +distress to which the man that he believed to be the murdherer of his +brother had been. + +“Indeed, Donnel,” said Mrs. Sullivan, “it would be a hard an' +uncharitable heart that wouldn't relent if it knew what they are +suffering. Young Con is jist risin' out of the faver that was in the +family, and it would wring your--” + +A glance at Mave occasioned her to pause. The gentle girl, upon whom +the Prophet had kept his eye during the whole conversation, had been +reflecting, in her wasted but beautiful features, both the delicacy and +depth of the sympathy that had been expressed for the unhappy Daltons. +Sometimes she became pale as ashes, and again her complexion assumed the +subdued hue of the wild rose; for--alas that we must say it--sorrow and +suffering--in other words, want, in its almost severest form, had +thrown its melancholy hue over the richness of her blush--which, on this +occasion, borrowed a delicate grace from distress itself. Such, indeed, +was her beauty, and so gently and serenely did her virtues shine +through it, that it mattered not to what condition of calamity they +were subjected; in every situation they seemed to shed some new and +unexpected charm upon the eyes of those who looked upon her. The mother, +we said on glancing at her, paused--but the chord of love and sorrow had +been touched, and poor Mave, unable any longer to restrain her feelings, +burst out into tears, and wept aloud on heading the name and sufferings +of her lover. Her father looked at her, and his brow got sad; but there +was no longer the darkness of resentment or indignation there; so true +is it that suffering chastens the heart into its noblest affections, and +purges it of the gloomier and grosser passions. + +“Poor Mave,” he exclaimed, “when I let the tears down for the man that +has my doother's blood on his hands, it's no wonder you, should cry for +him you love so well.” + +“Oh, dear father,” she exclaimed, throwing herself into his arms, and +embracing him tenderly, “I feel no misery nor sorrow now--the words you +have spoken have made me happy. All these sufferings will pass away; +for it cannot be but God will, sooner or later, reward your piety and +goodness. Oh, if I could do anything for--for--for any one,” and she +blushed as she spoke; “but I cannot. There is nothing here that I can +do at home; but if I could go out and work by the day, I'd do it an' be +happy, in ordher to help the--that---family that's now brought so low, +and that's so much to be pitied!” + +We have already said that the Prophet's eye had been bent upon her ever +since he came into the house, but it was with an expression of benignity +and affection which, notwithstanding the gloomy character of his +countenance, no one could more plausibly or willingly assume. + +Mave, in the mean time, could scarcely bear to look upon him; and it was +quite clear from her manner that she had, since their last mysterious +interview, once more fallen back into those feelings of strong aversion +with which she had regarded him at first. M'Gowan saw this, and without +much difficulty guessed at the individual who had been instrumental in +producing the change. + +“God pardon an' forgive me,” he exclaimed, as if giving unconscious +utterance to his I own reflections--“for what I had thoughts of about +that darlin' an' lovely girl; but sure I'll make it up to her; an', +indeed, I feel the words of goodness that's to befall her breakin' out +o' my lips. _A colleen dhas_, I had some private discoorse wid you +when I was here last, an' will you let me spake a few words to you by +ourselves agin?” + +“No,” she replied, “I'll hear nothing from you: I don't like you--I +can't like you, an' I I'll hold no private discoorse with you.” + +“Oh, then, but that voice is music itself, an' you are, by all accounts, +the best of girls; I but sure we have all turned over a new leaf, poor +child. I discovered how I was taken in an' dasaved; but sure I can't ait +you--an' a sweet morsel you'd be, _a lanna dhas_--nor' can I run away +wid you--an' I seen the day that it's not my heart would hinder me to +do that same. Oh, my goodness, what a head o' hair! an' talkin' about +that--you undherstand--I'd like to have a word or two wid yourself.' + +“Say whatever you have to say before my father and mother, then,” she +replied; “I have no--” she paused a moment and seemed embarrassed. The +Prophet, who skilfully threw in the allusion to her hair, guessed the +words she was on the point of uttering, and availing' himself of her +difficulty, seemed to act as if she had completed what she was about to +say. + +“I know, dear,” he added, “you have no saicrets from them: I'm glad to +hear it, an' for that raison I'm willin' to say what I had to say in +their presence; so far as I'm concerned, it makes no difference.” + +The allusion to her hair; added to the last observations, reminded her +that it might be possible that he had some message from her lover, and +she consequently seemed to waver a little, as if struggling against her +strong, instinctive abhorrence of him. + +“Don't be afeard, Mave dear,” said her mother, “sure, poor honest Donnel +wishes you well, an' won't prophesize any harm to you. Go with him.” + +“Do, achora,” added the father; “Donnel can have nothing to say to you +that can have any harm in it--go for a minute or two, since he wishes +it.” + +Reluctantly, and with an indomitable feeling against the man, she went +out, and stood under the shelter of a little elder hedge that adjoined +the house. + +“Now, tell me,” she asked, quickly, “what is it you have to say to me?” + +“I gave young Condy Dalton the purty ringlet of hair you sent him.” + +“What did he say?” she inquired. + +“Not much,” he replied, “till I tould him it was the last token that +ever you could send him afther what your father said to you.” + +“Well?” + +“Why, he cursed your father, an' said he desirved to get his neck +broke.” + +“I don't believe that,” she replied, “I know he never said them words, +or anything like them. Don't mislead me, but tell me what he did say.” + +“Ah! poor Mave,” he replied, “you little know what hot blood runs in the +Daltons' veins. He said very little that was creditable to himself--an' +indeed I won't repate it--but it was enough to make any girl of spirit +have done wid him.” + +“An' don't you know,” she replied, mournfully, “that I have done with +him; an' that there never can be anything but sorrow and good will +between us? Wasn't that my message to him by yourself?” + +“It was, dear, an' I hope you're still of the same mind.” + +“I am,” she said; “but you are not tellin' me the truth about him. He +never spoke disrespectfully of my father or me.” + +“No, indeed, asthore, he did not then--oh, the sorra syllable--oh no; +if I said so, don't believe me.” And yet the very words he uttered, in +consequence of the meaning which, they received from his manner, made an +impression directly the reverse of their natural import. + +“Well then,” she said, “that's all you have to say to me?” + +“No,” he replied, “it is not; I want to know from you when you'll be +goin' to your uncle's, at Mullaghmore.” + +“To-morrow,” replied the artless and unsuspicious girl, without a +moment's hesitation. + +“Well, then,” said he, “you pass the Grey Stone, at the foot of +Mallybenagh--of coorse, I know you must. Now, my dear Mave, I want to +show you that I have some insight into futurity. What hour will you pass +it at?” + +“About three o'clock, as near as I think; it may be a little more or a +little less.” + +“Very well, acushlee; when you pass the Grey Stone about a few hundred +yards on the right hand side, the first person you will meet will be +a young man, well made, and very handsome. That young man will be the +person, whosoever he is--an' I don't know myself--that will bring you +love, and wealth, and happiness, and all that a woman can wish to have +with a man. Nor, dear, if this doesn't happen, never b'lieve anything +I say again; but if this does happen, I hope you'll have good sense, +_acushla machree_, to be guided by one that's your true friend--an' +that's myself. The first person you meet, afther passin' the Grey Stone, +on your right hand side; remember the words. I know there's great luck +an' high fortune before you; for, indeed, your beauty an' goodness well +desarves it, an' they'll get both.” + +They then returned into the house; Mave somewhat surprised, but no +way relieved, while the Prophet seemed rather in better spirits by the +interview. + +“Now, Jerry Sullivan,” said he, “an' you, Bridget his wife, lend your +ears an' listen. The heart of Prophet is full of good to you and yours, +and the good must come to his lips, and flow from them when it comes. +There are three books known to the wise: the Book of Marriage, the +Book of Death, and the Book of Judgment. Open a leaf, says the Angel +of Marriage--the Garden Angel of Jericho--where he brings all love, +happiness and peace to; open a' leaf, says the Angel of Marriage--him +that has one head and ten horns--and read us a page of futurity from +the prophecy of St. Nebbychodanazor, the divine. The child is a faymale +child, says the angel with one head and ten horns--by name Mabel +Sullivan, daughter to honest Jerry Sullivan and his daicent wife +Bridget, of Aughnamurrin. Amin, says the Prophet. Time is not tide, nor +is tide time, and neither will wait for man. Three things will happen. +A girl, young and handsome, will walk forth upon the highway, and +there she will meet a man, young and handsome too, who will rise her to +wealth, happiness and grandeur. So be it, says the Book of Marriage, and +amin, agin, says the Prophet. Open a new leaf, says Nebbychodanazor, the +divine; a new leaf in the Book of Judgment, and another in the Book of +Death. A man was killed and his body hid, and a man lived with his blood +upon him. Fate is fate, and Justice is near. For years he will keep +the murther to himself, till a man's to come that will bring him to +judgment. Then will judgment be passed, and the Book of Death will be +opened. Read, says the Prophet; it is done at last; Judgment is passed, +and Death follows; the innocent is set free, and the murdherer that +consaled the murdher so long swings at last; and all these things is to +be found by the Wise in the Books of Marriage, Death, and Judgment. He +then added, as he had done at the conclusion of his former prophecy: + +“Be kind and indulgent to your daughter, for she'll soon make all your +fortunes; an' take care of her and yourselves till I see yez again.” + +As before, he gave them no further opportunity of asking for +explanations, but immediately departed; and as if he had been moved by +some new impulse or afterthought, he directed his steps once more to the +Grange, where he saw young Henderson, with whom he had another private +interview, of the purport of which our readers may probably form a +tolerably accurate conjecture. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. -- Mysterious Disappearance of the Tobacco-box. + + +M'Gowan's mind, at this period of our narrative, was busily engaged in +arranging his plans--for we need scarcely add here, that whether founded +on justice or not, he had more than one ripening. Still there preyed +upon him a certain secret anxiety, from which, by no effort, could he +succeed in ridding himself. The disappearance of the Tobacco-box kept +him so ill at ease and unhappy, that he resolved, on his way home, to +make a last effort at finding it out, if it could be done; and many a +time did he heartily curse his own stupidity for ever having suffered +it to remain in his house or about it, especially when it was so easy +to destroy it. His suspicions respecting it most certainly rested upon. +Nelly, whom he now began to regard with a feeling of both hatred and +alarm. Sarah, he knew, had little sympathy with him; but then he +also knew that there existed less in common between her and Nelly. He +thought, therefore, that his wisest plan would be to widen the breach of +ill-feeling between them more and more, and thus to secure himself, if +possible, of Sarah's co-operation and confidence, if not from affection +or good feeling towards himself, at least from ill-will towards her +step-mother. For this reason, therefore, as well as for others of equal, +if not of more importance, he came to the determination of taking, to a +certain extent, Sarah into his confidence, and thus making not only her +quickness and activity, but her impetuosity and resentments, useful to +his designs. It was pretty late that night, when he reached home; and, +as he had devoted the only portion of his time that remained between +his arrival and bed-time, to a description of the unsettled state of the +country, occasioned by what were properly called the Famine Outrages, +that were then beginning to take place, he made no allusion to anything +connected with his projects, to either Nelly or his daughter, the +latter of whom, by the way, had been out during the greater part of the +evening. The next morning, however, he asked her to take a short stroll +with him along the river, which she did; and both returned, after having +had at least an hour's conversation--Sarah, with a flushed cheek and +indignant eye, and her father, with his brow darkened, and his voice +quivering from suppressed resentment; so that, so far as observation +went, their interview and communication had not been very agreeable on +either side. After breakfast, Sarah put on her cloak and bonnet, and was +about to go out, when her father said-- + +“Pray, ma'am, where are you goin' now?” + +“It doesn't signify,” she replied; “but at all events you needn't ax me, +for I won't tell you.” + +“What kind of answer is that to give me? Do you forget that I'm your +father?” + +“I wish I could; for indeed I am sorry you are.” + +“Oh, you know,” observed Nelly, “she was always a dutiful girl--always +a quiet good crathur. Why, you onbiddable sthrap, what kind o' an answer +is that to give to your father?” + +Ever since their stroll that morning, Sarah's eyes had been turned from +time to time upon her step-mother with flash after flash of burning +indignation, and now that she addressed her, she said-- + +“Woman, you don't know how I scorn you! Oh, you mane an' wicked wretch, +had you no pride during all your life! It's but a short time you an' +I will be undher the same roof together--an' so far as I am consarned, +I'll not stoop ever to bandy abuse or ill tongue with you again. I know +only one other person that is worse an' meaner still than you are--an' +there, I am sorry to say, he stands in the shape of my father.” + +She walked out of the cabin with a flushed check, and a step that was +full of disdain, and a kind of natural pride that might almost be termed +dignity. Both felt rebuked; and Nelly, whose face got blanched and pale +at Sarah's words, now turned upon the Prophet with a scowl.” + +“Would it be possible,” said she, “that you'd dare to let out anything +to that madcap?” + +“Now,” said he, “that the coast is clear, I desire you to answer me a +question that I'll put to you--an' mark my words--by all that s above +us, an' undher us, an' about us, if you don't spake thruth, I'll be apt +to make short work of it.” + +“What is it?” she inquired, looking at him with cool and collected +resentment, and an eye that was perfectly fearless. + +“There was a Tobaccy-Box about this house, or in this house. Do you know +anything about it?” + +“A tobaccy-box--is it?” + +“Ay, a tobaccy-box.” + +“Well, an' what about it? What do you want wid it? An ould, rusty +Tobaccy-box; musha, is that what's throublin' you this mornin'?” + +“Come,” said he darkening, “I'll have no humbuggin'--answer me at wanst. +Do you know anything about it?” + +“Is it about your ould, rusty Tobaccy-box? Arrah, what 'ud I know about +it? What the sorra would a man like you do wid a Tobaccy-box, that +doesn't ever smoke? Is it mad or ravin' you are? Somehow I think the +stroll you had wid the vagabone gipsy of a daughter of yours, hasn't put +you into the best of timper, or her aither. I hope you didn't act the +villain on me: for she looks at me as if she could ait me widout salt. +But, indeed, she's takin' on her own hands finely of late; she's gettin' +too proud to answer me now when I ax her a question.” + +“Well, why don't you ax her as you ought?” + +“She was out all yesterday evenin', and when I said 'You idle sthrap, +where wor you?' she wouldn't even think it worth her while to give me an +answer, the vagabone.” + +“Do you give me one in the manetime. What about the Box I want? Spake +the truth, if you regard your health.” + +“I know nothing about your box, an' I wish I could say as much of +yourself. However, I won't long trouble you, that I can tell you--ay, +an' her too. She needn't fear that I'll be long undher the same roof wid +her. I know, any way, I wouldn't be safe. She would only stick me in one +of her fits, now that she's able to fight me.” + +“Now, Nelly,” said the Prophet, deliberately shutting the door, “I know +you to be a hardened woman, that has little fear in your heart. I think +you know me, too, to be a hardened and a determined man. There, now, +I have shut an' boulted the door an' by Him that made me, you'll never +lave this house, nor go out of that door a livin' woman, unless you +tell me all you know about that Tobaccy-Box. Now you know my mind an' my +coorse--act as you like now.” + +“Ha, ha, ha! Do you think to frighten me?” she asked, laughing +derisively. “Me!--oh, how much you're mistaken, if you think so! Not +that I don't believe you to be dangerous, an' a man that one ought to +fear; but I have no fear of you.” + +“Answer me quickly,” he replied--and as he spoke, he seized the very +same knife from which she had so narrowly escaped in her conflict with +Sarah--“answer me, I say; an' mark, I have no reason to wish you alive.” + +And as he spoke, the glare in his eyes flashed and became fearful. + +“Ah,” said she, “there's your daughter's look an' the same knife, too, +that was near doin' for me wanst. Well, don't think that it's fear makes +me say what I'm goin' to say; but that's the same knife; an' besides +I dhramed last night that I was dressed in a black cloak--an' a black +cloak, they say, is death! Ay, death--an' I know I'm not fit to die, or +to meet judgment, an' you know that too. Now, then, tell me what it is +you want wid the Box.” + + +[Illustration: PAGE 847-- I'll tell you nothing about it] + + +“No,” he replied, sternly and imperatively, “I'll tell you nothing about +it; but get it at wanst, before my passion rises higher and deadlier.” + +“Well, then, mark me, I'm not afeard of you--but I have the box.” + +“An' how did you come by it?” he asked. + +“Sarah was lookin' for a cobweb to stop the blood where she cut me in +our fight the other day, an' it came tumblin' out of a cranny in the +wall.” + +“An' where is it now?” + +“I'll get it for you,” she replied; “but you must let me out first.” + +“Why so?” + +“Because it's not in the house.” + +“An' where is it? Don't think you'll escape me.” + +“It's in the thatch o' the roof.” + +The Prophet deliberately opened the door, and catching her by the +shoulder, held her prisoner, as it were, until she should make her words +good. The roof was but low, and she knew the spot too well to make any +mistake about it. + +“Here,” said she, “is the cross I scraped on the stone undher the +place.” + +She put up her hand as she spoke, and searched the spot--but in vain. +There certainly was the cross as she had marked it, and there was the +slight excavation under the thatch where it had been; but as for the box +itself, all search for it was fruitless--it had disappeared. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. -- National Calamity--Sarah in Love and Sorrow. + +The astonishment of the Prophet's wife on discovering that the +Tobacco-box had been removed from the place of its concealment was too +natural to excite any suspicion of deceit or falsehood on her part, and +he himself, although his disappointment was dreadful on finding that it +had disappeared, at once perceived that she had been perfectly ignorant +of its removal. With his usual distrust and want of confidence, however, +he resolved to test her truth a little further, lest by any possibility +she might have deceived him. + +“Now, Nelly,” said he sternly, “mark me--is this the way you produce +the box? You acknowledge that you had it--that you hid it even--an' +now, when I tell you I want it, an' that it may be a matther of life an' +death to me--you purtend its gone, an' that you know nothing about it--I +say again, mark me well--produce the box!” + +“Here,” she replied, chafed and indignant as well at its disappearance +as at the obstinacy of his suspicions--“here's my throat--dash your +knife into it, if you like--but as for the box, I tell you, that +although I did put it in there, you know as much about it now as I do.” + +“Well,” said he, “for wanst I believe you--but mark me still--this box +munt be gotten, an' it's to you I'll look for it. That's all--you know +me.” + +“Ay,” she replied, “I know you.” + +“Eh--what do you mane by that?” he asked--“what do you know? come now; I +say, what do you know?” + +“That you're a hardened and a bad man:--oh! you needn't brandish your +knife--nor your eyes needn't blaze up that way, like your daughter's,” + she added, “except that you're hard an' dark, and widout one spark o' +common feelin', I know nothin' particularly wicked about you--but, at +the same time, I suspect enough.” + +“What do you suspect, you hardened vagabond?” + +“It doesn't matther what I suspect,” she answered; “only I think you'd +have bad heart for anything--so go about your business, for I want to +have nothing more either to do or say to you--an' I wish to glory I had +been always of that way o' thinkin', _a chiernah!_--many a scalded heart +I'd a missed that I got by you.” + +She then walked into the cabin, and the Prophet slowly followed her with +his fixed, doubtful and suspicious eye, after which he flung the knife +on the threshold, and took his way, in a dark and disappointed mood, +towards Glendhu. + +It is impossible for us here to detail the subject matter of his +reflections, or to intimate to our readers how far his determination +to bring Condy Dalton to justice originated in repentance for having +concealed his knowledge of the murder, or in some other less justifiable +state of feeling. At this moment, indeed, the family of the Daltons wore +in anything but a position to bear the heavy and terrible blow which was +about to fail upon them. Our readers cannot forget the pitiable state in +which we left them, during that distressing crisis of misery, when the +strange woman arrived with the oat-meal, which the kind-hearted Mave +Sullivan had so generously sent them. On that melancholy occasion her +lover complained of being ill, and, unfortunately, the symptoms were, +in this instance, too significant of the malady which followed them. +Indeed, it would be an infliction of unnecessary pain to detail here the +sufferings which this unhappy family had individually and collectively +borne. Young Condy, after a fortnight's prostration from typhus fever, +was again upon his legs, tottering about, as his father had been, in +a state of such helplessness between want of food on the one hand, and +illness on the other, as it is distressing even to contemplate. If, +however, the abstract consideration of it, even at a distance, be a +matter of such painful retrospect to the mind, what must not the actual +endurance of that and worse have been to the thousands upon thousands +of families who were obliged, by God's mysterious dispensation, to +encounter these calamities in all their almost incredible and hideous +reality. + +At this precise period, the state of the country was frightful beyond +belief; for it is well known that the mortality of the season we +are describing was considerably greater than that which even cholera +occasioned in its worst and most malignant ravages. Indeed, the latter +was not attended by such a tedious and lingering train of miseries +as that, which in so many woful shapes, surrounded typhus fever. +The appearance of cholera was sudden, and its operations quick, and +although, on that account, it was looked upon with tenfold terror, yet +for this very reason, the consequences which it produced were by no +means so full of affliction and distress, nor presented such strong and +pitiable claims on human aid and sympathy as did those of typhus. In the +one case, the victim was cut down by a sudden stroke, which occasioned +a shock or moral paralysis both to himself and the survivors--especially +to the latter--that might, be almost said to neutralize its own +inflictions. In the other, the approach was comparatively so slow and +gradual, that all the sympathies and afflictions were allowed full +and painful time to reach the utmost limits of human suffering, and +to endure the wasting series of those struggles and details which +long illness, surrounded by destitution and affliction, never fails to +inflict. In the cholera, there was no time left to feel--the passions +were wrenched and stunned by a blow, which was over, one may say, +before it could be perceived; while in the wide-spread but more tedious +desolation of typhus, the heart was left to brood over the thousand +phases of love and misery which the terrible realities of the one, +joined to the alarming exaggerations of the other, never failed to +present. In cholera, a few hours, and all was over; but in the awful +fever which then prevailed, there was the gradual approach--the +protracted illness--the long nights of racking pain--day after day of +raging torture--and the dark period of uncertainty when the balance of +human life hangs in the terrible equilibrium of suspense--all requiring +the exhibition of constant attention--of the eye whose affection +never sleeps--the ear that is deaf only to every sound but the moan +of pain--the touch whose tenderness is felt as a solace, so long as +suffering itself is conscious--the pressure of the aching head--the +moistening of the parched and burning lips--and the numerous and +indescribable offices of love and devotedness, which always encompass, +or should encompass, the bed of sickness and of death. There was, we +say, all this, and much more than the imagination itself, unaided by +a severe acquaintance with the truth, could embody in its gloomiest +conceptions. + +In fact, Ireland during the season, or rather the year, we are +describing, might be compared to one vast lazar-house filled with +famine, disease and death. The very skies of Heaven were hung with the +black drapery of the grave; for never since, nor within the memory of +man before it, did the clouds present shapes of such gloomy and funereal +import. Hearses, coffins, long funeral processions, and all the dark +emblems of mortality were reflected, as it were, on the sky, from the +terrible work of pestilence and famine, which was going forward on the +earth beneath them. To all this, the thunder and lightning too, were +constantly adding their angry peals, and flashing, as if uttering the +indignation of Heaven against our devoted people; and what rendered such +fearful manifestations ominous and alarming to the superstitious, was +the fact of their occurrence in the evening and at night--circumstances +which are always looked upon With unusual terror and dismay. + +To any person passing through the country, such a combination of +startling and awful appearances was presented as has probably never been +witnessed since. Go where you might, every object reminded you of the +fearful desolation that was progressing around you. The features of the +people were gaunt, their eyes wild and hollow, and their gait feeble and +tottering. Pass through the fields, and you were met by little groups +bearing home on their shoulders, and that with difficulty, a coffin, or +perhaps two of them. The roads were literally black with funerals, and +as you passed along from parish to parish, the death-bells were pealing +forth, in slow but dismal tones, the gloomy triumph which pestilence +was achieving over the face of our devoted country--a country that each +successive day filled with darker desolation and deeper mourning. + +Nor was this all. The people had an alarmed and unsettled aspect; and +whether you met them as individuals or crowds, they seemed, when closely +observed, to labor under some strong and insatiable want that rendered +them almost reckless. The number of those who were reduced to mendicancy +was incredible, and if it had not been for the extraordinary and +unparalleled exertions of the clergy of all creeds, medical, men, +and local committees, thousands upon thousands would have perished of +disease or hunger on the highways. Many, indeed, did so perish; and it +was no unusual sight to meet the father and mother, accompanied by their +children, going they knew not whither, and to witness one or other +of them lying down on the road side; and well were they off who could +succeed in obtaining a sheaf of straw, on which, as a luxury, to lay +down their aching head, that was never more to rise from it, until +borne, in a parish shell, to a shallow and hasty grave. + +Temporary sheds were also erected on the road sides, or near them, +containing fever-stricken patients, who had no other-home; and when they +were released, at last, from their sorrows, nothing was more common than +to place the coffin on the road side also, with a plate on the lid of +it, in order to solicit, from those who passed, such aid as they could +afford to the sick or starving survivors. + +That, indeed, was the trying and melancholy period in which all +the lingering traces of self-respect--all recollection of former +independence--all sense of modesty was cast to the winds. Under the +terrible pressure of the complex destitution which prevailed, everything +like shame was forgotten, and it was well known that whole families, who +had hitherto been respectable and independent, were precipitated, almost +at once, into all the common cant of importunity and clamor during this +frightful struggle between life and death. Of the truth of this, the +scenes which took place at the public Soup Shops, and other appointed +places of relief, afforded melancholy proof. Here were wild crowds, +ragged, sickly, and wasted away to skin and bone, struggling for the +dole of charity, like so many hungry vultures about the remnant of some +carcase which they were tearing, amid noise, and screams, and strife, +into very shreds; for, as we have said, all sense of becoming restraint +and shame was now abandoned, and the timid girl, or modest mother of +a family, or decent farmer, goaded by the same wild and tyrannical +cravings, urged their claims with as much turbulent solicitation and +outcry, as if they had been trained, since their very infancy, to all +the forms of impudent cant and imposture. + +This, our readers will admit, was a most deplorable state of things; +but, unfortunately, we cannot limit the truth of our descriptions to the +scenes we have just attempted to portray. The misery which prevailed, as +it had more than one source, so had it more than one aspect. There were, +in the first place, studded over the country, a vast number of strong +farmers with bursting granaries and immense haggards, who, without +coming under the odious denomination of misers or mealmongers, are in +the habit of keeping up their provisions, in large quantities, because +they can afford to do so, until a year of scarcity arrives, when they +draw upon their stock precisely when famine and prices are both at their +highest. In addition to these, there was another still viler class; we +mean the hard-hearted and well known misers--men who, at every time, and +in every season, prey upon the distress and destitution of the poor, +and who can never look upon a promising spring or an abundant harvest, +without an inward sense of ingratitude against God for his goodness, +or upon a season of drought, or a failing crop, unless with a thankful +feeling of devotion for the approaching calamity. + +During such periods, and under such circumstances, these men--including +those of both classes--and the famished people, in general, live and +act under antagonistic principles. Hunger, they say, will break through +stone walls, and when we reflect, that in addition to this irresistible +stimulus, we may add a spirit of strong prejudice and resentment +against these heartless persons, it is not surprising that the starving +multitudes should, in the ravening madness of famine, follow up its +outrageous impulses, and forget those legal restraints, or moral +principles, that protect property under ordinary or different +circumstances. It was just at this precise period, therefore, that the +people, impelled by hunger and general misery, began to burst out into +that excited stupefaction which is, we believe, peculiar to famine +riots. And what rendered them still more exasperated than they probably +would have been, was the long lines of provision carts which met or +intermingled with the funerals on the public thoroughfares, while on +their way to the neighboring harbors, for exportation. Such, indeed, +was the extraordinary fact! Day after day, vessels laden with Irish +provisions, drawn from a population perishing with actual hunger, as +well as with the pestilence which it occasioned, were passing out of our +ports, while, singular as it may seem, other vessels came in freighted +with our own provisions, sent back through the charity of England to our +relief. + +It is not our business, any more than it is our inclination, to dwell +here upon the state of those sumptuary enactments, which reflected such +honor upon the legislative wisdom, that permitted our country to arrive +at the lamentable condition we have attempted to describe. We merely +mention the facts, and leave to those who possess position and ability, +the task of giving to this extraordinary state of things a more +effectual attention. Without the least disposition, however, to defend +or justify any violation of the laws, we may be permitted to observe, +that the very witnessing of such facts as these, by destitute and +starving multitudes, was in itself such a temptation to break in upon +the provisions thus transmitted, as it was scarcely within the strength +of men, furious with famine, to resist. Be this as it may, however, it +is our duty as a faithful historian to state, that at the present period +of our narrative, the famine riots had begun to assume something of +an alarming aspect. Several carts had been attacked and pillaged, some +strong farmers had been visited, and two or three misers were obliged to +become benevolent with rather a bad grace. At the head of these parties +were two persons mentioned in these pages; to wit, Thomas Dalton and +Red Eody Duncan, together with several others of various estimation and +character; some of them, as might be naturally expected, the most daring +and turbulent spirits in the neighborhood. + +Such, then, was the miserable state of things in the country at that +particular period. The dreadful typhus was now abroad in all his deadly +power, accompanied, on this occasion, as he always is among the Irish, +by a panic which invested him with tenfold terrors. The moment fever +was ascertained, or even supposed to visit a family, that moment the +infected persons were avoided by their neighbors and friends, as if +they carried death, as they often did, about them; so that its presence +occasioned all the usual interchanges of civility and good neighborhood +to be discontinued. Nor should this excite our wonder, inasmuch as +this terrific scourge, though unquestionably an epidemic, was also +ascertained to be dangerously and fatally contagious. None, then, +but persons of extraordinary moral strength, or possessing powerful +impressions of religious duty, had courage to enter the houses of +the sick or dead, for the purpose of rendering to the afflicted those +offices of humanity which their circumstances required; if we except +only their nearest relatives, or those who lived in the same family. + +Having thus endeavored to give what we feel to be but a faint picture +of the state of the kingdom at large in this memorable year, we beg +our readers to accompany us once more to the cabin of our moody and +mysterious friend, the Black Prophet. + +Evening was now tolerably far advanced; Donnel Dhu sat gloomily, as +usual, looking into the fire, with no agreeable aspect; while on the +opposite side sat Nelly, as silent and nearly as gloomy-looking as +himself. Every now and then his black, piercing eye would stray over to +her, as if in a state of abstraction, and again with that undetermined +kind of significance which made it doubtful whether the subject-matter +of his cogitations was connected with her at all or not. In this +position were they placed when Sarah entered the cabin, and throwing +aside her cloak, seated herself in front of the fire, something about +halfway between each. She also appeared moody; and if one could judge by +her countenance, felt equally disposed to melancholy or ill-temper. + +“Well, madam,” said her father, “I hope it's no offence to ask you where +you have been sportin' yourself since? I suppose you went to see Charley +Hanlon; or, what is betther, his masther, young Dick o' the Grange?” + +“No,” she replied, “I did not. Charley Hanlon! Oh, no!” + +“Well, his masther?” + +“Don't vex me--don't vex me,” she replied, abruptly; “I don't wish to +fight about nothing, or about thrifles, or to give bad answers; but +still, don't vex me, I say.” + +“There's something in the wind now,” observed Nelly; “she's gettin' fast +into one o' her tantrums. I know it by her eyes; she'd as soon whale me +now as cry; and she'd jist as soon cry as whale me. Oh! my lady, I know +you. Here, at any rate, will you have your supper?” + +The resentment which had been gathering at Nelly's coarse observations, +disappeared the moment the question as to supper had been put to her. + +“Oh! why don't you,” she said; “and why didn't you always spake to me in +a kind voice?” + +“But about young Dick,” said the suspicious prophet; “did you see him +since?” + +“No,” she replied, calmly and thoughtfully; but, as if catching, by +reflection, the base import of the query, she replied, in a loud and +piercing voice, rendered at once full and keen by indignation. “No! I +say, an' don't dare to suspect me of goin' to Dick o' the Grange, or any +sich profligate.” + +“Hollo! there's a breeze!” After a pause, “You won't bate us, I hope. +Then, madame, where were you?” + +Short as was the period that had passed since her reply and the putting +of this last question, she had relapsed or fallen into a mood of +such complete abstraction, that she heard him not. With her naturally +beautiful and taper hand under her still more finely chiseled chin, she +sat looking, in apparent sorrow and perplexity, into the fire, and while +so engaged, she sighed deeply two or three times. + +“Never mind her, man,” said Nelly; “let her alone, an' don't draw an +ould house on our heads. She has had a fight with Charley Hanlon, I +suppose; maybe he has refused to marry her, if he ever had any notion of +it--which I don't think he had.” + +Sarah rose up and approaching her, said: + +“What is that you wor saying? Charley Hanlon!--never name him an' +me together, from this minute out. I like him well enough as an +acquaintance, but never name us together as sweethearts--mark my words +now. I would go any length to sarve Charley Hanlon, but I care nothin' +for him beyond an acquaintance, although I did like him a little, or I +thought I did.” + +“Poor Charley!” exclaimed Nelly, “he'll break his heart. Arra what'll he +do for a piece o' black crape to get into murnin'? eh--ha! ha! ha!” + +“If you had made use of them words to me only yesterday,” she replied, +“I'd punish you on the spot; but now, you unfortunate woman, you're +below my anger. Say what you will or what you wish, another quarrel with +you I will never have.” + +“What does she mane?” said the other, looking fiercely at the Prophet; “I +ax you, you traitor, what she manes?” + +“Ay, an' you'll ax me till you're hoarse, before you get an answer,” he +replied. + +“You're a dark an' deep villain,” she uttered, while her face became +crimson with rage, and the veins of her neck and temples swelled out as +if they would burst; “however, I tould you what your fate would be, an' +that Providence was on your bloody trail. Ay did I, and you'll find it +true soon.” + +The Prophet rose and rushed at her; but Sarah, with the quickness of +lightning, flew between them. + +“Don't be so mane,” she said--“don't now, father, if you rise your hand +to her I'll never sleep a night undher the roof. Why don't you separate +yourself from her? Oh, no, the man that would rise his hand to sich a +woman--to a woman that must have the conscience she has--especially when +he could put the salt seas between himself an' her--is worse and meaner +than she is. As for me, I'm lavin' this house in a day or two, for my +mind's made up that the same roof won't cover us.” + +“The divil go wid you an' sixpence then,” replied Nelly, +disdainfully--“an' then you'll want neither money nor company; but before +you go, I'd thank you to tell me what has become o' the ould Tobaccy +Box, that you pulled out o' the wall the other day. I know you were +lookin' for it, an' I'm sure you got it--there was no one else to take +it; so before you go, tell me--unless you wish to get a knife put into +me by that dark lookin' ould father of yours.” + +“I know nothing about your ould box, but I wish I did.” + +“That's a lie, you sthrap; you know right well where it is.” + +“No,” replied her father, “she does not, when she says she doesn't. Did +you ever know her to tell a lie?” + +“Ay--did I--fifty.” + +The Prophet rushed at her again, and again did Sarah interpose. + +“You vile ould tarmagint,” he exclaimed, “you're statin' what you feel +to be false when you say so; right well you know that neither you nor I, +nor any one else, ever heard a lie from her lips, an' yet you have the +brass to say to the contrary.” + +“Father,” said Sarah, “there's but one coorse for you; as for me, my +mind's made up--in this house I don't stay if she does.” + +“If you'd think of what I spoke to you about,” he replied, “all would +soon be right wid us; but then you're so unraisonable, an' full of +foolish notions, that it's hard for me to know what to do, especially as +I wish to do all for the best.” + +“Well,” rejoined Sarah, “I'll spake to you again, about it; at this time +I'm disturbed and unaisy in my mind; I'm unhappy--unhappy--an' I hardly +knows on what hand to turn. I'm afeared I was born for a hard fate, an' +that the day of my doom isn't far from me. All, father, is dark before +me--my heart is, indeed, low an' full of sorrow; an' sometimes I could +a'most tear any one that 'ud contradict me. Any way I'm unhappy.” + +As she uttered the last words, her father, considerably surprised at +the melancholy tenor of her language, looked at her, and perceived that, +whilst she spoke, her large black eyes were full of distress, and swam +in tears. + +“Don't be a fool, Sarah,” said he, “it's not a thrifle should make +any one cry in sich a world as this. If Charley Hanlon and you has +quarrelled, it was only the case with thousands before you. If he won't +marry you, maybe as good or better will; for sure, as the ould proverb +says, there's as good fish in the say as ever was catched. In the mane +time think what I said to you, an' all will be right.” + +Sarah looked not at him; but whilst he spoke, she hastily dried her +tears, and ere half a minute had passed, her face had assumed a firm +and somewhat of an indignant expression. Little, however, did her father +then dream of the surprising change which one short day had brought +about in her existence, nor of the strong passions which one unhappy +interview had awakened in her generous but unregulated heart. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. -- Love Wins the Race from Profligacy. + + +Donnel Dhu M'Gowan's reputation as a Prophecy-man arose, in the +first instance, as much on account of his mysterious pretensions to a +knowledge of the quack prophecies of his day--Pastorini, Kolumbkille, +&c, and such stuff--as from any pretensions he claimed to foretell the +future. In the course of time, however, by assuming to be a seventh son, +he availed himself of the credulity and ignorance of the people, +and soon added a pretended insight into futurity to his powers of +interpreting Pastorini, and all the catchpenny trash of the kind which +then circulated among the people. This imposture, in course of +time, produced its effect, Many, it is true, laughed at his impudent +assumptions, but on the other hand, hundreds were strongly impressed +with a belief in the mysterious and rhapsodical predictions which he +was in the habit of uttering. Among the latter class we may reckon +simple-hearted Jerry Sullivan and family, all of whom, Mave herself +included, placed the most religious confidence in the oracles he gave +forth. It was then with considerable agitation and a palpitating heart, +that on the day following that of Donnel's visit to her father's she +approached the Grey Stone, where, in the words of the prophet, she +should meet “the young man who was to bring her love, wealth, and +happiness, and all that a woman can wish to have with a man.” The +agitation she felt, however, was the result of a depression that almost +amounted to despair. Her faithful heart was fixed but upon one alone, +and she knew that her meeting with any other could not, so far as she +was concerned, realize the golden visions of Donnel Dhu. The words, +however, could not be misunderstood; the first person she met, on the +right hand side of the way, after passing the Grey Stone, was to be +the individual; and when we consider her implicit belief in Donnel's +prophecy, contrasted with her own impressions and the state of mind in +which she approached the place, we may form a tolerably accurate notion +of what she must have experienced. On arriving within two hundred yards +or so of the spot mentioned, she observed in the distance, about a half +mile before her, a gentleman, on horseback, approaching her at rapid +speed. Her heart, on perceiving him, literally sank within her, and she +felt so weak as to be scarcely able to proceed. + +“Oh! what,” she at length asked herself, “would I not now give but for +one glance of young Condy Dalton! But it is not to be. The unfortunate +murdher of my uncle has prevented that for ever; although I can't get +myself to believe that any of the Daltons ever did it; but maybe that's +because I wish they didn't. The general opinion is, that his father is +the man that did it. May the Lord forgive them, whoever they are, that +took his life--for it was a black act to me at any rate!” + +Across the road, before her, ran one of those little deep valleys, or +large ravines, and into this had the horseman disappeared as she closed +the soliloquy. He had not, however, at all slackened his pace, but, on +the contrary, evidently increased it, as she could hear by the noise of +his horse's feet. At this moment she reached the brow of the ravine, and +our readers may form some conception of what she felt when, on looking +down it she saw her lover, young Dalton, toiling up towards her with +feeble and failing steps, while pressing after him from the bottom, came +young Henderson, urging his horse with whip and spur. Her heart, +which had that moment bounded with delight, now utterly failed her, on +perceiving the little chance which the poor young man had of being the +first to meet her, and thus fulfill the prophecy. Henderson was gaining +upon him at a rapid rate, and must in a few minutes have passed him, +had not woman's wit and presence of mind come to her assistance. “If +he cannot run up the hill,” she said to herself, “I can run to him down +it”--and as the thought occurred to her, she started towards him at her +greatest speed, which indeed was considerable, as her form was of that +light and elastic description which betokens great powers of activity +and exertion. The struggle indeed was close; Henderson now plied whip +and spur with redoubled energy, and the animal was approaching at full +speed. Mave, on the other hand, urged by a thousand motives, forgot +everything but the necessity of exertion. Dalton was incapable of +running a step, and appeared not to know the cause of the contest +between the parties. At length Mave, by her singular activity and speed +reached her lover, into whose arms she actually ran, just as Henderson +had come within about half a dozen yards of the spot where she met him. +This effort, on the part of Mave, was in perfect accordance with the +simple earnestness of her character; her youthful figure, her innocence +of manner, the glow of beauty, and the crowd of blushing graces which +the act developed, together with the joyous exultation of her triumph +on reaching her lover's arms, and thus securing to herself and him +completion of so delightful a prediction--all, when taken in at one +view, rendered her being so irresistibly fascinating, that her lover +could scarcely look upon the incident as a real one, but for a moment +almost persuaded himself that his beloved Mave had undergone some +delightful and glorious transformation--such as he had seen her assume +in the dreams of his late illness. + +Henderson, finding himself disappointed, now pulled up his horse and +addressed her: + +“Upon my word, Miss Sullivan--I believe,” he added, “I have the pleasure +of addressing Jeremy Sullivan's daughter--so far famed for her beauty--I +say, upon my word, Miss Sullivan, your speed outstrips the wind--those +light and beautiful feet of yours scarcely touch the ground--I am +certain you must dance delightfully.” + +Mave again blushed, and immediately extricated herself from her lover's +arms, but before she did, she felt his frame trembling with indignation +at the liberty Henderson had taken in addressing her at all. + +“Dalton,” the latter proceeded, unconscious of the passion he was +exciting, “I cannot but envy you at all events; I would myself delight +to be a winning post under such circumstances.” + + +[Illustration: PAGE 853-- His eye, like that of his father, when +enraged] + + +Dalton looked at him, and his eye, like that of his father, when +enraged, glared with a deadly light. + +“Pass on, sir,” he replied; “Mave Sullivan is no girl for the like of +you to address. She wishes to have no conversation with you, and she +will not.” + +“I shan't take your word for that, my good friend,” replied Henderson, +smiling; “she can speak for herself; and will, too, I trust.” + +“Dear Condy,” whispered Mave, “don't put yourself in a passion; you are +too weak to bear it.” + +“Miss Sullivan,” proceeded young Dick, “is a pretty girl, and as such I +claim a portion of her attention, and--should she so far favor me--even +of her conversation; and that with every respect for your very superior +judgment, my good Mr. Dalton.” + +“What is your object, now, in wishin' to spake to her?” asked the +latter, looking him sternly in the face. + +“I don't exactly see that I'm bound to answer your catechism,” said +Dick; “it is to Miss Sullivan I would address myself. I speak to you, +Miss Sullivan; and, allow me to say, that I feel a very warm interest in +your welfare, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to promote +it by any means in my power.” + +Mave was about to reply, but Dalton anticipated her. + +“The only favor you can bestow upon Miss Sullivan, as you are plaised +to call her, is to pass her by,” said Dalton; “she wishes to have no +intimacy nor conversation of any kind with such a noted profligate. She +knows your carrechter, Mr. Henderson; or if she doesn't, I do--an' that +it's as much as a daicent girl's good name is worth to be seen spakin' +to you. Now, I tell you again to pass on. Don't force either yourself or +your conversation upon her, if you're wise. I'm here to protect her--an' +I won't see her insulted for nothing.” + +“Do you mean that as a threat, my good fellow?” + +“If you think it a threat, don't deserve it, an' you won't get it. If +right was to take place, our family would have a heavy account to settle +with you and yours; and it wouldn't be wise in you to add this to it.” + +“Ha! I see--oh, I understand you, I think--more threatening--eh?” + +“As I said before,” replied Dalton, “that's as you may deserve it. Your +cruelty, and injustice, and oppression to our family, we might overlook; +but I tell you, that if you become the means of bringin' a stain--the +slightest that ever was breathed--upon the fair name of this girl, it +would be a thousand times betther that you never were born.” + +“Ah! indeed, Master Dalton! but in the mean time, what does Miss +Sullivan herself say? We are anxious to hear your own sentiments on this +matter, Miss Sullivan.” + +“I would feel obliged to you to pass on, sir,” she replied; “Condy +Dalton is ill, and badly able to bear sich a conversation as this.” + +“Here,” said Dalton, fiercely, laying his hand upon Mave's shoulder, “if +you cross my path here--or lave but a shadow of a stain, as I said, upon +her name, woe betide you!” + +“Your wishes are commands to me, Miss Sullivan,” replied Henderson, +without noticing Dalton's denunciation in the slightest degree; “and, I +trust that when we meet again, you won't be guarded by such a terrible +bow-wow of a dragon as has now charge of you. Good bye! and accept my +best wishes until then.” + +He immediately set spurs once more to his horse, and in a few minutes +had turned at the cross roads, and taken that which led to his father's +house. + +“It was well for him,” said Dalton, immediately after he had left them, +“that I hadn't a loaded pistol in my hand--but no, dear Mave,” he added, +checking himself, “the hasty temper and the hasty blow is the fault of +our family, an' so far as I am consarned, I'll do everything to overcome +it.” + +Mave now examined him somewhat more earnestly than she had done; and +although grieved at his thin and wasted appearance, yet she could not +help being forcibly struck by the singular clearness and manly beauty +of his features. And yet this beauty filled her heart with anything but +satisfaction; for on contemplating it, she saw that it was over-shadowed +by an expression of such settled sorrow and dejection, as it was +impossible to look upon without the deepest compassion and sympathy. + +“We had betther rest a little, dear Mave,” he said; “you must be +fatigued, and so am I. Turn back a little, will you, an' let us sit upon +the Grey Stone; it's the only thing in the shape of a seat that is now +near us. Have you any objection?” + +“None in the world,” she replied; “I'll be time enough at my uncle's, +especially as I don't intend to come home to-night.” + +They accordingly sauntered back, and took their seat upon a ledge of the +stone in question, that almost concealed them from observation; after +which the dialogue proceeded as follows: + +“Condy,” observed Mave, “I was glad to hear that you recovered from the +fever; but I'm sorry to see you look so ill: there is a great deal of +care in your face.” + +“There is, dear Mave; there is,” he replied, with a melancholy smile, +“an' a great deal of care in my heart. You look thin yourself, and +careworn too, dear.” + +“We are not without our own struggles at home,” she replied, “as, +indeed, who is now? But we had more than ourselves to fret for.” + +“Who?” he asked; but on putting the question, he saw a look of such +tender reproach in her eye as touched him. + +“Kind heart!” he exclaimed; “kindest and best of hearts, why should I ax +such a question? Surely I ought to know you. I am glad I met you, Mave, +for I have many things to say to you, an' it's hard to say when I may +have an opportunity again.” + +“I know that is true,” said she; “but I did not expect to meet you +here.” + +“Mave,” he proceeded, in a voice filled with melancholy and sadness, +“you acknowledged that you loved me.” + +She looked at him, and that look moved him to the heart. + +“I know you do love me,” he proceeded, “and now, dear Mave, the thought +of that fills my heart with sorrow.” + +She started slightly, and looked at him again with a good deal of +surprise; but on seeing his eyes filled with tears, she also caught the +contagion, and asked with deep emotion: + +“Why, dear Condy? Why does my love for you make your heart sorrowful?” + +“Because I have no hope,” said he--“no hope that ever you can be mine.” + +Mave remained silent; for she knew the insurmountable obstacles that +prevented their union; but she wept afresh. + +“When I saw your father last, behind your garden, the day I struck +Donnel Dhu,” Dalton proceeded, “I tould him what I then believed to be +true, that my father never had a hand in your uncle's death. Mave, dear, +I cannot tell a lie; nor I will not. I couldn't say as much to him now; +I'm afeard that his death is on my father's sowl.” + +Mave started and got pale at the words. “Great God!” she exclaimed, +“don't say so, Con dear. Oh, no, no--is it your father that was always +so good, an' so generous to every one that stood in need of it at his +hands, an' who was also so charitable to the poor?” + +“Ay,” said he, “he was charitable to the poor; but of late I've heard +him say things that nobody but a man that has some great crime to answer +for could or would say. I believe too that what the public says is +right: that it's the hand of God Himself that's upon him an' us for that +murdher.” + +“But maybe,” said Mave, who still continued pale and trembling; “maybe +it was accidentally afther all; a chance blow, maybe; but whatever it +was, dear Con, let us spake no more about it. I am not able to listen to +it; it would sicken me soon.” + +“Very well, dear, we'll drop it; an' I hope I'm wrong; for I can't +think, afther all, that a man with such a kind and tendher heart as my +father--a pious man, too; could--” he paused a moment, and then added; +“oh! no; I'm surely wrong; he never did the act. However, as we said, +I'll drop it; for indeed, dear Mave, I have enough that's sorrowful and +heartbreakin' to spake about, over and above that unfortunate subject.” + +“I hope,” said Mave, “that there's nothing worse than your own illness; +an' you know, thanks be to the Almighty, you're recoverin' fast from +that.” + +“My poor lovin' sister Nancy,” said he, “was laid down yesterday morning +with this terrible faver; she was our chief dependence; we could stand +it out no longer; I could, an' can do nothing; an' my mother this +mornin'”--His tears fell so fast, and his affliction was so deep, that +he was not able, for a time to proceed. + +“Oh! what about her?” asked Mave, participating in his grief; “oh! what +about her that every one loves?” + +“She was obliged to go out this mornin',” he proceeded, “to beg openly in +the face of day among the neighbors! Now, Mave Sullivan, farewell!” said +he rising, while his face was crimsoned over with shame; “farewell, Mave +Sullivan; all, from this minute, is over between you an' me. The son of +a beggar must never become your husband; will never call you his wife; +even if there was no other raison against it.” + +The melancholy but lovely girl rose with him; she trembled; she +blushed--and again got pale; then blushed once more; at length she +spoke: + +“An' is that, dear Con, all that you yet know of Mave Sullivan's heart, +or the love for you that's in it? Your mother! Oh! an' is it come to +that with her? But--but--do you think that even that, or anything that +wouldn't be a crime in yourself; or, do you think; oh! I know not what +to say; I see now, dear Con, the raison for the sorrow that's in your +face; the heart-break an' the care that's there; I see, indeed, how low +in spirits an' how hopeless you are; an' I see that although your eye +is clear still it's heavy; heavy with hard affliction; but then, what is +love, Con dear, if it's to fly away when these things come on us? Is it +now, then, that you'd expect me to desert you?--to keep cool with you, +or to lave you when you have no other heart to go to for any comfort +but mine? Oh, no! Con dear. You own Mave Sullivan is none of these. +God knows it's little comfort,” she proceeded, weeping bitterly; “it's +little comfort's in my poor heart for any one; but there's one thing in +it, Con, dear; that, poor as I stand here this minute; an' where, oh! +where is there or could' there be a poorer girl than I am; still there's +one thing in it that I wouldn't exchange for this world's wealth; an' +that, that, dear Con, is my love for you! That's the love, dear Con, +that neither this world nor its cares, nor its shame, nor its poverty, +nor its sorrow, can ever overcome or banish; that's the love that would +live with you in wealth; that would keep by your side through good and +through evil; that would share your sickness; that would rejoice with +you; that would grieve with you; beg with you, starve with you, an', to +go where you might, die by your side. I cannot bid you to throw care and +sorrow away; but if it's consolation to you to know an' to feel how your +own Mave Sullivan loves you, then you have that consolation. Dear Con, +I am ready to marry you, an' share your distress tomorrow; ay, this day, +or this minute, if it could be done.” + +There was a gentle, calm, but firm enthusiasm about her manner, which +carried immediate conviction with it, and as her tears fell in silence, +she bestowed a look upon her lover which fully and tenderly confirmed +all that her tongue had uttered. + +Both had been standing; but her lover, taking her hand, sat down, as she +also did; he then turned around and pressed her to his heart; and their +tears in this melancholy embrace of love and sorrow both literally +mingled together. + +“I would be ungrateful to God, my beloved Mave,” he replied, “and +unworthy of you--and, indeed, at best I'm not worthy of you--if I didn't +take hope an' courage, when I know that sich a girl Joves me; as it is, +I feel my heart aisier, an' my spirits lighter; although, at the same +time, dear Mave, I'm very wake, and far from being well.” + +“That's bekaise this disturbance of your mind is too much for you +yet--but keep your spirits up; you don't know,” she continued, smiling +sweetly through her tears; “what a delightful prophecy was fulfilled for +us this day--ay, awhile ago, even when I met you.” + +“No,” he replied, “what was it?” She then detailed the particulars +of Donnel Dhu's prediction, which she dwelt upon with a very cheerful +spirit, after which she added: + +“And now, Con dear, don't you think that's a sign we'll be yet happy?” + +Dalton, who placed no reliance whatever on Donnel Dhu's impostures, +still felt reluctant to destroy the hope occasioned by such an agreeable +illusion. “Well,” he replied, “although I don't much believe in anything +that ould scoundrel says; I trust, for all that, that he has tould you +truth for wanst.” + +“But how did you happen to come here, Con?” she asked; “to be here at +the very minute, too?” + +“Why,” said he, “I was desired to be the first to meet you after you +passed the Grey Stone--the very one we're sittin' on--if I loved you, +an' wished to sarve you.” + +“But who on earth could tell you this?” she asked; “bekaise I thought no +livin' bein' knew of it but myself and Donnel Dhu.” + +“It was Sarah, his daughter,” said Dalton; “but when I asked her why I +should come to do so, she wouldn't tell me--she said if I wished to save +you from evil, or at any rate from trouble. That's a strange girl--his +daughter,” he added; “she makes one do whatever she likes.” + +“Isn't she very handsome?” said Mave, with an expression of admiration. +“I think she's without exception, the prettiest girl I ever seen; an' +her beautiful figure beats all; but somehow they say every one's afraid +of her, an' durstn't vex her.” + +“She examined me well yesterday, at all events,” replied Con. “I thought +them broad, black, beautiful eyes of hers would look through me. Many +a wager has been laid as to which is the handsomest--you or she; an' +I know hundreds that 'ud give a great deal to see you both beside one +another.” + +“Indeed, an' she has it then,” said Mave, “far an' away, in face, in +figure, an' in everything.” + +“I don't think so,” he replied; “but at any rate not in everything--not +in the heart, dear Mave--not in the heart.” + +“They say she's kind hearted, then,” replied Mave. + +“They do,” said Con, “an' I don't know how it comes; but somehow every +one loves her, and every one fears her at the same time. She asked me +yestherday if I thought my father murdhered Sullivan.” + +“Oh! for God's sake, don't talk about it,” said Mave, again getting +pale; “I can't bear to hear it spoken of.” + +The Grey Stone--on a low ledge of which, nearly concealed from public +view, our lovers had been sitting--was, in point of size, a very large +rock of irregular size. After the last words, alluding to the murder, +had been uttered, an old man, very neatly but plainly dressed, and +bearing a pedlar's pack, came round from behind a projection of it, and +approached them. From his position, it was all but certain that he must +have overheard their whole conversation. Mave, on seeing him, blushed +deeply, and Dalton himself felt considerably embarrassed at the idea +that the stranger had been listening, and become acquainted with +circumstances that were never designed for any other ears but their own. + +The old man, on making his appearance, surveyed our lovers from head to +foot with a curious and inquisitive eye--a circumstance which, taken +in connection with his eaves-dropping, was not at all relished by young +Dalton. + +“I think you will know us again,” said he in no friendly voice. “How +long have you been sittin' behind the corner there?” he inquired. + +“I hope I may know yez agin,” replied the pedlar, for he was one; “I was +jist long enough behind the corner to hear some of what you were spakin' +about last.” + +“An' what was that?” said Dalton, putting him to the test. + +“You were talkin' about the murdher of one Sullivan.” + +“We were,” replied Dalton; “but I'll thank you to say nothing further +about it; it's disagreeable to both of us--distressin' to both of us.” + +“I don't understand that,” said the old pedlar; “how can it be so to +either of you, if you're not consarned in it one way or other?” + +“We are, then,” said Dalton, with warmth; “the man that was killed was +this girl's uncle, and the man that was supposed to take his life is my +father. Maybe you understand me now?” + +The blood left the cheeks of the old man, who staggered over to the +ledge whereon they sat, and placed himself beside them. + +“God of Heaven!” said he, with astonishment, “can this be thrue?” + +“Now that you know what you do know,” said Dalton, “we'll thank you to +drop the subject.” + +“Well, I will,” said he; “but first, for Heaven's sake, answer me a +question or two. What's your name, avick?” + +“Condy Dalton.” + +“Ay, Condy Dalton!--the Lord be about us! An' Sullivan--Sullivan was the +name of the man that was murdhered, you say?” + +“Yes, Bartley Sullivan--God rest him!” + +“An' whisper--tell me--God presarve us!--was there anything done to your +father, avick? What was done to him?” + +“Why, he was taken up on suspicion soon afther it happened; +but--but--there was nothing done: they had no proof against him, an' he +was let go again.” + +“Is your father alive still?” + +“He is livin',” replied Dalton; “but come--pass on, ould man,” he added, +bitterly; “I'll give you no more information.” + +“Well, thank you, dear,” said the pedlar; “I ax your pardon for givin' +you pain--an' the colleen here--ay, you're a Sullivan, then--an' a purty +but sorrowful lookin' crature your are, God knows. Poor things! God pity +you both an' grant you a betther fate than what appears to be before +you! for I did hear a thrifle of your discoorse.” + +There was something singularly benevolent and kind in the old pedlar's +voice, as he uttered the last words, and he had not gone many perches +from the stone, when Dalton's heart relented as he reflected on his +harsh and unfriendly demeanor towards him. + +“That is a good ould man,” he observed, “and I am now sorry that I spoke +to him so roughly--there was kindness in his voice and in his eye as he +looked upon us.” + +“There was,” replied Mave, “and I think him a good ould man too. I don't +think he would harm any one.” + +“Dear Mave,” said Dalton, “I must now get home as soon as I can; I don't +feel so well as I was--there is a chill upon me, and I'm afeared I won't +have a comfortable night.” + +“And I can do nothing for you!” added Mave, her eyes filling with tears. + +“I didn't thank you for that lock of hair you sent me by Donnel Dhu,” he +added. “It is here upon my heart, and I needn't say that if anything had +happened me, or if anything should happen me, it an' that heart must go +to dust together.” + +“You are too much cast down,” she replied, her tears flowing fast, “an' +it can't surely be otherwise; but, dear Con, let us hope for better +days--an' put our trust in God's goodness.” + +“Farewell, dear Mave,” he replied, “an may God bless and presarve you +till I see you again!” + +“An' may He send down aid to you all,” she added, “an' give consolation +to your breakin' hearts!” + +An embrace, long, tender, and mournful, accompanied their words, after +which they separated in sorrow and in tears, and with but little hope of +happiness on the path of life that lay before them. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. -- Hanlon Secures the Tobacco-box.--Strange Scene at +Midnight. + + +The hour so mysteriously appointed by Red Rody for the delivery of the +Tobacco-box to Hanlon, was fast approaching, and the night though by no +means so stormy as that which we have described on the occasion of that +person's first visit to the Grey Stone, was nevertheless dark and +rainy, with an occasional slight gust of wind, that uttered a dreary +and melancholy moan, as it swept over the hedges. Hanlon, whose fear of +supernatural appearances had not been diminished by what he had heard +there before as well as on his way home, now felt alarmed at every gust +of wind that went past him. He hurried on, however, and kept his nerves +as firmly set as his terrors would allow him, until he got upon the +plain old road which led directly to the appointed place. The remarkable +interest which he had felt at an earlier stage of the circumstances +that compose our narrative, was beginning to cool a little, when it was +revived by his recent conversation with Red Rody concerning the Black +Prophet, and the palpable contradictions in which he detected that +person, with reference to the period when the Prophet came to reside in +the neighborhood. His anxiety therefore, about the Tobacco-box began, as +he approached the Grey Stone, to balance his fears; so that by the time +he arrived there, he found himself cooler and firmer a good deal than +when he first crossed the dark fields from home. Hanlon, in fact, had +learned a good deal of the Prophet's real character, from several +of those who had never been duped by his impostures; and the fact of +ascertaining that the very article so essential to the completion of +his purpose, had been found in the Prophet's house or possession, gave a +fresh and still more powerful impulse to his determinations. The night, +we have already observed, was dark, and the heavy gloom which covered +the sky was dismal and monotonous. Several flashes of lightning, it is +true, had shot out from the impervious masses of black clouds, that lay +against each other overhead. These, however, only added terror to +the depression which such a night and such a sky were calculated to +occasion. + +“I trust,” thought Hanlon, as he approached the stone, “that there will +be no disappointment, and that I won't have my journey on sich a +dark and dismal night for nothing. How this red ruffian can have any +authority over a girl like Sarah, is a puzzle that I can't make out.” + +It was just as these thoughts occurred to him that he arrived at the +Stone, where he stood anxiously waiting and listening, and repeating +his pater noster, as well as he could, for several minutes, but without +hearing or seeing any one. + +“I might have known,” thought he, “that the rascal could bring about +nothing of the kind, an' I am only a fool for heedin' him at all.” + +At this moment, however, he heard the noise of a light, quick footstep +approaching, and almost immediately afterwards Sarah joined him. + +“Well, I am glad you are come,” said he, “for God knows when I thought +of our last stand here, I was anything but comfortable.” + +“Why,” replied Sarah, “what wor you afeard of? I hate a cowardly man, +an' you are cowardly.” + +“Not where mere flesh and blood is consarned,” he replied; “I'm afeard +of neither man nor woman--but I wouldn't like to meet a ghost or spirit, +may the Lord presarve us!” + +“Why, now? What harm could a ghost or spirit do you? Did you ever hear +that they laid hands on or killed any one?” + +“No; but for all that, it's well known that several persons have died of +fright, in consequence.” + +“Ay, of cowardliness; but it wasn't the ghost killed them. Sure the +poor ghost only comes to get relief for itself--to have masses said; or, +maybe, to do justice to some one that is wronged in this world. There's +Jimmy Beatty, an' he lay three weeks of fright from seein' a ghost, an' +it turned out when all was known, that the ghost was nothing more or +less than Tom Martin's white-faced cow--ha! ha! ha!” + +“At any rate, let us change the subject,” said Hanlon; “you heard +yourself the last night we wor here, what I'll never forget.” + +“We heard some noise like a groan, an' that was all; but who could tell +what it was, or who cares either?” + +“I, for one, do; but, dear Sarah, have you the box?” + +“Why does your voice tremble that way for? Is it fear? bekaise if I +thought it was, I wouldn't scruple much to walk home with' out another +word, an' bring the box with me.” + +“You have it, then?” + +“To be sure I have, an' my father an' Nelly is both huntin' the house +for it.” + +“Why, what could your father want with it?” + +“How can I tell?--an' only that I promised it to you, I wouldn't fetch +it at all?” + +“I thought you had given it up for lost; how did you get it again?” + +“That's nothing to you, an' don't trouble your head about it. There it +is now, an' I have kept my word; for while I live, I'll never break it +if I can. Dear me, how bright that flash was!” + +As Hanlon was taking the box out of her hand, a fearful flash of sheeted +lightning opened out of a cloud almost immediately above them, and +discovered it so plainly, that the letters P. M. were distinctly legible +on the lid of it, and nearly at the same moment a deep groan was heard, +as if coming-out of the rock. + +“Father of Heaven!” exclaimed Hanlon, “do you hear that?” + +“Yes,” she replied, “I did hear a groan; but here, do you go--oh, it +would be useless to ask you--so I must only do it myself; stand here an' +I'll go round the rock; at any rate let us be sure that it is a ghost.” + +“Don't, Sarah,” he exclaimed, seizing her arm; “for God's sake, +don't--it is a spirit--I know it--don't lave me. I understand it all, +an' maybe you will some day, too.” + +“Now,” she exclaimed indignantly, and in an incredulous voice; “in God's +name, what has a spirit to do with an old rusty Tobaccy-box? It's surely +a curious box; there's my father would give one of his eyes to find it; +an' Nelly, that hid it the other day, found it gone when she went to get +it for him.” + +“Do you toll me so?” said Hanlon, placing it as he spoke in his safest +pocket. + +“I do,” she replied; “an' only that I promised it to you, and would not +break my word, I'd give it to my father; but I don't see myself what use +it can be of to him or anybody.” + +Hanlon, despite of his terrors, heard this intelligence with the deepest +interest--indeed, with an interest so deep, that he almost forgot them +altogether; and with a view of eliciting from her as much information in +connection with it as he could, he asked her to accompany him a part of +the way home. + +“It's not quite the thing,” she replied, “for a girl like me to be +walkin' with a young fellow at this hour; but as I'm not afeard of you, +and as I know you are afeard of the ghost--if there is a ghost--I will +go part of the way with you, although it does not say much for your +courage to ask me.” + +“Thank you, Sarah; you are a perfect treasure.” + +“Whatever I was, or whatever I am, Charley, I can never be anything +more to you than a mere acquaintance--I don't think ever we were much +more--but what I want to tell you is, that if ever you have any serious +notion of me, you must put it out of your head.” + +“Why so, Sarah?” + +“Why so,” she replied, hastily; “why, bekaise I don't wish it--isn't +that enough for you, if you have spirit?” + +“Well, but I'd like to know why you changed your mind.” + +“Ah,” said she; “well, afther all, that's only natural--it is but +raisonable; an' I'll tell you; in the first place, there's a want of +manliness about you that I don't like--I think you've but little heart +or feelin'. You toy with the girls--with this one and that one--an' you +don't appear to love any one of them--in short, you're not affectionate, +I'm afeard. Now, here am I, an' I can scarcely say, that ever you +courted me like a man that had feelin'. I think you're revengeful, too; +for I have seen you look black an' angry at a woman, before now. You +never loved me, I know--I say I know you did not. There, then, is some +of my raisons--but I'll tell you one more, that's worth them all. I love +another now--ay,” she added, with a convulsive sigh, “I love +another; and, I know, Charley, that he can't love me--there's more +lightnin'--what a flash! Oh, I didn't care this minute if it went +through my heart.” + +“Don't talk so, Sarah.” + +“I know what's before me--disappointment--disappointment in +everything--the people say I'm wild and very wicked in my temper--an' I +am, too; but how could I be otherwise? for what did I ever see or hear +undher our own miserable roof, but evil talk and evil deeds? A word of +kindness I never got from my father or from Nelly; nothing but the bad +word an' the hard blow--until now that she is afeard of me; but little +she knew, that many a time when I was fiercest, an' threatened to put a +knife into her, there was a quiver of affection in my heart; a yearnin', +I may say, afther kindness, that had me often near throwin' my arms +about her neck, and askin' her why she mightn't as well be kind as cruel +to me; but I couldn't, bekaise I knew that if I did, she'd only tramp on +me, an' despise me, an' tyrannize over me more and more.” + +She uttered these sentiments under the influence of deep feeling, +checkered with an occasional burst of wild distraction, that seemed to +originate from much bitterness of heart. + +“Is it a fair question,” replied Hanlon, whose character she had +altogether misunderstood, having, in point of fact, never had an +opportunity of viewing it in it's natural light; “is it a fair question +to ask you who is it that you're in love wid?” + +“It's not a fair question,” she replied; “I know he loves another, an' +for that raison I'll never breathe it to a mortal.” + +“Bekaise,” he added, “if I knew, maybe I might be able to put in a good +word for you, now and then, accordin' as I got an opportunity.” + +“For me!” she replied indignantly; “what! to beg him get fond o' me! Oh, +its wondherful the maneness that's in a'most every one you meet. No,” + she proceeded, vehemently; “if he was a king on his throne, sooner than +stoop to that, or if he didn't, or couldn't love me on my own account, +I'd let the last drop o' my heart's blood out first. Oh, no!--no, no, +no--ha! He loves another,” she added, hastily; “he loves another!” + +“An' do you know her?” asked Hanlon. + +“Do I know her!” she replied; “do I know her! it's I that do; ay, an' +I have her in my power, too; an' if I set about it, can prevent a ring +from ever goin' on them. Ha! ha! Oh, ay; that divil, Sarah M'Gowan, what +a fine character I have got! Well, well, good night, Charley! Maybe it's +a folly to have the bad name for nothin'; at laist they say so. Ha! ha! +Good-night; I'll go home. Oh, I had like to forgot; Red Body tould me +he was spakin' to you about something that he says you can't but +understhand yourself; and he desired me to get you, if I could, to join +him in it. I said I would, if it was right an' honest; for I have great +doubts of it bein' either the one or the other, if it comes from him. +He said that it was both; but that it 'ud be a great piece of roguery to +have it undone. Now, if it is what he says it is, help him in it, if you +can; but if it isn't, have no hand in it. That's all I tould him I would +say, an' that's all I do say. Keep out of his saicrets I advise you; +an', above all things, avoid everything mane an' dishonest; for, +Charley, I have a kind o' likin' for you that I can't explain, although +I don't love you as a sweetheart. Good-night again!” + +She left him abruptly, and at a rapid pace proceeded back to the Grey +Stone, around which she walked, with a view of examining whether or not +there might be any cause visible, earthly or otherwise, for the groans +which they had heard; but notwithstanding a close and diligent search, +she could neither see nor hear anything whatsoever to which they might +possibly be ascribed. + +She reached home about one o'clock, and after having sat musing for a +time over the fire, which was raked for the night--that is, covered over +with greeshaugh, or living ashes--she was preparing to sleep in her +humble bed, behind a little partition wall about five feet high, at +the lower end of the cabin, when her father, who had been moaning, and +staring, and uttering abrupt exclamations in his sleep, at length rose +up, and began deliberately to dress himself, as if with an intention of +going out. + +“Father,” said she, “in the name of goodness, where are you goin' at +this time o' the night?” + +“I'm goin' to the murdhered man's grave,” he replied, “I'm goin' to toll +them all how he was murdhered, an' who it was that murdhered him.” + +A girl with nerves less firm would have felt a most deadly terror at +such language, on perceiving, as Sarah at once did, that her father, +whose eyes were shut, was fast asleep at the time. In her, however, it +only produced such a high degree of excitement and interest, as might be +expected from one of her ardent and excitable temperament, imbued as it +was with a good deal of natural romance. + +“In God's name,” she said to herself, “what can this mean? Of late he +hasn't had one hour's quiet rest at night; nothin' but startin' and +shoutin' out, an' talkin' about murdher an' murdherers! What can it +mane? for he's now walkin' in his sleep? Father,” said she, “you're +asleep; go back to bed, you had betther.” + +“No, I'm not asleep,” he replied; “I'm goin' down to the grave here +below, behind the rocks down in Glendhu, where the murdhered man is +lyin' buried.” + +“An' what brings you there at this time o' the night?” + +“Ha! ha!” he replied, uttering an exclamation of caution in a low, +guarded voice--“what brings me?--whisht, hould your tongue, an' I'll +tell you.” + +She really began to doubt her senses, notwithstanding the fact of his +eyes being shut. + +“Whisht yourself,” she replied; “I don't want to hear anything about it; +I have no relish for sich saicrets. I'm ready enough with my own hand, +especially when there's a weapon in it--readier then ever I'll be again; +but for all that I don't wish to hear sich saicrets. Are you asleep or +awake?” + +“I'm awake, of coorse,” he replied. + +“An' why are your eyes shut then? You're frightful, father, to look at; +no corpse ever had sich a face as you have; your heavy brows are knit in +sich a way; jist as if you were in agony; your cheeks are so white too, +an' your mouth is down at the corners, that a ghost--ay, the ghost of +the murdhered man himself--would be agreeable compared to you. Go to +bed, father, if you're awake.” + +To all this he made no reply, but having dressed himself, he +deliberately, and with great caution, raised the latch, and proceeded +out at that dismal and lonely hour. Sarah, for a time, knew not how to +act. She had often heard of sleep-walking, and she feared now, that if +she awakened him, he might imagine that she had heard matters which +he wished no ears whatever to hear; for the truth was, that some vague +suspicions of a dreadful nature had lately entered her mind; suspicions, +which his broken slumbers--his starts, and frequent exclamations during +sleep, had only tended to confirm. + +“I will watch him at all events,” said she to herself, “and see that +he comes to no ganger.” She accordingly shut the door after her, and +followed him pretty closely into the deep gloom of the silent and +solitary glen. With cautious, but steady and unerring steps, he +proceeded in the direction of the loneliest spot of it, which having +reached, he went by a narrow and untrodden circuit--a kind of broken, +but natural pathway--to the identical spot where the body, which Nelly +had discovered, lay. + +He then raised his hand, as if in caution, and whispered--“Whisht! here +is where the murdhered man's body lies.” + +“I'll not do it,” said Sarah, “I'll not do it; it would be mane and +ungenerous to ax him a question that might make him betray himself.” + +At this moment the moon which had been for some time risen, presented +a strange and alarming aspect. She seemed red as blood; and directly +across her centre there went a black bar--a bar so ominously and +intensely black, that it was impossible to look upon it without +experiencing something like what one might be supposed to feel in the +presence of a supernatural appearance; at the performance of some magic +or unnatural rite, where the sorcerer, by the wickedness of his spell, +forced her, as it were, thus to lend a dreadful and reluctant sanction +to his proceedings. + +Her father, however, proceeded: “Ay--who murdhered him, my lord? Why, +my lord--hem--it was--Condy Dalton, an' I have another man to prove it +along wid myself--one Rody Duncan; now Rody answer strong; swear home; +mind yourself, Rody.” + +These words were spoken aside, precisely as one would address them when +instructing any person to give a particular line of evidence. He then +stooped down, and placed his hand upon the grave said, as if he were +addressing the dead man: + +“Ha! you sleep cool there, you guilty Villain! an' it wasn't my fault +that the unfaithful an' dishonest sthrap that you got that for, didn't +get as much herself. There you are, an' you'll tell no tales at all +events! You know, Rody,” he proceeded, “it was Dalton that murdhered +him; mind that--but you're a coward at heart; as for myself there's +nothing troubles me but that Tobaccy-Box; but you know nothing about +that; may the divil confound me, at any rate, for not destroyin' it! +an' that ould sthrap, Nelly, suspects something; for she's always ringin +Providence into my ears; but if I had that box destroyed, I'd disregard +Providence; if there is a Providence.” + +The words had barely proceeded out of his lips, when a peal of thunder, +astonishingly loud, broke, as it were, over their very heads, having +been preceded by a flash of lightning, so bright, that the long, +well-defined grave was exposed, in all its lonely horrors, to Sarah's +eye. + +“That's odd, now,” said she, “that the thunder should come as he said +them very words; but thank God that it was Dalton that did the deed, +for if it was himself he'd not keep it back now, when the truth would be +sure to come out.” + +“It was he, my lord, and gentlemen of the jury,” proceeded her father, +“an' my conscience, my lord, during all this long time--” + +He here muttered something which she could not understand, and after +stooping down, and putting his hand on the grave a second time, he +turned about and retraced his steps home. It appeared, however, that +late as the hour was, there were other persons abroad as well as +themselves, for Sarah could distinctly hear the footsteps of several +persons passing along the adjoining road, past the Grey Stone, and she +also thought that among the rest might be distinguished the voice of Red +Rody Duncan. The Prophet quietly opened the door, entered as usual, and +went to bed; Sarah having also retired to her own little sleeping place, +lay for some time, musing deeply over the incidents of the night. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. -- Tumults--Confessions of Murder. + + +The next morning opened with all the dark sultry rain and black cloudy +drapery, which had, as we have already stated, characterized the whole +season. Indeed, during the year we are describing, it was known that all +those visible signs which prognosticate any particular description of +weather, had altogether lost their significance. If a fine day came, +for instance, which indeed was a rare case, or a clear and beautiful +evening, it was but natural that after such a dark and dreary course of +weather, the heart should become glad and full of hope, that a permanent +change for the better was about to take place; but alas, all cheerful +hope and expectation were in vain. The morrow's sun rose as before, +dim and gloomy, to wade along his dismal and wintry path, without one +glimpse of enlivening light from his rising to his setting. + +We have already mentioned slightly, those outrages, to which the disease +and misery that scourged the country in so many shapes had driven the +unfortunate and perishing multitudes. Indeed, if there be any violation +of the law that can or ought to be looked upon with the most lenient +consideration and forbearance, by the executive authorities, it is +that which takes place under the irresistible pressure of famine. And +singular as it may appear, it is no less true, that this is a subject +concerning which much ignorance prevails, not only throughout other +parts of the empire, but even at home here in Ireland, with ourselves. +Much for instance is said, and has been said, concerning what are +termed “Years of Famine,” but it is not generally known that since the +introduction of the potato in this country, no year has ever past, which +in some remote locality or other, has not been such to the unfortunate +inhabitants. The climate of Ireland is so unsettled, its soil so various +in quality and the potato so liable to injury from excess of either +drought or moisture, that we have no hesitation in stating the startling +fact of this annual famine as one we can vouch for, upon our personal +knowledge, and against the truth of which we challenge contradiction. +Neither does an autumn pass without a complaint peculiar to those who +feed solely upon the new and unripe potato, and which, ever since +the year '32 is known by the people as the potato cholera. With these +circumstances the legislature ought to be acquainted, inasmuch as they +are calamities that will desolate and afflict the country so long as the +potato is permitted to be, as it unfortunately is, the staple food +of the people. That we are subject in consequence of that fact, +to periodical recurrences of dearth and disease, is well known and +admitted; but that every season brings its partial scourge of both these +evils to various remote and neglected districts in Ireland, has not +been, what it ought long since to have been, an acknowledged and +established fact in the sanatory statistics of the country. Indeed, one +would imagine, that after the many terrible visitations which we have +had from destitution and pestilence, a legislature sincerely anxious for +the health and comfort of the people, would have devoted itself, in some +reasonable measure, to the human consideration of such proper sumptuary +and sanatory enactments, as would have provided not only against the +recurrence of these evils, but for a more enlightened system of public +health and cleanliness, and a better and more comfortable provision of +food for the indigent and poor. As it is at present, provision dealers +of all kinds, meal-mongers, forestallers, butchers, bakers, and +hucksters, combine together, and sustain such a general monopoly in +food, as is at variance with the spirit of all law and humanity, and +constitutes a kind of artificial famine in the country; and surely; +these circumstances ought not to be permitted, so long as we have a +deliberative legislature, whose duty it is to watch and guard the health +and morals of the people. + +At the present period of our narrative, and especially on the gloomy +morning following the Prophet's unconscious visit to the grave of the +murdered man, the popular outrages had risen to an alarming height. Up +to the present time occasional outbreaks, by small and detached groups +of individuals, had taken place at night or before dawn, and rather in a +timid or fugitive manner, than with the recklessness of men who assemble +in large crowds, and set both law and all consequences at open defiance. +Now, however, destitution and disease had wrought such woeful work among +the general population, that it was difficult to know where or how to +prescribe bounds to the impetuous resentment with which they expressed +themselves against those who held over large quantities of food in order +to procure high prices. At this moment the country, with its waste, +unreaped crops, tying in a state of plashy and fermenting ruin, and its +desolate and wintry aspect, was in frightful keeping with the appearance +of the people when thus congregated together. We can only say, that the +famine crowds of that awful year should have been seen in order to have +been understood and felt. The whole country was in a state of dull +but frantic tumult, and the wild crowds as they came and went in the +perpetration of their melancholy outrages, were worn down by such +starling evidences of general poverty and suffering, as were enough +to fill the heart with fear as well as pity, even to look upon. Their +cadaverous and emaciated aspects had something in them so wild and +wolfish, and the fire of famine blazed so savagely in their hollow eyes, +that many of them looked like creatures changed from their very humanity +by some judicial plague, that had been sent down from Heaven to punish +and desolate the land. And in truth there is no doubt whatsoever, that +the intensity of their sufferings, and the natural panic which was +occasioned by the united ravages of disease and famine, had weakened +the powers of their understanding, and impressed upon their bearing +and features an expression which seemed partly the wild excitement of +temporary frenzy, and partly the dull, hopeless apathy of fatuity--a +state to which it is well known that misery, sickness, and hunger, +all together, had brought down the strong intellect and reason of +the wretched and famishing multitudes. Nor was this state of feeling +confined to those who were goaded by the frightful sufferings that +prevailed. On the contrary, thousands became victims of a quick and +powerful contagion which spread the insane spirit of violence at a rapid +rate, affecting many during the course of the day, who in the early part +of the morning had not partaken of its influence. To no other principle +than this can we attribute the wanton and irrational outrages of many of +the people. Every one acquainted with such awful visitations must know +that their terrific realities cause them, by wild influences that run +through the whole masses, to forget all the decencies and restraints of +ordinary life, until fear and shame, and becoming respect for order, +all of which constitute the moral safety of society--are thrown aside or +resolved into the great tyrannical instinct of self-preservation, +which, when thus stimulated, becomes what may be termed the insanity +of desolation. We know that the most savage animals as well as the most +timid will, when impelled by its ravenous clamors, alike forget every +other appetite but that which is necessary for the sustainment of +life. Urged by it alone, they will sometimes approach and assail the +habitations of man, and, in the fury of the moment, expose themselves to +his power, and dare his resentment; just as a famine mob will do, when +urged by the same instinct, in a year of scarcity. + +There is no beast, however, in the deepest jungle of Africa itself, so +wild, savage and ferocious, as a human mob, when left to its own blind +and headlong impulses. On the morning in question, the whole country was +pouring forth its famished hordes to intercept meal-carts and provision +vehicles of all descriptions, on their way to market or to the next +sea-port for shipment; or to attack the granaries of provision dealers, +and all who, having food in large quantities, refused to give it gratis, +or at a nominal price to the poor. Carts and cars, therefore, mostly +the property of unoffending persons, were stopped on the highways, there +broken, and the food which they carried openly taken away, and, in case +of resistance, those who had charge of them were severely beaten. Mills +were also attacked and pillaged, and in many instances large quantities +of flour and grain not only carried off, but wantonly and wickedly +strewn about the streets and destroyed. + +In all these acts of violence there was very little shouting; the fact +being that the wretched people were not able to shout; unless on rare +occasions; and sooth to say, their vociferations were then but a faint +and feeble echo of the noisy tumults which in general characterize +the proceedings of excited and angry crowds. Truly, those pitiable +gatherings had their own peculiarities of misery. During the progress +of the pillage, individuals of every age, sex, and condition--so far +as condition can be applied to the lower classes--might be seen behind +ditches, in remote nooks--in porches of houses, and many on the open +highways and streets, eating, or rather gobbling up raw flour, or +oat-meal; others, more fortunate, were tearing and devouring bread, +with a fury, to which only the unnatural appetites of so many famished +maniacs could be compared. As might be expected, most of these +inconsiderate acts of license were punished by the consequences which +followed them. Sickness of various descriptions, giddiness, retchings, +fainting fits, convulsions, and in some cases, death itself, were +induced by this wolfish and frightful gluttony on the part of the +starving people. Others, however, who possessed more sense, and +maintained a greater restraint over their individual sufferings, might +be seen in all directions, hurrying home, loaded with provisions of the +most portable descriptions, under which they tottered and panted, +and sometimes fell utterly prostrate from recent illness or the mere +exhaustion of want. Aged people, grey-haired old men, and old women bent +with age, exhibited a wild and excited alacrity that was grievous to +witness, while hurrying homewards--if they had a home, or if not, to the +first friendly shelter they could get--a kind of dim exulting joy feebly +blazing in their heavy eyes, and a wild sense of unexpected good +fortune working in unnatural play upon the muscles of their wrinkled and +miserable faces. The ghastly impressions of famine, however, were not +confined to those who composed the crowds. Even the children were little +living skeletons, wan and yellow, with a spirit of pain and suffering +legible upon their fleshless but innocent features--while the very dogs, +as was well observed, were not able to bark, unless they stood against +a wall; for indeed, such of them as survived, were nothing but ribs and +skin. At all events, they assisted in making up the terrible picture of +general misery which the country at large presented. Both day and night, +but at night especially, their hungry howlings could be heard over the +country, or mingling with wailings which the people were in the habit of +pouring over those whom the terrible typhus was sweeping away with such +wide and indiscriminate fatality. + +Our readers may now perceive, that the sufferings of these unhappy +crowds, before they had been driven to these acts of violence, were +almost beyond belief. At an early period of the season, when the +potatoes could not be dug, miserable women might be seen early in the +morning, and in fact, during all hours of the day, gathering weeds of +various descriptions, in order to sustain life; and happy were they who +could procure a few handfuls of young nettles, chicken-weed, sorrel, +preshagh, buglass, or seaweed, to bring home as food, either for +themselves or their unfortunate children. Others, again, were glad to +creep or totter to stock-farms, at great distances across the country, +in hope of being able to procure a portion of blood, which, on such +melancholy occasions, is taken from the heifers and bullocks that graze +there, in order to prevent the miserable poor from perishing by actual +starvation and death. + +Alas! little do our English neighbors know or dream of the horrors which +attend a year of severe famine in this unhappy country. The crowds which +kept perpetual and incessant siege to the houses of wealthy and even of +struggling small farmers, were such! as scarcely any pen could describe. +Neither can we render anything like adequate justice to the benevolence +and charity--nay, we ought to say, the generosity and magnanimity of +this and the middle classes in general, In no country on earth could +such noble instances of self-denial and sublime humanity be witnessed. +It has happened in thousands of instances that the last miserable +morsel, the last mouthful of nourishing liquid, the last potato, or the +last six-pence, has been divided with wretched and desolate beings who +required it more, and this, too, by persons who, when that was gone, +knew not to what quarter they could turn with a hope of replacing for +themselves that which they had just shared in a spirit of such genuine +and exalted piety.* + + * It is as well to state here that the season described + in this tale is the dreadful and melancholy one of + 1817; and we may add, that in order to avoid the charge + of having exaggerated the almost incredible sufferings + of the people in that year, we have studiously kept our + descriptions of them within the limits of truth. Dr. + Cokkigan, in his able and very sensible pamphlet on + “Fever and Famine as Cause and Effect in Ireland”--a + pamphlet, by the way, which has been the means of + conveying most important truths to statesmen, and which + ought to be looked on as a great public benefit--has + confirmed the accuracy of the gloomy pictures I was + forced to draw. Here follow an extract or two: + + “It is scarcely necessary to call to recollection the + summer of 1810, cold and wet--corn uncut in November, + or rotting in the sheaves on the ground--potatoes not + ripened (and when unripe there cannot be worse food), + containing more water than nutriment--straw at such an + extravagant price as to render the obtaining of it for + bedding almost impossible, and when procured, retaining + from its half-fermented state, so much moisture, that + the use was, perhaps, worse than the want of it. The + same agent that destroyed the harvest spoiled the turf. + Seldom had such a multiplication of evils come + together. In some of the former years, although food + and bedding were deficient, the portion saved was of + good quality, and fuel was not wanting: but in 1815 + every comfort that might have compensated for partial + want was absent. This description applies to the two + years of 1816 and 1817. In midsummer of 1817, the blaze + of fever was over the entire country. It had burst + forth in almost a thousand different points. Within the + short space of a month, in the summer of 1817, the + epidemic sprung forth in Tramore, Youghal, Kinsale, + Tralee, and Clonmel, in Carrick-on-Suir, Iloscrea, + Ballina, Castlebar, Belfast, Armagh, Omagh, + Londonderry, Monasterevan, Tullamore and Slane. This + simultaneous break-out shows that there must have been + some universal cause.” + + Again: + + “The poor were deprived of employment and were driven + from the doors where before they had always received + relief, lest they should introduce disease with them. + Thus, destitution and fever continued in a vicious + circle, each impelling the other, while want of + presence of mind aggravated a thousandfold the terrible + infliction. Of the miseries that attend a visitation of + epidemic fever, few can form a conception. The mere + relation of the scenes that occurred in the country, + even in one of its last visitations, makes one shudder + in reading them. As Barker and Cheyne observe in their + report, 'a volume might be filled with instances of the + distress occasioned by the visitation of fever in + 1817.'” + + “'On the road leading from Cork, within a mile of the + town (Kanturk), I visited a woman laboring under + typhus; on her left lay a child very ill, at the foot + of the bed another child just able to crawl about, and + on her right the corpse of a third child who had died + two days previously, which the unhappy mother could not + get removed.'--Letter from Dr. O'Leary, Kanturk. + + “'Ellen Pagan, a young woman, whose husband was + obliged, in order to seek employment, to leave her + almost destitute in a miserable cabin, with three + children, gave the shelter of her roof to a poor beggar + who had fever. She herself caught the disease, and from + the terror created in the neighborhood, was, with her + three children, deserted--except that some person left + a little water and milk at the window for the + children,--one about four, the other about three years + old, and the other an infant at her breast. In this way + she continued for a week, when a neighbor sent her a + loaf of bread, which was left in the window. Four days + after this he grew uneasy about her, and one night + having prepared some tea and bread, he set off to her + ralief. When he arrived, the following scene presented + itself:--In the window lay the loaf, where it had been + deposited four days previously; in one corner of the + cabin, on a little straw, without covering of any kind, + lay the wretched mother, actually dying, and her infant + dead by her side, for the want of that sustenance which + she had not to give; on the floor lay the children, to + all appearance dying also of cold and hunger. At first + they refused to take anything, and he had to pour a + little liquid down their throats--with the cautious + administration of food they gradually recovered. The + woman expired before the visitor quitted the house.'-- + Letter from Dr. Mucarthney, Monivae. + + “'A man, his wife, and two children lay together in a + fever. The man died in the night; his wife, nearly + convalescent, was so terrified with his corpse in the + same bed with her, that she relapsed, and died in two + days after; the children recovered from fever, but the + eldest lost his reason by the fright. Many other scenes + have I witnessed, which would be too tedious to + relate.'--Barker & Oheyne's Report. + + “I know not of any visitation so much to be dreaded as + epidemic fever; it is worse than the plague, for it + lasts throughout all seasons. Cholera may seem more + frightful, but it is in reality less destructive. It + terminates rapidly in death, or in as rapid recovery. + Its visitation, too, is short, and it leaves those who + recover unimpaired in health and strength. Civil war, + were it not for its crimes, would be, as far as regards + the welfare of a country, a visitation less to be + dreaded than epidemic fever.” + + ***** + + “It is not possible, then, to form an exaggerated + picture of the sufferings of a million and a half of + people in these countries, in their convalescence from + fever, deprived of, not only the comforts, but even the + necessaries of life, with scanty food, and fuel, and + covering, only rising from fever to slowly fall victims + to those numerous chronic diseases that are sure to + seize upon enfeebled constitutions. Death would be to + many a more merciful dispensation than such a + recovery.”--Famine and Fever, as Clause and Effect in + Ireland, &a., &o. By D. J. Cohkigan, Esq., M.D., + M.K.C.S.B. Dublin: J. Fannin & Co., Grafton Street. + +It was to such a state of general tumult that the Prophet and his family +arose on the morning of the following day. As usual, he was grim and +sullen, but on this occasion his face had a pallid and sunken look in +it, which apparently added at least ten years to his age. There was +little spoken, and after breakfast he prepared to go out. Sarah, during +the whole morning, watched his looks, and paid a marked attention to +every thing he said. He appeared, however, to be utterly unconscious +of the previous night's adventure, a fact which his daughter easily +perceived, and which occasioned her to feel a kind of vague compassion +for him, in consequence of the advantage it might give Nelly over +him; for of late she began to participate in her father's fears and +suspicions of that stubborn and superstitious personage. + +“Father,” said she, as he was about to go out, “is it fair to ax where +you are going?” + +“It's neither fair nor foul,” he replied; “but if it's any satisfaction +to you to know, I won't tell you.” + +“Have you any objections then, that I should walk a piece of the way +with you?” + +“Not if you have come to your senses, as you ought, about what I +mentioned to you.” + +“I have something to say to you,” she replied, without noticing the +allusion he had made; “something that you ought to know.” + +“An' why not mention it where we are?” + +“Bekaise I don't wish her there to know it.” + +“Thank you, ma'am,” replied Nelly; “I feel your kindness--an,' dear +me, what a sight o' wisdom I'll lose by bein' kep' out o' the +saicret--saicret indeed! A fig for yourself an' your saicret; maybe I +have my saicret as well as you.” + +“Well, then,” replied Sarah, “if you have, do you keep yours as I'll +keep mine, and then we'll be aiquil. Come, father, for I must go from +home too. Indeed I think this is the last day I'll be with either of you +for some time--maybe ever.” + +“What do you mane?” said the father. + +“Hut!” said the mother, “what a goose you are! Charley Hanlon, to be +sure; I suppose she'll run off wid him. Oh, thin, God pity him or any +other one that's doomed to be blistered wid you!” + +Sarah flashed like lightning, and her frame began to work with that +extraordinary energy which always accompanied the manifestation of her +resentment. + +“You will,” said she, approaching the other--“you will, after your +escape the other day; you--no, ah! no--I won't now; I forgot myself. +Come, father,--come, come; my last quarrel with her is over.” + +“Ay,” returned Nelly, as they went out, “there you go, an' a sweet pair +you are--father and daughter!” + +“Now, father,” resumed Sarah, after they had got out of hearing, “will +you tell me if you slep' well last night?” + +“Why do you ax?” he replied; “to be sure I did.” + +“I'll tell you why I ax,” she answered; “do you know that you went last +night--in the middle of the night--to the murdhered man's grave, in the +glen there?” + +It is impossible to express the look of astonishment and dismay which he +turned up on her at these words. + +“Sarah!” he said, sternly; but she interrupted him. + +“It's thruth,” said she; “an I went with--” + +“What are you spakin' about? Me go out, an' not know it! Nonsense!” + +“You went in your sleep, she rejoined. + +“Did I spake?” said he, with a black and; ghastly look. +“What--what--tell me--eh? What did I say?” + +“You talked a good deal, an' said that it was Condy Dalton that +murdhered him, and that you had Red Rody to prove it.” + +“That was what I said?--eh, Sarah?” + +“That's what you said, an' I thought it was only right to tell you.” + +“It was right, Sarah; but at the same time, at the peril of your life, +never folly me there again. Of coorse, you know now that Sullivan is +buried there.” + +“I do,” said she; “but that's no great comfort, although it is to know +that you didn't murdher him. At any rate, father, remember what I tould +you about Condy Dalton. Lave him to God; an' jist that you may feel +what you ought to feel on the subject, suppose you were in his +situation--suppose for a minute that it was yourself that murdhered +him--then ask, would you like to be dragged out from us and hanged, in +your ould age, like a dog--a disgrace to all belongin' to you. Father, +I'll believe that Condy Dalton murdhered him, when I hear it from his +own lips, but not till then. Now, Good-bye. You won't find me at home +when you come back, I think.” + +“Why, where are you goin'?” + +“There's plenty for me to do,” she replied; “there's the sick an' the +dyin' on all hands about me, an' it's a shame for any one that has a +heart in their body, to see their fellow-creatures gaspin' for want of +a dhrop of cowld wather to wet their lips, or a hand to turn them where +they lie. Think of how many poor sthrangers is lyin' in ditches an' in +barns, an' in outhouses, without a livin' bein' a'most to look to them, +or reach them any single thing they want; no, even to bring the priest +to them, that they might die reconciled to the Almighty. Isn't it a +shame, then, for me, an' the likes o' me, that has health an' strength, +an' nothin' to do, to see my fellow-creatures dyin' on all hands about +me, for want of the very assistance that I can afford them. At any rate, +I wouldn't live in the house with that woman, an' you know that, an' +that I oughtn't.” + +“But aren't you afeard of catchin' this terrible faver, that's takin' +away so many, if you go among them'?” + +“Afeard!” she replied; “no, father, I feel no fear either of that or +anything else. If I die, I lave a world that I never had much happiness +in, an' I know that I'll never be happy again in it. What then have I to +fear from death? Any change for me must now be for the betther; at all +events it can hardly be for the worse. No; my happiness is gone.” + +“What in Heaven's name is the matther with you?” asked her father; “an' +what brings the big tears into your eyes that way?” + +“Good-bye,” said she; and as she spoke, a melancholy smile--at once sad +and brilliant--irradiated her features. “It's not likely, father, that +ever you'll see me under your roof again. Forgive me all my follies now, +maybe it's the last time ever you'll have an opportunity.” + +“Tut, you foolish girl; it's enough to sicken one to hear you spake such +stuff!” + +She stood and looked at him for a moment, and the light of her smile +gradually deepened, or rather faded away, until nothing remained but a +face of exquisite beauty, deeply shadowed by anxiety and distress. + +The Prophet pursued his way to Dick o' the Grange's, whither, indeed, +he was bent; Sarah, having looked after him for a moment with a troubled +face, proceeded in the direction of old Dalton's, with the sufferings +and pitiable circumstances of whose family she was already but too well +acquainted. Her journey across the country presented her with little +else than records of death, suffering, and outrage. Along the roads the +funerals were so frequent, that, in general, they excited no particular +notice. They could, in fact scarcely be termed funerals, inasmuch as +they were now nothing more than squalid and meagre-looking knots of +those who were immediately related to the deceased, hurrying onward, +with reckless speed and disturbed looks to the churchyard, where their +melancholy burthen was hastily covered up with scarcely any exhibition +of that simple and affecting decorum, or of those sacred and natural +sorrows, which in other circumstances throw their tender but solemn +light over the last offices of death. As she went along, new and more +startling objects of distress attracted her notice. In dry and sheltered +places she observed little temporary sheds, which, in consequence of the +dreadful panic which always accompanies an epidemic in Ireland, had, to +a timid imagination, something fearful about them, especially when it +is considered that death and contagion were then at work in them in such +terrible shapes. To Sarah, however, they had no terrors; so far from +that, a great portion of the day was spent by her in relieving their +wretched, and, in many cases, dying inmates, as well as she could. She +brought them water, lit fires for them, fixed up their shed, and even +begged aid for them from the neighbors around, and, as far as she could, +did everything to ease their pain, or smooth their last moment by the +consolation of her sympathy. If she met a family on the highway, worn +with either illness or fatigue--perhaps an unhappy mother, surrounded +by a helpless brood, bearing, or rather tottering under a couple of sick +children, who were unable to walk--she herself, perhaps, also ill, as +was often the case--she would instantly take one of them out 'of the +poor creature's arms, and carry it in her own as far as she happened +to go in that direction, utterly careless of contagion, or all other +consequences. + +In this way was she engaged towards evening when at a turn of the road +she was met by a large crowd of rioters, headed by Red Rody, Tom Dalton, +and many others in the parish who were remarkable only for a tendency to +ruffianism and outrage; for we may remark here, that on occasions such +as we are describing, it is generally those who have suffered least, and +have but little or nothing to complain of, that lead the misguided and +thoughtless people into crime, and ultimately into punishment. + +The change that had come over young Dalton was frightful; he was not +half his former size; his clothes were now in rags, his beard grown, +his whole aspect and appearance that of some miscreant, in whom it was +difficult to say whether the ruffian or the idiot predominated the +most. He appeared now in his glory--frantic and destructive; but amidst +all this drivelling impetuosity, it was not difficult to detect some +desperate and unshaken purpose in his heavy but violent and bloodshot +eyes. + +Far different from him was Red Rody, who headed his own section of +them with an easy but knowing swagger; now nodding his head with some +wonderful purpose which nobody could understand; or winking at some +acquaintance with an indefinite meaning, that set them a guessing at it +in vain. It was easy to see that he was a knave, but one of those +knaves on whom no earthly reliance could be placed, and who would betray +to-morrow, for good reasons, and without a moment's hesitation, those +whom he had corrupted to-day. + +“Come, Tom,” said Rody, “we have scattered a few of the meal-mongin' +vagabonds; weren't you talkin' about that blessed voteen, ould Darby +Skinadre? The villain that allowed Peggy Murtagh an' her child to starve +to death! Aren't we to pay him a visit?” + +Dalton coughed several times, to clear his throat; a settled hoarseness +having given a frightful hollowness to his voice. “Ay,” said he--“ha, +ha, ha--by the broken-heart she died of--well--well--eh, Rody, what are +we to do to him?” + +Rody looked significantly at the crowd, and grinned, and touched his +forehead, and pointed at Dalton. + +“That boy's up to everything,” said he; “he's the man to head us +all--ha, ha!” + +“Never mind laughin' at him, anyway,” observed one of his friends; +“maybe if you suffered what he did, poor fellow, an' his family too, +that it's not fun you'd be makin' of him.” + +“Why,” asked a new comer; “what's wrong wid him?” + +“He's not at himself,” replied the other, “ever since he had the faver; +that, they say, an' the death of a very purty girl he was goin' to be +married to, has put him beside himself, the Lord save us!” + +“Come on now,” shouted Tom, in his terrible voice; “here's the greatest +of all before us still. Who wants meal now? Come on, I say--ha, ha, ha! +Is there any of you hungry? Is there any of you goin' to die for want of +food? Now's your time--ho, ho! Now, Peggy, now. Amn't I doin' it? Ay, +am I, an' it's all for your sake, Peggy dear, for, I swore by the broken +heart you died of--ay, an' didn't I tell you that last night on your +grave where I slep'. No, he wouldn't--he wouldn't--but now--now--he'll +see the differ--ay, an' feel it too. Come on,” he shouted, “who-ever's +hungry, folly me! ha, ha, ha!” + +This idiotic, but ferocious laugh, echoing such a dreadful purpose, was +appalling; but the people who knew what he had suffered, only felt it as +a more forcible incentive to outrage. Darby's residence was now quite at +hand, and in a few minutes it was surrounded by such a multitude, both +of men and women, as no other occasion could ever bring together. The +people were, in fact, almost lost in their own garments; some were +without coats or waistcoats to protect them from the elements, having +been forced, poor wretches, to part with them for food; others had +nightcaps or handkerchiefs upon their heads instead of hats; a certain +proof that they were only in a state of convalescence from fever--the +women stood with dishevelled hair--some of them half naked, and others +leading their children about, or bearing them in their arms; altogether +they presented such an appearance as was enough to wring the benevolent +heart with compassion and. sorrow for their sufferings. + +On arriving at Darby's house, they found it closed, but not deserted. +At first, Tom Dalton knocked, and desired the door to be opened, but the +women who were present, whether with shame or with honor to the sex, we +are at a loss to say, felt so eager on the occasion, probably for +the purpose of avenging Peggy Murtagh, that they lost not a moment +in shivering in the windows, and attacking the house with stones and +missiles of every description. In a few minutes the movement became so +general and simultaneous that the premises were a perfect wreck, +and nothing was to be seen but meal and flour, and food of every +description, either borne off by the hungry crowd, or scattered most +wickedly and wantonly through the streets, while, in the very midst of +the tumult, Tom Dalton was seen dragging poor Darby out by the throat, +and over to the centre of the street. + +“Now,” said he, “here I have you at last--ha, ha, ha!”--his voice, +by the way, as he spoke and laughed, had become fearfully deep and +hollow--“now, Peggy dear, didn't I swear it--by the broken heart +you died of, I said, an' I'll keep that sacred oath, darlin'.” While +speaking, the thin fleshless face of the miser was becoming black--his +eyes were getting blood-shot, and, in a very short time, strangulation +must have closed his wretched existence, when a young and tall female +threw herself by a bound upon Dalton, whom she caught by the throat, +precisely as he himself had caught Darby. It was Sarah, who saw that there +was but little time to lose in order to save the wretch's life. Her grip +was so effectual, that Dalton was obliged to relax his hold upon the +other for the purpose of defending himself. + +“Who is this?” said he; “let me go, you had better, till I have his +life--let me go, I say.” + +“It's one,” she replied, “that's not afeard but ashamed of you. You, a +young man, to go strangle a weak, helpless ould creature, that hasn't +strength or breath to defend himself no more then a child.” + +“Didn't he starve Peggy Murtagh?” replied Tom; “ha, ha, ha!--didn't he +starve her and her child?” + +“No,” she replied aloud, and with glowing cheeks; “it's false--it wasn't +he but yourself that starved her and her child. Who deserted her--who +brought her to shame, an' to sorrow, in her own heart an' in the eyes +of the world? Who left her to the bitter and vile tongues of the whole +counthry? Who refused to marry her, and kept her so that she couldn't +raise her face before her fellow cratures? Who sent her, without hope, +or any expectation of happiness in this life--this miserable life--to +the glens and lonely ditches about the neighborhood, where she did +nothing but shed blither tears of despair and shame at the heartless +lot you brought her to? An' when she was desarted by the wide world, an' +hadn't a friendly face to look to but God's, an' when one kind word from +your lips would give her hope, an' comfort, an' happiness, where were +you? and where was that kind word that would have saved her? Let the +old man go, you unmanly coward; it wasn't him that starved her--it was +yourself that starved her, and broke her heart!” + +“Did yez hear that?” said Dalton; “ha, ha, ha--an' it's all thrue; she +has tould me nothing but the thruth--here, then, take the ould vagabond +away with you, and do what you like with him--” + + “'I am a bold and rambling boy, + My lodging's in the isle of Throy; + A rambling boy, although I be, + I'd lave them all an' folly thee.' + +Ha, ha, ha!--but come, boys, pull away; we'll finish the wreck of this +house, at any rate.” + +“Wreck away,” said Sarah, “I have nothin' to do with that; but I think +them women--man-women I ought to call them--might consider that there's +many a starvin' mouth that would be glad to have a little of what +they're throwin' about so shamefully. Do you come with me, Darby; I'll +save you as far as I can, an' as long as I'm able.” + +“I will, achora,” replied Darby, “an' may God bless you, for you have +saved my life; but why should they attack me? Sure the world knows, an' +God knows, that my heart bleeds--” + +“Whisht,” she exclaimed, “the world an' God both know it's a lie, if you +say your heart bleeds for any thing but the destruction that you see +on your place. If you had given Peggy Murtagh the meal, she might be a +livin' woman to-day; so no more falsehoods now, or I'll turn you back to +Tom Dalton's clutches.” + +“No, then,” replied the trembling wretch, “I won't; but between you +an' me, then,--an' it needn't go farther--troth my heart bleeds for the +severity that's--” + +“One word more,” she replied, “an' I lave you to what you'll get.” + +Sarah's interference had a singular effect upon the crowd. The +female portion of it having reflected upon her words, soon felt and +acknowledged their truth, because they involved a principle of justice +and affection to their sex; while the men, without annexing any moral +consideration to the matter, felt themselves influenced by her exquisite +figure and great beauty. + +“She's the Black Prophet's daughter,” exclaimed the women; “an' if the +devil was in her, she tould Tom Dalton nothing but the truth, at any +rate.” + +“An' they say the devil is in her, the Lord save us, if ever he was in +any one--keep away from her--my sowl in Heaven! but she'd think no more +of tearin' your eyes out, or stickin' you wid a case-knife, than you +would of aitin' bread an' butther.” + +“Blessed Father!” exclaimed another, “did you see the brightness of her +eyes while she was spakin?” + +“No matther what she is,” said a young fellow beside them; “the devil a +purtier crature ever was made; be my soul, I only wish I had a thousand +pounds, I wouldn't be long without a wife at any rate.” + +The crowd having wrecked Skinadre's dwelling, and carried off and +destroyed almost his whole stock of provisions, now proceeded in a +different direction, with the intention of paying a similar visit to +some similar character. Sarah and Darby--for he durst not venture, for +the present, towards his own house--now took their way to the cabin +of old Condy Dalton, where they arrived just in time to find the house +surrounded by the officers of justice, and some military. + +“Ah,” thought Sarah, on seeing them; “it is done, then, an' you lost but +little time about it. May God forgive you, father.” + +They had scarcely entered, when one of the officers pulling out a paper, +looked at it and asked, “Isn't your name Condy or Cornelius Dalton?”-- + +“That is my name,” said the old man. + +“I arrest you, then,” he continued, “for the murder of one Bartholomew +Sullivan.” + +“It is the will of God,” replied the old man, while the tears flowed +down his cheeks--“it's God's will, an' I won't consale it any longer; +take me away--I'm guilty--I'm guilty.” + + + + +CHAPTEE XXI. -- Condy Datton goes to Prison. + +The scene that presented itself in Condy Dalton's miserable cabin was +one, indeed, which might well harrow any heart not utterly callous to +human sympathy. The unhappy old man had been sitting in the armchair we +have alluded to, his chin resting on his breast, and his mind apparently +absorbed in deep and painful reflection, when the officers of justice +entered. Many of our Landlord readers, and all, probably, of our +Absentee ones, will, in the simplicity of their ignorance regarding the +actual state of the lower classes, most likely take it for granted +that the picture we are about to draw exists nowhere but in our own +imagination. Would to God that it were so! Gladly and willingly would we +take to ourselves all the shame; acknowledge all the falsehood; pay +the highest penalty for all the moral guilt of our misrepresentations, +provided only any one acquainted with the country could prove to us +that we are wrong, change our nature, or, in other words, falsify the +evidence of our senses and obliterate our experience of the truths we +are describing. + +Old Dalton was sitting, as we have said, in the only memorial of his +former respectability now left him--the old arm-chair--when the men +bearing the warrant for his arrest presented themselves. The rain +was pouring down in that close, dark, and incessant fall, which gives +scarcely any hope of its ending, and throws the heart into that anxious +and gloomy state which every one can feel and perhaps no one describe. + +The cabin in which the Daltons now lived was of the poorest description. +When ejected from their large holding by Dick o' the Grange, or in other +words, were auctioned out, they were unhappily at a loss where to find +a place in which they could take a temporary refuge. A kind neighbor who +happened to have the cabin in question lying unoccupied, or rather +waste upon his hands, made them an offer of it; not, as he said, in +the expectation that they could live in it for any length of time, but +merely until they could provide themselves with a more comfortable and +suitable abode. + +“He wished,” he added, “it was better for their sakes; and sorry he was +to see such a family brought so low as to live in it at all!” + +Alas! he knew not at the time how deeply the unfortunate family in +question were steeped in distress and poverty. They accepted this +miserable cabin; but in spite of every effort to improve their +condition, days, weeks, and months passed, and still found them unable +to make a change for the better. + +When Darby and Sarah entered, they found young Con, who had now +relapsed, lying in one corner of the cabin, on a wretched shake-down bed +of damp straw; while on another of the same description lay his amiable +and affectionate sister Nancy. The cabin stood, as we have said, in a +low, moist situation, the floor of it being actually lower--which is a +common case--than the ground about it outside. It served, therefore, +as a receptacle for the damp and under-water which the incessant +down-pouring of rain during the whole season had occasioned. It was +therefore, dangerous to tread upon the floor, it was so soft and +slippery. The rain, which fell heavily, now came down through the roof +in so many places that they were forced to put under it such vessels as +they could spare, not even excepting the beds over each of which were +placed old clothes, doubled up under dishes, pots, and little bowls, +in order, if possible, to keep them dry. The house--if such it could +be called--was almost destitute of furniture, nothing but a few pots, +dishes, wooden noggins, some spoons, and some stools being their +principal furniture, with the exception of one standing short-posted +bed, in a corner, near the fire. There, then, in that low, damp, dark, +pestilential kraal, without chimney or window, sat the old man, who, +notwithstanding its squalid misery, could have looked upon it as a +palace, had he been able to say to his own heart--I am not a murderer. + +There, we say, he sat alone, surrounded by pestilence and famine in +their most fearful shapes, listening to the moanings of his sick family, +and the ceaseless dropping of the rain, which fell into the vessels that +were placed to receive it. Mrs. Dalton was “out,” a term which was used +in the bitter misery of the period, to indicate that the person to whom +it applied had been driven to the last resource of mendicancy; and his +other daughter, Mary, had gone to a neighbor's house to beg a little +fire. + +As the old man uttered the words, no language could describe the misery +which was depicted on his countenance. + +“Take me,” he exclaimed; “ah, no; for then what will become of these?” + pointing to his son and daughter, who were sick. + +The very minions of the law felt for him; and the chief of them said, in +a voice of kindness and compassion: + +“It's a distressin' case; but if you'll be guided by me, you won't say +anything that may be brought against yourself. I was never engaged,” + said he, looking towards Darby and Sarah, to whom he partly addressed +his discourse, “in anything so painful as this. A man of his age, now +afther so many years! However--well--it can't be helped; we must do our +duty.” + +“Where is the rest of your family?” asked another of them; “is this +young woman a daughter of yours?” + +“Not at all,” replied a third; “this is a daughter of the Black Prophet +himself; and, by japers, you hardened gipsey, it's a little too bad for +you to come to see how your blasted ould father's work gets on. It's his +evidence that's bringin' this dacent ould man from his family to a gaol, +this miserable evenin'. Be off out o' this, I desire you; I wondher +you're not ashamed to be present here, above all places in the world, +you brazen devil.” + +Sarah's whole soul, however, in all its best and noblest sympathies, had +passed into and mingled with the scene of unparalleled misery which was +then before her. She went rapidly to the bed in which young Con was I +stretched; stooped down, and looking closely at him, perceived that he +was in a broken and painful slumber. She then passed to that in which +his sister lay, and saw that she was also asleep. After a glance at +each, she rubbed her hands with a kind of wild satisfaction, and going +up to old Dalton, exclaimed--for she had not heard a syllable of the +language used towards her by the officer of justice-- + +“Ay,” said she, laying her hand upon his white hairs; “you are to be +pitied this night, poor ould man; but which of you, oh, which of you +is to be pitied most, you or them! an' your wife, too; an' your other +daughter, an' your other son, too; but he's past under-standin' it; +oh, what will they do? At your age, too--at your age! Oh, couldn't you +die?--couldn't you contrive, someway, to die?--couldn't you give one +great struggle, an' then break your heart at wanst, an' forever!” + +These words were uttered rapidly, but in a low and cautious voice, for +she still feared to awaken those who slept. + +The old man had also been absorbed in, his own misery; for he looked +at her inquiringly, and only replied, “Poor girl, what is it you're +saying?” + +“I'm biddin' you to die,” she replied, “if you can, you needn't be +afeard of God--he has punished you enough for the crime you have +committed. Try an' die, if you can--or if you can't--oh,” she exclaimed, +“I pray God that you--that he, there--” and she ran and bent over young +Con's bed for a moment; “that you--that you may never recover, or live +to see what you must see.” + +“It's a fact, that between hunger and this sickness,” continued he who +had addressed her last, “they say an' I know that there's great number +of people silly; but I think this lady is downright mad; what do you +mane, you clip?” + +Sarah stared at him impatiently, but without any anger. + +“He doesn't hear me,” she added, again putting her hand in a distracted +manner upon Dalton's gray hair; “no, no; but since it can't be so, +there's not a minute to be lost. Oh, take him away, now,” she proceeded, +“take him away while they're asleep, an' before his wife and daughter +comes home--take him away, now; and spare him--spare them--spare them +all as much sufferin' as you can.” + +“There's not much madness in that, Jack,” returned one of them; “I +think it would be the best thing we could do. Are you ready to come now, +Dalton?” asked the man. + +“Who's that,” said the old man, in a voice of indescribable woe +and sorrow; “who's that was talkin' of a broken heart? Oh, God,” he +exclaimed, looking up to Heaven, with a look of intense agony, “support +me--support them; and if it be your blessed will, pity us all; but above +all things, pity them, oh, Heavenly Father, and don't punish them for my +sin!” + +“It's false,” exclaimed Sarah, looking on Dalton, and reasoning +apparently with herself; “he never committed a could blooded murdher; +an' the Sullivans are--are--oh--take him away,” she said, still in +a low, rapid voice; “take him away! Come now,” she added, approaching +Dalton again; “come--while they're asleep, an' you'll save them an' +yourself much distress. I'm not afeard of your wife--for she can bear +it if any wife could--but I do your poor daughter, an' she so weak an' +feeble afther her illness; come.” + +Dalton looked at her, and said: + +“Who is this girl that seems to feel so much for me? but whoever she is, +may God bless her, for I feel that she's right. Take me away before they +waken! oh, she is right in every word she says, for I am not afeard of +my wife--her trust in God is too firm for anything to shake. I'm ready; +but I fear I'll scarcely be able to walk all the way--an' sich an +evenin' too--Young woman, will you break this business to these ones, +and to my wife, as you can?” + +“Oh, I will, I will,” she replied; “as well as I can; you did well to +say so,” she added, in a low voice to herself; “an' I'll stay here with +your sick family, an' I'll watch an' attend them. Whatever can be done +by the like o' me for them, I'll do. I'll--I'll not lave them--I'll +nurse them--I'll take care of them--I'll beg for them--oh, what would I +not do for them?” and while speaking she bent over young Con's bed, and +clasping her hands, and wringing them several times, she repeated “oh +what wouldn't I do for you!” + +“May God bless you, best of girls, whoever you are! Come, now, I'm +ready.” + +“Ay,” said Sarah, running over to him, “that's right--I'll break the +bitter news to them as well as it can be done; come, now.” + +The old man stood, in the midst of his desolation, with his hat in his +hand, and he looked towards the beds. + +“Poor things!” he exclaimed; “what a change has come over you, for what +you wanst, an' that not long since, wor. Never, my darlin' childhre--oh, +never did one harsh or undutiful word come from your lips to your +unhappy father. In my ould age and misery I'm now lavin' you--may be +forever--never, maybe, to see you again in this world; an' oh, my God, +if we are never to meet in the other; if the innocent and the guilty is +never to meet, then this is my last look at you, for everlastin', for +everlastin'! I can't do it,” he added, weeping bitterly--“I must take my +lave of them; I must kiss their lips.” + +Sarah, while he spoke, had uttered two or three convulsive sobs; but she +shed no tears; on the contrary, her eyes were singularly animated and +brilliant. She put her arms about him, and said, in a soothing and +solicitous tone: + +“Oh, no, it's all thrue; but if you kiss them, you'll disturb and waken +them; and then, you know, when they see you taken away in this manner, +an' hears what it's for, it may be their death.” + +“Thrue, achora; thrue: well, I will only look at them, then. Let me keep +my eyes on them for a little; may be they may go first, an' may be I may +go first; the last time, may be, for everlastin', that I'll see them!” + +He went over, as he spoke, Sarah still having her hand upon his arm, +as if to intimate her anxiety to keep him under such control as might +prevent him from awakening them; and, standing first over the miserable +bed where Nancy slept, he looked down upon her. + +“Ay,” said he, while the tears showered down his cheeks, “there lies the +child that never vexed a parent's heart or ruffled one of our tempers. +May the blessin', if it is a blessin', or can be a blessin'--” + +“It is, it is,” said Sarah, with a quick, short sob; “it is a blessin', +an' a holy blessin'; but bless him--bless him, too!” + +“May my blessin' rest upon you, or rather may the blessin' of Almighty +God, rest upon you, daughter of my heart! And you too,” he proceeded, +turning to the other bed; “here is him that among them all I loved the +best; my youngest, an' called afther myself--may my blessin' an' the +blessin' of God and my Saviour rest upon you, my darlin' son; an' if +I never see either of you in this unhappy world, grant, oh, merciful +Father, that we may meet in the glory of Heaven, when that stain will be +taken away from me for that crime that I have repented for so long an' +so bittherly?” + +Sarah, while he spoke, had let go his arm, and placing her two hands +over her eyes, her whole breast quivered; and the men, on looking at +her, saw the tears gushing out in torrents from between her finger. She +turned round, however, for a few moments, as if to compose herself; +and, when she again approached the old man, there was a smile--a smile, +brilliant, but agitated, in her eyes and upon her lips. + +“There now,” she proceeded; “you have said all you can say; come, go +with them. Ah,” she exclaimed with a start of pain, “all we've done +or tried to do is lost, I doubt. Here's his wife and daughter. Come out +now,” said she addressing him, “say a word or two to them outside.” + +Just as she spoke, Mrs. Dalton and the poor invalid, Mary, entered the +house: the one with some scanty supply of food, and the other bearing a +live coal between two turf, one under and the other over it. + +“Wait,” said Sarah, “I'll speak to them before they come in.” And, ere +the words were uttered, she met them. + +“Come here, Mrs. Dalton,” said she; “stop a minute, speak to this poor +girl, and support her. These sogers, and the constables inside, is come +about Sullivan's business, long ago.” + +“I know it,” replied Mrs. Dalton; “I've just heard all about it, there +beyond; but she,” pointing to her daughter, “has only crossed the ditch +from the commons, and joined me this minute.” + +“Give me these,” said Sarah to the girl, “and stay here till I come out +again, wet as it is. Your mother will tell you why.” + +She took the fire from her as she spoke, and, running in, laid it upon +the hearth, placing, at the same time, two or three turf about in a +hurried manner, but still in a way that argued great presence of mind, +amid all her distraction. On going out again, however, the first object +she saw was one of the soldiers supporting the body of poor Mary, who +had sunk under the intelligence. Mrs. Dalton having entered the +cabin, and laid down the miserable pittance of food which she had been +carrying, now waved her hand with authority and singular calmness, but +at the same time with a face as pallid as death itself. + +“This is a solemn hour,” said she, “an' a woful sight in this place of +misery. Keep quiet, all of you. I know what this is about, dear Condy,” + she said; “I know it; but what is the value of our faith, if it doesn't +teach us obedience? Kiss your child, here,” said she, “an' go--or come, +I ought to say, for I will go with you. It's not to be wondhered at that +she couldn't bear it, weak, and worn, and nearly heartbroken as she is. +Bless her, too, before you go. An' this girl,” she said, pointing at +Mary, and addressing Sarah, “you will spake to her, an' support her as +well as you can, and stay with them all for an hour or two. I can't lave +him.” + +Dalton, while she spoke, had taken Mary in his arms, kissed her, and, as +in the case of the others, blessed her with a fervor only surpassed by +his sorrow and utter despair. + +“I will stay with them,” said Sarah; “don't doubt that--not for an hour +or two, but till they come to either life or death; so I tould him.” + +“It's a bitther case,” said Mrs. Dalton; “a bitther case; but then it's +God's gracious will, an' them that He loves He chastises. Blessed be His +name for all He does, and blessed be His name ever for this!” + +Mary now recovered in her father's arms; and her mother, in a low but +energetic voice, pointing to the beds, said: + +“Think of them, darlin'. There now, part with him. This world, I often +tould you dear, Mary, is not our place, but our passage; an' although +it's painful let us not forget that it is God Himself that is guidin' +and directin' us through it. Come, Con dear, come.” + +A long mournful embrace, and another sorrowful but fervent blessing, +and with a feeble effort at consolation, Dalton parted with the weeping +girl; and placing his hat on his white head, he gave one long look--one +indescribable look--upon all that was so dear to him in this scene of +unutterable misery, and departed. He had not gone far, however, when he +returned a step or two towards the door; and Mary, having noticed this, +went to him, and throwing her arms once more about his neck, exclaimed: + +“Oh! Father, darlin' an' is it come to this? Oh, did we ever complain or +grumble about all we suffered, while we had you wid us? no, we wouldn't. +What was our sufferins, father, dear--nothing. But, oh, nothing ever +broke our hearts, or troubled us, but to see you in sich sorrow.” + +“It's thrue, Mary darlin'; you wor all--all a blessin' to me; but I feel, +threasure of my heart, that my sorrows an' my cares will soon be over. +It's about Tom I come back. Och, sure I didn't care what he or we might +suffer, if it had plased God to lave him in his senses; but maybe now +he's happier than we are. Tell him--if he can understand it, or when he +does understand it--that I lave my blessin' and God's blessin' with him +for evermore--for evermore: an' with you all; an' with you, too, young +woman, for evermore, amen! And now come; I submit myself to the will of +my marciful Saviour.” + +He looked up to heaven as he spoke, his two hands raised aloft; after +which he covered his venerable head, and, with this pious and noble +instance of resignation, did the affectionate old man proceed, as well +as his feeble limbs could support him, to the county prison, accompanied +by his pious and truly Christian wife. + +As the men were about to go, he who had addressed Sarah so rudely, +approached her with as much regret on his face as its hardened and +habitual indifference to human misery could express, and said, tapping +her on the shoulder: + +“I was rather rough to you, jist now, my purty girl--to' be jabers, it' +is you that is the purty girl. I dunna, by the way, how the ould Black +Prophet came by the likes o' you; but, then he was a handsome vagabond +in his day, himself, an' you are like him.” + +“What do you want to say?” she asked, impatiently; “but stand outside, +I won't speak to you here--your voice would waken a corpse. Here, now,” + she added, having gone out upon the causeway, “what is it?” + +“Why, devil a thing,” he replied; “only you're a betther girl than I +tuck you to be. It's a pitiful case, this--a woful case at his time o' +life. Be heaventhers, but I'd rather a thousand times see Black Boy, +your own precious father, swing, than this poor ould man.” + +A moment's temporary fury was visible, but she paused, and it passed +away; after which she returned slowly and thoughtfully into the cabin. + +It is unnecessary to say, that almost immediately the general rumor +of Dalton's arrest for the murder had gone through the whole parish, +together with the fact that it was upon the evidence of the Black +Prophet and Red Rody Duncan, that the proof of it had been brought home +to him. Upon the former occasion there had been nothing against him, +but such circumstances of strong suspicion as justified the neighboring +magistrates in having him taken into custody. On this, however, the two +men were ready to point out the identical spot where the body had been +buried, and to identify it as that of Bartholomew Sullivan. Nothing +remained, therefore, now that Dalton was in custody, but to hold an +inquest upon the remains, and to take the usual steps for the trial +of Dalton at the following assizes, which were not very far distant. +Indeed, notwithstanding the desolation that prevailed throughout the +country, and in spite of the care and sorrow which disease and death +brought home to so many in the neighborhood, there was a very general +feeling of compassion experienced for poor old Dalton and his afflicted +family. And among those who sympathized with them, there was scarcely +one who expressed himself more strongly upon the subject than Mr. +Travers, the head agent of the property on which they had lived, +especially upon contrasting the extensive farm and respectable +residence, from which their middleman landlord had so harshly and +unjustly ejected them, with the squalid kennel in which they then +endured such a painful and pitiable existence. This gentleman had come +to the neighborhood, in order to look closely into the condition of the +property which had been entrusted to his management, in consequence of +a great number of leases having expired; some of which had been held +by extensive and wealthy middlemen, among the latter of whom was our +friend, Dick o' the Grange. + +The estate was the property of an English, nobleman, who derived an +income of thirty-two or thirty-three thousand a year from it; and who +though, as landlords went, was not, in many respects, a bad one; yet +when called upon to aid in relieving the misery of those from whose toil +he drew so large an income, did actually remit back the munificent sum +of one hundred pounds! [A recent fact.] The agent, himself, was one of +those men who are capable of a just, but not of a generous action. He +could, for instance, sympathize with the frightful condition of the +people--but to contribute to their relief was no part of his duty. Yet +he was not a bad man. In his transactions with his landlord's tenancy, +he was fair, impartial, and considerate. Whenever he could do a good +turn, or render a service, without touching his purse, he would do it. +He had, it is true, very little intercourse with the poorer class of +under tenants, but, whenever circumstances happened to bring them +before him, they found him a hard, just man, who paid attention to their +complaints, but who, in a case of doubt, always preferred the interest +of his employer, or his own, to theirs. He had received many complaints +and statements against the middlemen who resided upon the property, and +he had duly and carefully considered them. His present visit, therefore, +proceeded from a determination to look closely into the state and +condition of the general tenancy, by which he meant as well those who +derived immediately from the head landlord, as those who held under +middlemen. One virtue he possessed, which, in an agent, deserves every +praise; he was inaccessible to bribery on the one hand, or flattery on +the other; and he never permitted his religious or political principles +to degenerate into prejudice, so far as to interfere with the impartial +discharge of his duty. Such was Robert James Travers, Esq., and we only +wish that every agent in the country at large would follow his example. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. -- Re-appearance of the Box--Friendly Dialogue Between +Jimmy Branighan and the Pedlar + + +The next morning but one after the committal of Condy Dalton, the +strange woman who had manifested such an anxious interest in the +recovery of the Tobacco-Box, was seated at her humble fireside, in a +larger and more convenient cottage than that which we have described, +where she was soon joined by Charley Hanlon, who had already made it +so comfortable and convenient that she was able to contribute something +towards her own support, by letting what are termed in the country parts +of Ireland, “Dry Lodgings.” Her only lodger on this occasion was our +friend the pedlar, who had been domiciled with her ever since his +arrival in the neighborhood, and whose principal traffic, we may +observe, consisted in purchasing the flowing and luxuriant heads of hair +which necessity on the one hand, and fear of fever on the other, induced +the country maidens to part with. This traffic, indeed, was very general +during the period we are describing, the fact being that the poor +people, especially the females, had conceived a notion, and not a very +unreasonable one, too, that a large crop of hair not only predisposed +them to the fever which then prevailed, but rendered their recovery from +it more difficult. These notions, to be sure, resulted naturally enough +from the treatment which medical men found it necessary to adopt in +dealing with it--every one being aware that in order to relieve the +head, whether by blister or other application, it is necessary to remove +the hair. Be this, however, as it may, it is our duty to state here that +the traffic we allude to was very general, and that many a lovely and +luxuriant crop came under the shears of the pedlars who then strolled +through the country. + +“Afther all, aunt,” said Hanlon, after having bidden her good morrow, +“I'm afraid it was a foolish weakness to depend upon a dhrame. I see +nothing clear in the business yet. Here now we have got the Box, an' +what are we the nearer to the discovery?” + +“Well,” replied his aunt, for in that relation she stood to him, “is it +nothing to get even that? Sure we know now that it was his, an' do you +think that M'Gowan, or as they call him, the Black Prophet, would be in +sich a state to get it--an' his wife, too, it seems--unless there was +some raison on their part beyond the common, to come at it?” + +“It's a dark business altogether; but arn't we thrown out of all trace +of it in the mane time? Jist when we thought ourselves on the straight +road to the discovery, it turns out to be another an' a different +murdher entirely--the murdher of one Sullivan.” + +At this moment, the pedlar, who had been dressing himself in another +small apartment, made, his appearance, just in time to catch his +concluding words. + +“An' now,” Hanlon added, “it appears that Sullivan's body has been found +at last. The Black Prophet and Body Duncan knows all about the murdher, +an' can prove the act home to Condy Dalton, and identify the body, they +say, besides.” + +The pedlar looked at the speakers with a face of much curiosity and +interest, then mused for a time, and at length took a turn or two about +the floor, after which he sat down and began to drum his fingers on the +little table which had been placed for breakfast. + +“Afther I get my breakfast,” he said at length, “I'll thank you to let +me know what I have to pay. It's not my intention to stop undher this +roof any longer; I don't think I'd be overly safe.” + +“Safe!--arrah why so?” asked the woman. + +“Why,” he replied, “ever since I came here, you have done nothing but +collogue--collogue--an' whisper, an' lay your heads together, an' divil +a syllable can I hear that hasn't murdher at the front an' rear of +it--either spake out, or get me my bill. If you're of that stamp, it's +time for me to thravel; not that I'm so rich as to make it worth any +body's while to take the mouthful of wind out o' me that's in me. What +do you mean by this discoorse?” + +“May God rest the sowls of the dead!” replied the woman, “but it's not +for nothing that we talk as we do, an' if you knew but all, you wouldn't +think so.” + +“Very likely,” he replied, in a dry but dissatisfied voice; “maybe, sure +enough, that the more I'd know of it, the less I'd like of it--here now +is a man named Sullivan--Barney, Bill, or Bartley, or some sich name, +that has been murdhered, an' it seems the murdherer was sent to gaol +yestherday evenin'--the villain! Get me my bill, I say, it's an unsafe +neighborhood, an' I'll take myself out of it, while I'm able.” + +“It's not widout raisin we talk of murdher then,” replied the woman. + +“Faith may be so--get me my bill, then, I bid you, an' in the mane time, +let me have, my breakfast. As it is, I tell you both that I carry no +money to signify about me.” + +“Tell him the truth, aunt,” said Hanlon, “there's no use in lyin' under +his suspicion wrongfully, or allowin' him to lave your little place for +no raison.” + +“The truth is, then,” she proceeded, throwing the corner of her apron +over her left shoulder, and rocking herself to and fro, “that this young +man had a dhrame some time ago--he dremt that a near an' dear friend of +his an' of mine too, that was murdhered in this neighborhood, appeared +to him, an' that he desired him to go of a sartain night, at the hour of +midnight, to a stone near this, called the Grey Stone, an' that there he +would get a clue to the murdherer.” + +'Well, an' did he?” + +“He went--an'--but you had betther tell it yourself, avillish,” she +added, addressing Hanlon; “you know best.” + +The pedlar instantly fixed his anxious and lively eyes on the young man, +intimating that he looked to him for the rest of the story. + +“I went,” proceeded Hanlon, “and you shall hear everything that +happened.” + +It is unnecessary for us, however, to go over the same ground a second +time. Hanlon minutely detailed to him all that had taken place at +the Grey Stone, precisely as it occurred, if we allow for a slight +exaggeration occasioned by his terrors, and the impressions of +supernatural manifestations which they left upon his imagination. + +The pedlar heard all the circumstances with an astonishment which +changed his whole bearing into that of deep awe and the most breathless +attention. The previous eccentricity of his manner by degrees abandoned +him; and as Hanlon proceeded, he frequently looked at him in a state of +abstraction, then raised his eyes towards heaven, uttering, from time +to time, “Merciful Father!”--“Heaven preserve us!” and such like, thus +accompanying him by a running comment of exclamations as he went along. + +“Well,” said he, when Hanlon had concluded, “surely the hand of God is +in this business; you may take that for granted.” + +“I would fain hope as much,” replied Hanlon; “but as the matthers +stand now, we're nearly as far from it as ever. Instead of gettin' any +knowledge of the murdherer we want to discover, it proves to be the +murdher of Sullivan that has been found out.” + +“Of Sullivan!” he exclaimed; “well, to be sure--oh, ay--well, sure that +same is something; but, in the mane time, will you let me look at this +Box you spoke of? I feel a curiosity to see it.” + +Hanlon rose and taking the Box from a small deal chest which was +strongly locked, placed it in the pedlar's hands. After examining it +closely for about half a minute, they could observe that he got very +pale, and his hands began to tremble, as he held and turned it about in +a manner that was very remarkable. + +“Do you say,” he asked, in an agitated voice, “that you have no manes of +tracin' the murdher?” + +“None more than what we've tould you.” + +“Did this Box belong to the murdhered man?--I mane, do you think he had +it about him at the time of his death?” + +“Ay, an' for some time before it,” replied the woman. “It's all +belongin' to him that we can find now.” + +“And you got it in the keeping of this M'Gowan, the Black Prophet, you +say?” + +“We did,” replied the woman, “from his daughter, at all events.” + +“Who is this Black Prophet?” he asked; “or what is he? for that comes +nearer the mark. Where did he come from, where does he live, an' what +way does he earn his bread?” + +“The boy here,” she replied, pointing to Hanlon, “can tell you that +betther than I can; for although I've been at his place three or four +times, I never laid eyes on him yet.” + +“Well,” continued the pedlar, “you have both a right to be thankful that +you tould me this. I now see the hand of God in the whole business. I +know this box an' I can tell you something that will surprise you more +than that. Listen--but wait--I hear somebody's foot. No matter--I'll +surprise you both by an' by.” + +“Godsave all here,” said the voice of our friend, Jemmy Branigan, who +immediately entered. “In troth, this change is for the betther, at any +rate,” said he, looking at the house; “I gave you a lift wid the masther +yestherday,” he added, turning to the woman. “I think I'll get him to +throw the ten shillings off--he as good as promised me he would.” + +“Masther!” exclaimed the pedlar, bitterly--“oh, thin, it's he that's the +divil's masther, by all accounts, an' the divil's landlord, too. Be me +sowl, he'll get a warm corner down here;” and as he uttered the +words, he very significantly stamped with his heel, to intimate the +geographical position of the place alluded to. + +“It would be only manners to wait till your opinion is axed of him,” + replied Jemmy; “so mind your pack, you poor sprissaun, or when you do +spake, endeavor to know something of what you're discoorsin' about. +Masther, indeed! Divil take your impidence!” + +“He's a scourge to the counthry,” continued the pedlar; “a worse +landlord never faced the sun.” + +“That's what we call in this part of the counthry--a lie,” replied +Jemmy. “Do you understand what that manes?” + +“No one knows what an' outrageous ould blackguard he is betther than +yourself,” proceeded the pedlar; “an' how he harrishes the poor.” + +“That's ditto repated,” responded Jemmy; “you're improvrn'--but tell me +now do you know any one that he harrished?” + +This was indeed a hazardous question on the part of Jemmy; who, by the +way, put it solely upon the presumption of the peddlar's ignorance of +Dick's proceedings as a landlord, in consequence of his (the pedlar) +being a stranger. + +“Who did you ever know that he harrished, i' you please?” + +“Look at the Daltons,” replied the other; “what do you call his conduct +to them?” + +Jemmy, who, whenever he felt himself deficient in truth, always made +up for the want of it by warmth of temper, now turned shortly upon his +antagonist, and replied, in a spirit very wide of the argument-- + +“What do I call his conduct to them? What do you call the nose on your +face, my codger? Divil a sich an impident crature ever I met.” + +“It would be no wondher that the curse o' God would come on him for his +tratement to that unfortunate and respectable family,” responded the +pedlar. + +“The curse o' God knows where to fall best,” replied Jemmy, “or it's not +in the county jail ould Condy Dalton 'ud be for murdher this day.” + +“But,” returned the other, “isn't it a disgraceful thing to be, as they +say he and yourself is, a pair o' scourges in the hands o' God for your +fellow-creatures; an' in troth you're both fit for it by all accounts.” + +“Troth,” replied Jemmy, whose gall was fast rising, “it's a scourge wid +nine tails to it ought to go to your back. The Daltons desarved all +they got at his hands; an' the same pack was never anything else than a +hot-brained crew, that 'ud knock you on the head to-day, and groan over +you to-morrow. He sarved them right, an' he's a liar that says to the +contrary; so if you have a pocket for that put it in it.” + +Jemmy, in fact, was now getting rapidly into a towering passion, for it +mattered little how high in violence his own pitched battles with Dick +ran, he never suffered, nor could suffer a human being to abuse his +master behind his back, but himself. So confirmed, however, by habit, +was his spirit of contradiction, that had the pedlar begun to praise +Dick, Jemmy would immediately have attacked him without remorse, and +scarcely have left a rag of his character together. + +“It's a shame for you,” proceeded the pedlar, “to defend an' ould sinner +like him; but then as there's a pair of you, that's not unnatural; every +rogue will back his brother. I could name the place, any way, that'll +hould you both yet.” + +“An' I could,” replied Jemmy, “name the piece of machinery that'll be +apt to hould you, if you give the masther any more abuse. Whether you'll +grow in it or not, is more than I know, but be me sowl, we'll plant you +there any how. Do you know what the stocks manes? Faith, many a spare +hour you've sarved there, I go bail, that is, when, you had nothing else +to do--an' by the way of raycreation jist.” + +“Ay,” said the pedlar, “listen how he sticks to the ould villain--but +sure, if you put any other two blisthers together, they'll do the same.” + +“My own opinion is,” observed Hanlon's aunt, “that it's a pity of the +Daltons, at any raite. Every one feels for them--but still the hand o' +God an' his curse, I'm afeard, is upon them.” + +“An' that's more, maybe, than you know,” replied Jemmy. “Maybe God's +only punishing them, bekaise he loves them. It's good to have our +suffering in this world.” + +“Afther all,” said the pedlar, “I'm afeard myself, too, that the wrath +o' the Almighty has marked them out. Indeed, I'm sure of it.” + +“An' maybe that's not the only lie you're sure of,” replied Jemmy. “It's +a subject, any way, you don't undherstand. No,” he proceeded, “by all +accounts, Charley, it would wring any one's heart to see him taken away +in his ould age from his miserable family and childre, and then he's so +humble, too, and so resigned to the will an' way o' God. He's lyin' +ill in the gaol. I seen him yestherday--I went to see him an' to say +whatever I could to comfort him. God pity his gray hairs! an'--hem--have +compassion on him and his this day!” + +The poor fellow's heart could stand the sudden contemplation of Dalton's +sorrow no longer--and on uttering the last words he fairly wept. + +“If I had known what it was about,” he proceeded; “but that ould +scoundrel of a Prophet--ay, an' that other ould scoundrel of a masther +o' mine--hem ay--whish--but--what am I sayin'?--but if I had known it, +'ud go hard but I'd give him a lift--so that he might get out o' the +way, at any rate.” + +“Ay,” said the pedlar, “at any rate, indeed--faith, you may well say +it; but I say, that at any rate he'll be hanged as sure as he murdhered +Sullivan, and as sure as he did, that he may swing, I pray this day!” + +“I'll hould no more discoorse wid that circulatin' vagabone,” replied +Jemmy; “I'm a Christian man--a peaceable man; an' I know what my +religion ordhers me to do when I meet the likes of him--and that is when +he houlds the one cheek towardst me to give him a sound Christian rap +upon the other. So to the divil I pitch, you, you villain, sowl and +body, an' that's the worst I wish you. If you choose to be unchristian, +be so; but, be my sowl, I'll not set you the example. Charley,” he +proceeded, addressing Hanlon, “I was sent for you in a hurry. Masther +Dick wants you, and so does Red Rody--the villain! and I tell you to +take care of him, for, like that vagabone, Judas, he'd kiss you this +minute and betray you the next.” + +“I believe you're purty near the truth,” replied Jemmy, “but I was near +forgettin'--it seems the Crowner of the country is sick, an' there can't +be an inquest held till he recovers; if he ever does recover, an' if +it 'ud sarve poor ould Dalton, that he never may, I pray God this +day!--come away, you'll be killed for stayin'.” + +Just then young Henderson himself called Hanlon forth, who, after some +conversation with him, turned towards the garden, where he held a second +conference with Red Rody, who, on leaving him appeared in excellent +spirits, and kept winking and nodding, with a kind of burlesque good +humor, at every one whom he knew, until he reached home. + +In this state stood the incidents of our narrative, suspended for +some time by the illness of the coroner, when Mr. Travers, himself a +magistrate, came to the head inn of the county town in which he always +put up, and where he held his office. He had for several days previously +gone over the greater portion of the estate, and inspected the actual +condition of the tenantry on it. It is unnecessary to say that he was +grieved at the painful consequences of the middleman system, and of +sub-letting in general. Wherever he went, he found the soil in many +places covered with hordes of pauper occupants, one holding under +another in a series that diminished from bad to worse in everything but +numbers, until he arrived at a state of destitution that was absolutely! +disgraceful to humanity. And what rendered this state of things doubly +painful and anomalous was the fact, that while these starving wretches +lived upon his employer's property, they had no claim on him as a +landlord, nor could he recognize them as tenants. It is true that these +miserable creatures, located upon small patches of land, were obliged +to pay their rents to the little tyrant who was over them, and he +again, probably to a still more important little tyrant, and so on; but +whenever it happened that the direct tenant, or any one of the series, +neglected to pay his or their rent, of course the landlord had no other +remedy than to levy it from off the soil, thus rendering it by no means +an unfrequent case that the small occupiers who owed nothing to him +or those above them were forced to see their property applied to the +payment of the head rent, in consequence of the inability, neglect, or +dishonesty of the middleman, or some other subordinate individual from +whom, they held. This was a state of things which Mr. Travers wished to +abolish, but to do so, without inflicting injury, however unintentional, +or occasioning harshness to the people, was a matter not merely +difficult but impossible. As we are not, however, writing a treatise +upon the management of property, we shall confine ourselves simply to +the circumstances only of such of the tenants as have enacted a part in +our narrative. + +About a week had now elapsed since the abusive contest between Jemmy +Branigan and the pedlar; the coroner was beginning to recover, and +Charley Hanlon's aunt had disappeared altogether from the neighborhood. +Previous to her departure, however, she, her nephew, and the pedlar, had +several close, and apparently interesting conferences, into which their +parish priest, the Rev. Anthony Devlin, was ultimately admitted. It +was clear, indeed, that whatever secret the pedlar communicated, had +inspired both Hanlon and his aunt with fresh energy in their attempts to +discover the murderer of their relative; and there could be little doubt +that the woman's disappearance from the scene of its perpetration was in +some way connected with the steps they were taking to bring everything +connected with it to light. + +Travers, already acquainted with the committal of old Dalton, as he was +with all the circumstances of his decline and eviction from his farm, +was sitting in his office, about twelve o'clock, when our friend, the +pedlar, bearing a folded paper in his hand, presented himself, with a +request that he might be favored with a private interview. This, without +any difficulty, was granted, and the following dialogue took place +between them:-- + +“Well, my good friend,” said the agent; “what is the nature of this +private business of yours?” + +“Why, plase your honor, it's a petition in favor of ould Condy Dalton.” + +“A petition! Of what use is a petition to Dalton? Is he not now in gaol, +on a charge of murder? You would not have me attempt to obstruct the +course of justice, would you? The man will get a fair trial, I hope.” + +“I hope so, your honor; but this petition is not about the crime the +unfortunate man is in for; it's an humble prayer to your honor, hopin' +you might restore him--or, I ought rather to say, his poor family, to +the farm that they wor so cruelly put out of. Will your honor read it, +sir, and look into it, bekaise, at any rate, it sets forth too common a +case.” + +“I am partly acquainted with the circumstances, already; however, let me +see the paper.” + +“The pedlar placed it in Mr. Travers' hands,--who on looking over it, +read, somewhat to his astonishment, as follows:-- + +“The humble petition of Cornelius Dalton, to his Honor, Mr. John Robert +Travers, Esq., on behalf of himself, his Wife, and his afflicted family; +now lying in a state of almost superhuman Destitution--by Eugenius +M'Grane, Philomath and classical Instructor in the learned Languages +of Latin, English, and the Hibernian Vernacular, with an inceptive +Initiation into the Rudiments of Greek, as far as the Gospel of St. John +the Divine; attended with copious Disquisitions on the relative Merits +of moral and physical Philosophy, as contrasted with the pusillanimous +Lectures of that Ignoramus of the first Water, Phadrick M'Swagger, +falsely calling himself Philomath--_cum multis aliis quos enumerare +longum est_: + +“Humbly Sheweth-- + +“That Cornelius Dalton, late of Cargah, gentleman agriculturist, held +a farm of sixty-six Irish acres, under the Right Honorable (the reverse +could be proved with sound and legitimate logic) Lord Mollyborough, an +absentee nobleman, and proprietor of the Tullystretchem estate. That the +said Cornelius Dalton entered upon the farm of Cargah, with a handsome +capital and abundant stock, as became a man bent on improving it, for +both the intrinsic and external edification and comfort of himself and +family. That the rent was originally very high; and, upon complaint of +this, several well indited remonstrances, urged with most persuasive +and enthusiastic eloquence, as the inditer hereof can testify, were +most insignificantly and superciliously disregarded. That the said +Mr. Cornelius Dalton persisted notwithstanding this great act of +contemptuosity and discouragement to his creditable and industrious +endeavors, to expend, upon the aforesaid farm, in solid and valuable +improvements, a sum of seven hundred pounds and upwards, in building, +draining, enclosing, and manuring--all of which improvements +transcendantly elevated the value of the farm in question, as the whole +rational population of the country could depose to--_me ipso teste +quoque_. That when this now highly emendated tenement was brought to the +best condition of excellence of which it was susceptible, the middleman +landlord--_va miseris agricolis!_--called upon him for an elevation +of rent, which was reluctantly complied with, under the tyrannical +alternative of threatened ejection, incarceration of cattle, &c, &c, +and many other proceedings equally inhuman and iniquitous. That this +rack-rent, being now more than the land could pay, began to paralyze the +efforts, and deteriorate the condition of the said Mr. Cornelius Dalton; +and which, being concatenated with successive failures in his crops, +and mortality among his cattle, occasioned him, as it were, to retrogade +from his former state; and in the course of a few calamitous years, to +decline, by melancholy gradation and oppressive treatment from Richard +Henderson, Esq., J.P., his landlord, to a state of painful struggle and +poverty. That the said Richard Henderson, Esq., his unworthy landlord, +having been offered a still higher rent, from a miserable disciple, +named Darby Skinadre, among others, unfeelingly availed himself of +Dalton's _res augusta_--and under play of his privileges as a landlord, +levied an execution upon his property, auctioned him out, and expelled +him from the farm; thus turning a respectable man and his family, +hopeless and houseless, beggars upon the world, to endure misery +and destitution. That the said Mr. Cornelius Dalton, now plain Corny +Dalton--for vile poverty humilifies even the name--or rather his +respectable family, among whom, _facile princeps_, for piety and +unshaken trust in her Redeemer, stands his truly unparalleled wife, are +lying in a damp wet cabin within about two hundred perches of his +former residence, groaning with the agonies of hunger, destitution, +dereliction, and disease, in such a state of complicated and multiform +misery as rarely falls to the lot of human eyes to witness. That the +burthen and onus of this petition is, to humbly supplicate that Mr. +Cornelius Dalton, or rather his afflicted and respectable family, may +be reinstated in their farm as aforesaid, or if not, that Richard +Henderson, J.P., may be compelled to swallow such a titillating emetic +from the head landlord as shall compel him to eructate to this oppressed +and plundered man all the money he expended in making improvements, +which remain to augment the value of the farm, but which, at the same +time, were the means of ruining himself and his most respectable family: +for, as the bard says, '_sio vos non vobis_,' &c, &c. Of the remainder +of this appropriate quotation, your honor cannot be incognizant, or +any man who has had the advantage of being college-bred, as every true +gentleman or '_homo factus ad unguem_' must have, otherwise he fails to +come under this category.--And your petitioner will ever pray.” + +“Are you the Mr. Eugenius McGrane,” asked the agent, “who drew up this +extraordinary document?” + +“No, your honor; I'm only merely a friend of the Daltons, although a +stranger in the neighborhood.” + +“But what means have Dalton or his family, granting that he escapes +from this charge of murder that's against him, of stocking or working so +large a farm? I am aware myself that the contents of this petition, with +all its pedantry, are too true.” + +“But consider, sir, that he sunk seven hundred pounds in it, an' that, +according to everything like fair play, he ought either to get his farm +again, at a raisonable rate, or his money that raised its value for the +landlord, back again; sure, that's but fair, your honor.” + +“I'm not here to discuss the morality of the subject, my good friend, +neither do I question the truth of your argument, simply as you put it. +I only say, that what you ask, is impracticable. You probably know not +Dick o' the Grange, for you say you are a stranger--if you did, you +would not put yourself to the trouble of getting even a petition for +such a purpose written.” + +“It's a hard case, your honor.” + +“It is a hard case; but the truth is, I see nothing that can be done for +the Daltons. To talk of putting a family, in such a state as they are +now in, back again, upon such a farm, is stark nonsense--without stock +or capital of any kind--the thing is ridiculous.” + +“But suppose they had stock and capital?” + +“Why, then, they certainly would have the best right to the farm--but +where's the use of talking about stock or capital, so far as they are +concerned?” + +“I wish your honor would interfere for an oppressed and ill-treated +family, against as great a rogue, by all accounts, as ever broke +bread--I wish you would make me first sure that they'd get their farm.” + +“To what purpose, I say?” + +“Why, sir, for a raison I have. If your honor will make me sure that +they'll get their land again, that's all I want.”' + +“What is your reason? Have you capital, and are you willing to assist +them?” + +The pedlar shook his head. “Is it the likes o' me, your honor? No, but +maybe it might be made up for them some way.” + +“I believe,” said the agent, “that your intentions are good; only that +they are altogether impracticable. However, a thought strikes me. Go to +Dick o' the Grange, and lay your case before him. Ask a new lease +for your friends, the Daltons--of course he won't give it; but at all +events, come back to me, and let me know, as nearly in his own words as +you can, what answer he will give you; go now, that is all that I can do +for you in the matter.” + +“Barrin' this, your honor, that set in case the poor heart-broken +Daltons wor to get capital some way.” + +“Perhaps,” said Travers, interrupting him, “you can assist them.” + +“Oh, if I could!--no, but that set in case, as I said, that it was to be +forthcomin', you persave. Me!--oh, the Lord that _I was_ able!” + +“Very well,” replied the other, anxious to rid himself of the pedlar, +“that will do, now. You are, I perceive, one of those good-natured, +speculating creatures, who are anxious to give hope and comfort to every +one. The world has many like you; and it often happens, that when some +good fortune does throw the means of doing good into your power, you +turn out to be a poor, pitiful, miserable crew, without actual heart +or feeling. Goodbye, now. I have no more time to spare--try Dick o' the +Grange himself, and let me know his answer.” + +So saying, he rang the bell, and our friend the pedlar, by no means +satisfied with the success of his interview, took his leave. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. -- Darby in Danger--Nature Triumphs. + +The mild and gentle Mave Sullivan, with all her natural grace and +unobtrusive modesty, was yet like many of the fair daughters of her +country, possessed of qualities which frequently lie dormant in the +heart until some trying calamity or startling event of more than +ordinary importance, awakens them into life and action. Indeed, any one +in the habit of observing the world, may have occasionally noticed, that +even within the range of his own acquaintances, there has been many a +quiet and apparently diffident girl, without pretence or affectation of +any kind, who when some unexpected and stunning blow has fallen either +upon herself or upon some one within the circle of her affections, has +manifested a spirit so resolute or a devotion so heroic, that she has at +once constituted herself the lofty example whom all admire and endeavor +to follow. The unrecorded calamities of ordinary life, and the annals +of human affection, as they occur from day to day around us, are full of +such noble instances of courage and self sacrifice on the part of woman +for the sake of those who are dear to her. Dear, holy, and heroic woman! +how frequently do we who too often sneer at your harmless vanities +and foibles, forget the light by which your love so often dispels the +darkness of our affliction, and the tenderness with which your delicious +sympathy charms our sorrows and our sufferings to rest, when nothing +else can succeed in giving us one moment's consolation! + +The situation of the Daltons, together with the awful blow which fell +upon them at a period of such unexampled misery, had now become the +melancholy topic of conversation among their neighbors, most, if +not all, of whom were, however, so painfully absorbed in their own +individual afflictions either of death, or famine, or illness, as to +be able to render them no assistance. Such as had typhus in their own +families were incapable of attending to the wants or distress of others, +and such as had not, acting under the general terror of contagion which +prevailed, avoided the sick houses as they would a plague. + +On the morning after old Dalton's removal to prison, Jerry Sullivan +and his family were all assembled around a dull fire, the day being, as +usual, so wet that it was impossible to go out unless upon some matter +of unusual importance; there was little said, for although they had +hitherto escaped the fever, still their sufferings and struggles were +such as banished cheerfulness from among them. Mave appeared more pale +and dejected than they had ever yet seen her, and it was noticed by one +or two of the family, that she had been occasionally weeping in some +remote corner of the house where she thought she might do so without +being observed. + +“Mave, dear,” said her father, “what is the matter wid you? You look, +darlin', to be in very low spirits to-day. Were you cryin'?” + +She raised her large innocent eyes upon him, and they instantly filled +with tears. + +“I can't keep it back from you, father,” she replied, “let me do as I +will--an' oh, father dear, when we look out upon the world that is in +it, an' when we see how the hand o' God is takin' away so many from +among us, and when we see how the people everywhere is sufferin' and +strugglin' wid so much--how one is here this day, and in a week to come +in the presence of their Judge! Oh, surely, when we see all the doin's +of death and distress about us, we ought to think that it's no time to +harbor hatred or any other bad or unchristian feelin's in our hearts!” + +“It is not, indeed, darlin'; an' I hope nobody here does.” + +“No,” she replied; and as she spoke, the vibrations of sorrow and of +sympathy shook her naturally sweet voice into that tender expression +which touches the heart of the hearer with such singular power--“no, +father,” she proceeded, “I hope not; religion teaches us a different +lesson--not only to forgive our enemies, but to return good for evil.” + +“It does, _achora machree_,” replied her father, whose eyes expressed a +kind of melancholy pride, as he contemplated his beautiful but sorrowful +looking girl, giving utterance to truths which added an impressive and +elevated character to her beauty. + +“Young and ould, _achushla machree_, is fallin' about us in every +direction; but may the Father of Mercy spare you to us, my darlin' +child, for if anything was to happen you, where--Oh, where could we look +upon your aiquil, or find anything that could console us for your loss?” + +“If it's my fate to go, father, I'll go, an if it isn't God will take +care of me; whatever comes, I'm resigned to His will.” + +“Ay, dear, an' you ever wor, too--and for the same raison God's blessin' +will be upon you; but what makes you look so low, avourneen? I trust in +my Saviour, you are not unwell, Mave, dear.” + +“Thanks be to God, no, father; but there's a thing on my mind, that's +distressin' me very much, an' I hope you'll allow me my way in it.” + +“I may say so, dear; because I know you wouldn't ax me for anything that +'ud be wrong to grant you. What is it, Mave?” + +“It's the unhappy an' miserable state that these poor Daltons is in,” + she replied. “Father, dear, forgive me for what I'm about to say; for, +although it may make you angry, there's nothin' farther from my heart +than to give you offence.” + +“You needn't tell me so, Mave; you need not, indeed; but sure you know, +darlin', that unfortunately, we have nothing in our power to do for +them; I wish to the Lord we had! Didn't we do all that people in our +poor condition could do for them? Didn't you, yourself, achora, make us +send them such little assistance as we could spare?--ay, even to sharin' +I may say, our last morsel wid them; an' now, darlin', you know we +haven't it.” + +“I know that,” she replied, as she wiped away the tears; “where is there +a poorer family than we are, sure enough? but, father, dear; we can +assist them--relieve them; ay, maybe save them--for all that.” + +“God be praised then!” exclaimed Sullivan; “only show me how, an' we'll +be glad to do it; for I can forget everything now, Mave, but their +distress.” + +“But do you know the condition they're in at this moment?” she asked, +“do you know, father, that they're stretched on the bed of sickness? I +mean Nancy an'--an' young Con, who has got into a relapse; poor Mary is +scarcely able to go about, she's so badly recovered from the fever; an' +Tom, the wild unfortunate young man, is out of his senses, they say. +Then there's nobody to look to them but Mrs. Dalton herself; an' she, +you know, has to go 'out' to ask their poor bit from the neighbors. Only +think,” she proceeded, with a fresh burst of sorrow, “oh, only think, +father, of sich a woman bein' forced to this!” + +“May the Lord pity her an' them, this woeful day!” exclaimed Sullivan. + +“Now, father,” proceeded Mave; “I know--oh who knows better or so +well--what a good an' a kind an' a forgivin' heart you have; an' I know +that even in spite of the feelin' that was, and maybe is, upon your mind +against them, you'll grant me my wish in what I'm goin' to ask.” + +“What is it then?--let me hear it.” + +“It's this: you know that here, in our family I can do nothing to help +ourselves--that is, there is nothing for me to do--an' I feel the time +hang heavy on my hands. I have been thinkin', father dear, of this +miserable state the poor Daltons is in, without any one to attend them +in their sickness--to say a kind word to them, or to hand them even a +drink of clean water, if they wanted it. Them that hasn't got the fever +yet, won't go near them for fear of catchin' it. What, then, will become +of them? There they are, without the face, or hand, or voice of kindness +about them. Oh, what on God's blessed earth will become of them? They +may die an' they must die, for want of care and assistance.” + +“But sure that's not our fault, dear Mave; we can't help them.” + +“We can, father--an' we must; for if we don't they'll die. Father,” she +added, laying her wasted hand in his; “it is my intention to go over to +them--an' as I have nothing that I can do at home, to spend the greater +part of the day with them in takin' care of them--an'--an' in doin' what +I can for them, Yes, father dear--it is my intention--for there is none +but me to do it for them.” + +“Saviour of earth, Mave dear, is it mad you are? You, _achora machree_, +that's! dearer to us all than the apple of our eye, or the very pulse of +our hearts--to let you into a plague-house--to let you near the deadly +faver that's upon them--where you'd be sure to catch it; an' then--oh, +blessed Father. Mave what's come over you, to think of sich a +thing?--ay, or to think that we'd let you expose yourself? But it's all +the goodness and kindness of your affectionate heart; put it out of your +head, however--don't name it, or let us hear of it again.” + +“But, father, it's a duty that our religion teaches us.” + +“Why--what's come over you, Mave?--all at wanst too--you that was so +much afeard of it that you wouldn't go on a windy side of a feverish +house, nor walk near any one that was even recoverin' from it. Why, +what's come over you?” + +“Simply, father, the thought if I don't go to them and help them, they +will die. I was afeard of the fever, and I am afeard of it--but am I to +let my own foolish fears prevent me from doin' the part of a Christian +to them? Let us put ourselves in their place--an' who knows--although +may God forbid!--but it may be our own before the season passes--suppose +it was our own case--an' that all the world was afeard to come near us; +oh, what would we think of any one, man or woman, that trustin' in God, +would set their own fears at defiance, an' come to our relief.” + +“Mave, I couldn't think of it; if anything happened you, an' that we +lost you, I never would lay my head down without the bitther thought +that I had a hand in your death.” + +At this moment, the mother who had been in another room, came in to +the kitchen--and having listened for a minute to the subject of their +conversation, she immediately joined her husband; but still with +feelings of deep and almost tearful sympathy for the Daltons. + +“It's like her, poor affectionate girl,” she exclaimed, looking tenderly +at her daughter; “but it's a thing, Mave, we could never think of; so +put it out of your head.” + +She approached her mother, and, seizing her hands, exclaimed:-- + +“Oh, mother, for the sake of the livin' God, make it your own +case!--think of it--bring it home to you--look into the frightful state +they're in. Are they to die in a Christian country for want of some kind +person to attend upon them? Is it not our duty, when we know how they +are sufferin'? I cannot rest, or be at ease; an' I am not afeard of +fever here. You may say I love young Condy Dalton, an' that it is on +his account I am wishin' to go. Maybe it is; an' I will now tell you at +wanst, that I do love him, and that if it was the worst plague that ever +silenced the noise of life in a whole country, it wouldn't prevent me +from goin' to his relief, nor to the relief of any one belongin' to +him.” + +“I know,” said her father, “that that was at the bottom of it.” + +“I do love him,” she continued, “an' this is more than ever I had +courage to tell you openly before; but, father, I feel that I am called +upon here to go to their assistance, and to see that they don't die +from neglect in a Christian country. I have trust an' confidence in the +Almighty God. I am not afeard of fever now; and even if I take it an' +die, you both know that I'll die in actin' the part of a Christian girl; +an' what brighter hope could anything bring to us than the happiness +that such a death would open to me? But here I feel that the strength +and protection of God is upon me, and I will not die.” + +“That's all very well Mave,” said her mother; “but if you took it, and +did die--oh, darlin'------” + +“In God's name, then, I'll take my chance, an' do the duty that I feel +myself called upon to do; and, father dear, just think for a minute--the +thrue Christian doesn't merely forgive the injury but returns good for +evil; and then, above all things, let us make it our own case. As I said +before, if we were as they are--lyin' racked with pain, burnin' with +druth, the head splittin', the whole strength gone--not able, maybe, to +spake, and hardly able to make a sign--to wake ourselves, to put a drink +to our lips;--suppose, I say, we wor lyin' in this state, an' that all +the world had deserted us--oh, wouldn't we say that any fellow-crature +that had the kindness and the courage to come and aid us--wet our lips, +raise our heads, and cheer our sinkin' hearts by the sound of their +voice alone--oh, wouldn't we say that it was God that in His mercy put +it into their heart to come to us, and relieve us, and save us?” + +The mother's feelings gave way at this picture; and she said, addressing +her husband-- + +“Jerry, maybe it's right that she should go, bekaise, afther all, what +if it's God Himself that has put it into her heart?” + +He shook his head, but it was clear that his opposition began to waver. + +“Think of the danger,” he replied; “think of that. Still if I thought it +was God's own will that was setting her to it--” + +“Father,” she replied, “let us do what is right, and lave the rest to +God Himself. Surely you aren't afeard to trust in _Him_. I may take +the fever here at home, without goin' at all, and die; for if it's His +blessed will that I should die of it, nothing can save me, let me go or +stay where I plaise; and if it's not, it matthers little where I go; His +divine grace and goodness will take care of me and protect me. It's to +God Himself, then, you are trustin' me, an' that ought to satisfy you.” + +Her parents looked at each other--then at her; and, with tears in their +eyes, as if they had been parting with her as for a sacrifice, they +gave a consent, in which that humble confidence in the will of God +which constitutes the highest order of piety, was blended with a natural +yearning and terror of the heart, lest they were allowing her to place +herself rashly within the fatal reach of the contagion which prevailed. +Having obtained their permission, she lost very little time in preparing +for the task she had proposed to execute. A very small portion of meal, +and a little milk, together with one or two jugs of gruel, whey, &c, she +put under her cloak; and after getting the blessings of her parents, +and kissing them and the rest of the family, she departed upon her +pious--her sublime mission, followed by the tears and earnest prayers of +her whole family. + +How anomalous, and full of mysterious and inexplicable impulses is +the human heart! Mave Sullivan, who, in volunteering to attend at the +contagious beds of the unfortunate Daltons, gave singular and noble +proof of the most heroic devotedness, absolutely turned from the common +road, on her way to their cabin, rather than meet the funeral of a +person who had died of fever, and on one or two occasions kept aloof +from men who she knew to be invalids by the fact of their having +handkerchiefs about their heads--a proof, in general, that they had been +shaved or blistered, while laboring under its severest form. + +When she had gone within about a quarter of a mile of her destination, +she met two individuals, whose relative positions indicated anything but +a state of friendly feeling between them. The persons we allude to were +Thomas Dalton and the miserable object of his vengeance, Darby Skinadre. +Our readers are aware that Sarah caused Darby to accompany her, for +safety, to the cabin of the Daltons, as she feared that, should young +Dalton again meet him at the head of his mob, and he in such a furious +and unsettled state, the hapless miser might fall a victim to his +vengeance. No sooner, therefore, had the meal-monger heard Tom's name +mentioned by his father, when about to proceed to prison, than he left +a dark corner of the cabin, into which he had slunk, and, passing out, +easily disappeared, without being noticed, in the state of excitement +which prevailed. + +The very name of Tom reminded him that he was in his father's house, and +that should he return, and find him there, he might expect little mercy +at his hands. Tom, however, amidst the melancholy fatuity under which he +labored, never forgot that he had an account to settle with Skinadre. +It ran through his unsettled understanding like a sound thread through +a damaged web; for ever and anon his thought and recollection would turn +to Peggy Murtagh, and the miser's refusal to give her credit for the +food she asked of him. During the early part of that day he had +gone about with a halter in his hand, as if seeking some particular +individual; and whenever he chanced to be questioned as to his object, +he always replied with a wild and ferocious chuckle-- + +“The fellow that killed her!--the fellow that killed her!” + +Upon the present occasion, Mave was surprised by meeting him and the +miser, whom he must have met accidentally, walking side by side, but in +a position which gave fearful intimation of Dalton's purpose respecting +him. Around the unfortunate wretch's neck was the halter aforesaid, +made into a running noose, while, striding beside him, went his wild and +formidable companion, holding the end of it in his hand, and eyeing +him from time to time with a look of stupid but determined ferocity. +Skinadre's appearance and position were ludicrously and painfully +helpless. His face was so pale and thin that it was difficult to see, +even in those frightfuf times of sickness and famine, a countenance from +which they were more significantly reflected. He was absolutely +shrunk up with terror into half his size, his little thin, corded neck +appearing as if it were striving unsuccessfully to work its way down +into his trunk, and his small ferret eyes looking about in every +direction for some one to extricate him out of the deadly thrall in +which he was held. Mave, who had been aware of the enmity which his +companion bore him, as well as of its cause, and fearing that the halter +was intended to hang the luckless mealman, probably upon the next tree +they came to, did not, as many another female would do, avoid or run +away from the madman. On the contrary, she approached him with an +expression singularly winning and sweet on her countenance, and in +a voice of great kindness, laid her hand upon his arm to arrest his +attention, asked him how he did. He paused a moment, and looking upon +her with a dull but turbid eye, exclaimed with an insane laugh, pointing +at the same time, to the miser--“This is the fellow that killed her--ha, +ha, ha, but I have him now--here he is in the noose; in the noose. Ay, +an' I swore it, an' there's another, too, that's to get it, but I won't +rob any body, nor join in that at all; I'll hang him here, though--ha, +Darby, I have you now.” + +As he spoke, poor Skinadre received a chuck of the halter which almost +brought his tongue out as far as in the throttling process which we have +before described. + +“Mave, achora,” said he, looking at her after his recovery from the +powerful jerk he had just got, “for the sake of heaven, try an' save my +life; if you don't he'll never let me out of his hands a livin' man.” + +“Don't be alarmed, Darby,” she replied, “poor Tom won't injure you; so +far from that, he'll take the halter from about your neck, an' let you +go. Won't you let poor Darby go, Tom?” + +“I will,” he replied, “after I hang him--ha, ha, ha; 'twas he that +killed her; he let her die wid hunger, but now he'll swing for it, ha, +ha!” + +These words were accompanied by another chuck, which pulled miserable +Skinadre almost off his legs. + +“Tom, for shame,” said Mave, “why would you do sich an unmanly thing +with this poor ould crature?--be a man, and let him go.” + +“Ay, when he's, hangin', wid his tongue out, ha, ha, ha; wait till we +get to the Rabbit Bank, where there's a tree to be had; I've sworn it, +ay, on her very grave too; so good-by, Mave! Come along, Darby.” + +“Mave, as you expect to have the gates of Heaven opened to your sowl, +an' don't lave me,” exclaimed the miser with clasped hands. + +Mave looked up and down the road, but could perceive no one approach who +might render the unfortunate man assistance. + +“Tom,” said she, “I must insist on your settin' the poor man at liberty; +I insist upon it. You cannot, an' you must not take his life in a +Christian country; if you do, you know you will be hanged yourself. Let +him go immediately.” + +“Oh, ay,” he replied, “you insist, Mave; but I'll tell you what--I'll +put Peggy in a coach yet, when I come into my fortune; an' so you'll +insist, will you? Jest look at that wrist of yours,” he replied, seizing +hers, but with gentleness, “and then look at this of mine; an' now will +you tell me that you'll insist? Come, Darby, we're bound for the Bank; +there's not a beech there but's a hundred feet high, an' that's higher +than ever I'll make you swing from. Your heart bled for her, didn't it! +but how will you look when I have you facin' the sun, wid your tongue +out?” + +“Tom,” replied the wretch, “I go on my knees to you, an' as you hope, +Tom--” + +“Hope, you hard-hearted hound! isn't her father's curse upon me? ay, an' +in me? Wasn't she destroyed among us? an' you bid me hope. By the broken +heart she died of, you'll get a double tug for that,” and he was about +to drag him on in a state of great violence, when Mave again placed her +hand upon, his arm, and said-- + +“I am sure, Tom, you are not ungrateful; I am sure you would not forget +a kind act done to poor Peggy, that's gone.” + +“Peggy!” he replied, “what's about her? gone!--Peggy gone!--is she +gone?” + +“She is gone,” replied Mave, “but not lost; an' it is most likely that +she is now looking down with displeasure at your conduct and intentions +towards this poor man; but listen.” + +“Are you goin' to spake about Peggy, though?” + +“I am, and listen. Do you remember one evenin' in the early part of this +summer, it was of a Sunday, there was a crowd about old Brian Murtagh's +house, and the report of Peggy's shame had gone abroad and couldn't be +kept from people's eyes any longer. She was turned out of her father's +house--she was beaten by her brother who swore that he would take the +life of the first person, whether man or woman, young or ould, that +would give her one hour's shelter. She was turned out, poor, young, +misled and mistaken crature, and no one would resave her, for no one +durst. There was a young girl then passin' through the village, on +her way home, much about Peggy's own age, but barring in one respect, +neither so good nor so handsome. Poor Peggy ran to that young girl, an' +she was goin' to throw herself into her arms, but she stopped. 'I am not +worthy,' she said, cryin' bitterly; 'I am not worthy,--but oh, I have no +roof to shelter me, for no one dare take me in. What will become of me?'” + +While she spoke, Dalton's mind appeared to have been stirred into +something like a consciousness of his situation, and his memory to have +been brought back, as it were, from the wild and turbulent images, which +had impaired its efficacy, to a personal recollection of circumstances +that had ceased to affect him. His features, for instance, became more +human, his eye more significant of his feeling, and his whole manner +more quiet and restored. He looked upon the narrator with an awakened +interest, surveyed Darby, as if he scarcely knew how or why he came +there, and then sighed deeply. Mave proceeded: + +“'I am an outcast now,' said poor Peggy; 'I have neither house nor home; +I have no father, no mother, no brother, an' he that I loved, an' said +that he loved me, has deserted me. Oh,' said she, 'I have nothing to +care for, an' nobody to care for me now, an' what was dearest of all--my +good name--is gone: no one will shelter me, although I thought of +nothing but my love for Thomas Dalton!' She was scorned, Thomas Dalton, +she was insulted and abused by women who knew her innocence and her +goodness till she met him; every tongue was against her, every hand +was against her, and every door was closed against her; no, not every +one--the young woman she spoke to, with tears in her eyes, out of +compassion for one so young and unfortunate, brought Peggy Murtagh home, +and cried with her, and gave her hope, and consoled her, and pleaded +with her father and mother for the poor deluded girl in such a way that +they forgot her misfortune and sheltered her; till, after her brother's +death, she was taken in again to her own father's house. Now, Tom, +wouldn't you like to oblige that girl who was kind to poor Peggy +Murtagh?” + +“It was in Jerry Sullivan's--it was into your father's house she was +taken.” + +“It was Tom; and the young woman who befriended Peggy Murtagh is now +standin' by your side and asks you to let Darby Skinadre go; do, then, +let him go, for the sake of that young woman!” + +Mave, on concluding, looked up into his face, and saw that his eyes were +moist; he then smiled moodily, and, placing his hand upon her head in an +approving manner, said-- + +“You wor always good, Mave--here, set Darby free; but my mind's uneasy; +I'm not right, I doubt:--nor as I ought to be; but I'll tell you +what--I'll go back towards home wid you, if you'll tell me more about +Peggy.” + +“Do so,” she replied, delighted at such a proposal; “an' I will tell +you many a thing about her; an' you, Darby,” she added, turning round +to that individual--short, however, as the time was, the exulting, but +still trembling usurer was making his way, at full speed, towards his +own house; so that she was spared the trouble of advising him, as she +had intended, to look to his safety as well as he could. Such was the +gentle power with which Mave softened and subdued this ferocious and +unsettled young man to her wishes; and, indeed, so forcible in general +was her firm but serene enthusiasm, that wherever the necessity for +exerting it occurred, it was always crowned with success. + +Thomas Dalton as might be expected, swayed by the capricious impulse of +his unhappy derangement, did not accompany her to his father's cabin. +When within a few hundred yards of it, he changed his intention, and +struck across the country like one who seemed uncertain as to the course +he should take. Of late, indeed, he rambled about, sometimes directing, +otherwise associating himself with, such mobs as we have described; +sometimes wandering, in a solitary manner, through the country at large; +and but seldom appearing at home. On the present occasion, he looked at +Mave, and said: + +“I hate sick people, Mave, an' I won't go home; but, whisper, when you +see Peggy Murtagh's father, tell him that I'll have her in a coach, yet, +plaise God, an' he'll take the curse off o' me, when he hears it, maybe, +an' all will be right.” + +He then bid her good-bye, turned from the road, and bent his steps in +the direction of the Rabbit Bank, on one of the beeches of which he had +intended to hang the miser. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. -- Rivalry. + +If the truth were known, the triumph which Mave Sullivan achieved over +the terror of fever which she felt in common with almost every one in +the country around her, was the result of such high-minded devotion, +as would have won her a statue in the times of old Greece, when +self-sacrifice for human good was appreciated and rewarded. In her case, +indeed, the triumph was one of almost unparalleled heroism; for among +all the difficulties which she had to overcome, by far the greatest was +her own constitutional dread of contagion. It was only on reaching the +miserable pest-house in which the Daltons lived, and on witnessing, with +her own eyes, the clammy atmosphere which, in the shape of dark heavy +smoke, was oozing in all directions from its roof, that she became +conscious of the almost fatal step that she was about to take, and the +terrible test of Christian duty and exalted affection, to which she was +in the act of subjecting herself. + +On arriving at the door, and when about to enter, even the resolution +she had come to, and the lofty principle of trust in God, on which +it rested, were scarcely able to support her against the host of +constitutional terrors, which, for a moment, rushed upon her breast. The +great act of self-sacrifice, as it may almost be termed, which she was +about to perform, became so diminished in her imagination, that all +sense of its virtue passed away; and instead of gaining strength from +a consciousness of the pure and unselfish motive by which she was +actuated, she began to contemplate her conduct as the result of a rash +and unjustifiable presumption on the providence of God, and a wanton +exposure of the life he had given her. She felt herself tremble; her +heart palpitated, and for a minute or two her whole soul became filled +with a tumultuous and indistinct! perception of all she had proposed to +do, as well as of everything about her. Gradually, however, his state +of feeling cleared away--by and by the purity and Christian principle +that were involved in her conduct, came to her relief. + +“What,” she asked herself, “if they should die without assistance? In +God's name, and with his strength to aid me, I will run all risks, and +fulfil the task I have taken upon me to do. May he support and protect +me through it.” + +Thus resolved, and thus fortified, she entered the gloomy scene of +sickness and contagion. + +There were but four persons within: that is to say, her lover, his +sister Nancy, Mary the invalid, and Sarah M'Gowan. Nancy and her brother +were now awake, and poor Mary occupied her father's arm-chair, in which +she sat with her head reclined upon the back of it, somewhat, indeed, +after his own fashion--and Sarah opposite young Con's bed, having her +eyes fixed, with a mournful expression, on his pale and almost deathlike +countenance. Mave's appearance occasioned the whole party to feel +much surprise--and Mary rose from her arm-chair, and greeting her +affectionately, said-- + +“I cannot welcome you, dear Mave, to sick a place as this--and indeed I +am sorry you came to see us--for I needn't tell you what I'd feel--what +we'd all feel,” and here she looked quickly, but with the slightest +possible significance at her brother, “if anything happened you in +consequence; which may God forbid! How are you all at home?” + +“We are all free from sickness, thank God,” said Mave, whom the presence +of Sarah caused to blush deeply; “but how are you all here? I am sorry +to find that poor Nancy is ill--and that Con has got a relapse.” + +She turned her eyes upon him as she spoke, and, on contemplating his +languid and sickly countenance, she could only, by a great effort, +repress her tears. + +“Do not come near us, dear Mave,” said Dalton, “and, indeed, it was +wrong to come here at all.” + +“God bless you, an' guard you, Mave,” said Nancy, “an' we feel your +goodness; but as Con says, it was wrong to put yourself in the way +of danger. For God's sake, and as you hope to escape this terrible +sickness, lave the house at wanst. We're sensible of your kindness--but +lave us--lave us--for every minute you stop, may be death to you.” + +Sarah, who had never yet spoken to Mave, turned her black mellow eyes +from her to her lover, and from him to her alternately. She then dropped +them for a time on the ground, and again looked round her with something +like melancholy impatience. Her complexion was high and flushed, and her +eyes sparkled with unaccustomed brilliancy. + +“It's not right two people should run sich risk on our account,” said +Con, looking towards Sarah; “here's a young woman who has come to nurse, +tend and take care of us, for which, may God bless her, and protect +her!--it's Sarah M'Gowan, Donnel Dhu's daughter.” + +“Think of Mave Sullivan,” said Sarah--“think only' of Mave +Sullivan--she's in danger--ha--but as for me--suppose I should take the +faver and die?” + +“May God forbid, poor girl,” exclaimed Con; “it would lave us all a sad +heart. Dear Mave don't stop here--every minute is dangerous.” + +Sarah went over to the bedside, and putting her hand gently upon his +forehead, said-- + +“Don't spake to pity me--I can't bear pity; anything at all but pity +from you. Say you don't care what becomes of me, or whether I die or +not--but don't pity me.” + +It is extremely difficult to describe Sarah's appearance and state +of mind as she spoke this. Her manner towards Con was replete with +tenderness, and the most earnest and anxious interest, while at the same +time there ran through her voice a tone of bitter feeling, an evident +consciousness of something that pressed strongly on her heart, which +gave a marked and startling character to her language. + +Mave for a moment forgot everything but the interest which Sarah, and +the mention of her, excited. She turned gently round from Mary, who had +been speaking to her, and fixing her eyes on Sarah, examined her with +pardonable curiosity, from head to foot; nor will she be blamed, we +trust, if, even then and there, the scrutiny was not less close, in +consequence of it having been I known to her that in point of beauty, +and symmetry of figure, they had stood towards each other, for some time +past, in the character of rivals. Sarah who had on, without stockings, +a pair of small slippers, a good deal the worse for wear, had risen from +the bed side, and now stood near the fire, directly opposite the only +little window in the house, and, consequently, in the best light it +afforded. Mave's glance, though rapid, was comprehensive; but she felt +it was sufficient: the generous girl, on contemplating the wild grace +and natural elegance of Sarah's figure, and the singular beauty and +wonderful animation of her features, instantly, in her own mind, +surrendered all claim to competition, and admitted to herself that Sarah +was, without exception, the most perfectly beautiful girl she ever seen. +Her last words, too, and the striking tone in which they were spoken, +arrested her attention still more; so that she passed naturally from the +examination of her person to the purport of her language. + +We trust that our readers know enough of human nature, to understand +that this examination of Sarah, upon the part of Mave Sullivan, was +altogether an involuntary act, and one which occurred in less time than +we have taken to write any one of the lines in which it is described. + +Mave, who perceived at once that the words of Sarah were burdened by +some peculiar distress, could not prevent her admiration from turning +into pity without exactly knowing why; but in consequence of what Sarah +had just said, she feared to express it either by word or look, lest she +might occasion her unnecessary pain. She consequently, after a slight +pause, replied to her lover-- + +“You must not blame me, dear Con, for being here. I came to give +whatever poor attendance I could to Nancy here, and to sich of you as +want it, while you're sick. I came, indeed, to stay and nurse you all, +if you will let me; an' you won't be sorry to hear it, in spite of all +that has happened, that I have the consent of my father an' mother for +so doin'.” + +A faint smile of satisfaction lit up her lover's features, but this was +soon overshadowed by his apprehension for her safety. + +Sarah, who had for about a half minute been examining Mave on her +part, now started, and exclaimed with flashing eyes, and we may add, a +bursting and distracted heart-- + +“Well, Mave Sullivan, I have often seen you, but never so well as now. +You have goodness an' truth in your face. Oh, it's a purty face--a +lovely face. But why do you state a falsehood here--for what you've just +said is false; I know it.” + +Mave started, and in a moment her pale face and neck were suffused by +one burning blush, at the idea of such an imputation. She looked around +her, as if enquiring from all those who were present the nature of the +falsehood attributed to her; and then with a calm but firm eye, she +asked Sarah what she could mean by such language. + +“You're afther sayin',” replied Sarah, “that you're come here to nurse +Nancy there. Now that's not true, and you know it isn't. You come here +to nurse young Con Dalton: and you came to nurse him, bekaise you love +him. No, I don't blame you for that, but I do for not saying so, without +fear or disguise--for I hate both.” + +“That wouldn't be altogether true either,” replied Mave, “if I said so; +for I did come to nurse Nancy, and any others of the family that might +stand in need of it. As to Con, I'm neither ashamed to love him, nor +afeard to acknowledge it; and I had no notion of statin' a falsehood +when I said what I did. I tell you, then, Sarah M'Gowan, that you've +done me injustice. If there appeared to be a falsehood in my words, +there was none in my heart.” + +“That's truth; I know, I feel that that's truth,” replied Sarah, +quickly; “but oh, how wrong I am,” she exclaimed, “to mention that +or anything else here that might distract him! Ah,” she proceeded, +addressing Mave, “I did you injustice--I feel I did, but don't be angry +with me, for I acknowledge it.” + +“Why should I be angry with you?” replied Mave, “you only spoke what you +thought, an' this, by all accounts, is what you always do.” + +“Let us talk as little as possible here,” replied Sarah, the sole +absorbing object of whose existence lay in Dalton's recovery. “I will +speak to you on your way home, but not here--not here;” and while +uttering the last words she pointed to Dalton, to intimate that further +conversation might disturb him. + +“Dear Mave,” observed Mary, now rising from her chair, “you are stayin' +too long; oh, for God's sake, don't stop; you can't dhrame of the danger +you're in.” + +“But,” replied Mave, calmly, “you know, Mary, that I came to stop and to +do whatever I can do till the family comes round. You are too feeble to +undertake anything, and might only get into a relapse if you attempted +it.” + +“But, then we have Sarah M'Gowan,” she replied, “who came, as few +would--none livin' this day, I think, barrin' yourself and her--to stay +with us, and to do anything that she can do for us all. May God for ever +bless her! for short as the time is, I think she has saved some of our +lives--Condy's without a doubt.” + +Mave turned towards Sarah, and, as she looked upon her, the tears +started to her eyes. + +“Sarah M'Gowan,” said she, “you are fond of truth, an' you are right; +I can't find words to thank you for doin' what you did, God bless and +reward you!” + +She extended her hand as she spoke, but Sarah put it back. “No,” said +she, indignantly, “never from you; above all that's livin' don't you +thank me. You, you, why you arn't his wife yet,” she exclaimed, in a +suppressed voice of deep agitation, “an maybe you never will. You don't +know what may happen--you don't know--” + +She immediately seemed to recollect something that operated as a motive +to restrain any exhibition of strong feeling or passion on her part, for +all at once she composed herself, and sitting down, merely said:-- + +“Mave Sullivan, I'm glad you love truth, and I believe you do; I can't, +then, resave any thanks from you, nor I won't; an' I would tell you why, +any place but here.” + +“I don't at all understand you,” replied Mave; “but for your care and +attention to him, I'm sure it's no harm to say, may God reward you! I +will never forget it to you.” + +“While I have life,” said Dalton feebly, and fixing his eyes upon +Sarah's face, “I, for one, won't forget her kindness.” + +“Kindness!” she re-echoed--“ha, ha!--well, it's no matter--it's no +matter!” + +“She saved my life, Mave; I was lyin' here, and hadn't even a drink of +water, and there was no one else in the house; Mary, there, was out, an' +poor Nancy was ravin' an' ragin' with illness and pain; but she, Sarah, +was here to settle us, to attend us, to get us a drink whenever we +wanted it--to raise us up, an' to put it to our lips, an' to let us down +with as little pain as possible. Oh, how could I forget all this? Dear, +dear Sarah, how could I forget this if I was to live a thousand years?” + +Con's face, while he spoke, became animated with the enthusiasm of the +feeling to which he gave utterance, and, as his eyes were fixed on Sarah +with a suitable expression, there appeared to be a warmth of emotion +in his whole manner which a sanguine person might probably interpret in +something beyond gratitude. + +Sarah, after he had concluded, looked upon him with a long, earnest, but +uncertain gaze; so long, indeed, and so intensely penetrating was +it, that the whole energy of her character might, for a time, be read +clearly in the singular expression of her eyes. It was evident that her +thoughts were fluttering between pleasure and pain, cheerfulness and +gloom; but at length her countenance lost, by degrees its earnest +character, the alternate play of light and shadow over it ceased, and +the gaze changed, almost imperceptibly, into one of settled abstraction. + +“It might be,” she said, as if thinking aloud--“it might be--but time +will tell; and, in the manetime, everything must be done fairly--fairly; +still, if it shouldn't come to pass--if it should not--it would be +betther if I had never been born; but it may be, an' time will tell.” + +Mave had watched her countenance closely, and without being able to +discover the nature of the conflict that appeared in it, she went over, +and placing her hand gently upon Sarah's arm, exclaimed-- + +“Don't blame me for what I'm goin' to say, Sarah--if you'll let me call +you Sarah; but the truth is, I see that your mind is troubled. I wish to +God I could remove that trouble, or that any one here could! I am sure +they all would, as willingly as myself.” + +“She is troubled,” said Mary; “I know by her manner that there's +something distressing on her mind. Any earthly thing that we could do to +relieve her we would; but I asked her, and she wouldn't tell me.” + +It is likely that Mary's kindness, and especially Mave's, so gently, but +so sincerely expressed, touched her as they spoke. She made no reply, +however, but approached Mave with a slight smile on her face, her lips +compressed, and her eyes, which were fixed and brilliant, floating in +something that looked like moisture, and which might as well have been +occasioned by the glow of anger as the impulse of a softer emotion, or +perhaps--and this might be nearer the truth--as a conflict between the +two states of feeling. For some moments she looked into Mave's very +eyes, and after a little, she seemed to regain her composure, and +sat down without speaking. There was a slight pause occasioned by the +expectation that she had been about to reply, during which Dalton's eyes +were fixed upon her. In her evident distress, she looked upon him. Their +eyes met, and the revelation that that glance of anguish, on the part of +Sarah, gave to him, disclosed the secret. + +“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, involuntarily and unconsciously, “is this +possible?” + +Sarah felt that the discovery had been made by him at last; and seeing +that all their eyes were still upon her, she rose up, and approaching +Mave, said-- + +“It is true, Mave Sullivan, I am troubled--Mary, I am troubled;” and as +she uttered the words, a blush so deep and so beautiful spread itself +over her face and neck, that the very females present were, for the +moment, lost in admiration of her radiant youth and loveliness. Dalton's +eyes were still upon her, and after a little time, he said-- + +“Sarah, come to me.” + +She went to his bedside, and kneeling, bent her exquisite figure +over him; and as her dark brilliant eyes looked into his, he felt the +fragrance of her breath mingling with his own. + +“What is it?” said she. + +“You are too near me,” said he. + +“Ah, I feel I am,” she said, shaking her head. + +“I mane,” he added, “for your own safety. Give me your hand, dear +Sarah.” + +He took her hand, and raising himself a little on his right side, he +looked upon her again; and as he did so, she felt a few warm tears +falling upon it. + +“Now,” he said, “lay me down again, Sarah.” + +A few moments of ecstatic tumult, in which Sarah was unconscious of +anything about her, passed. She then rose, and sitting down on the +little stool, she wept for some minutes in silence. During this quiet +paroxysm no one spoke; but when Dalton turned his eyes upon Mave +Sullivan, she was pale as ashes. + +Mary, who had noticed nothing particular in the incidents just related, +now urged Mave to depart; and the latter, on exchanging glances with +Dalton, could perceive that a feeble hectic had overspread his face. She +looked on him earnestly for a moment, then paused as if in thought, and +going round to his bedside, knelt down, and taking his hand, said-- + +“Con, if there is any earthly thing that I can do to give ease and +comfort to your mind, I am ready to do it. If it would relieve you, +forget that you ever saw me, or ever--ever--knew me at all. Suppose I +am not living--that I am dead. I say this, dear Con, to relieve you from +any pain or distress of mind that you may feel on my account. Believe +me, I feel everything for you, an' nothing now for myself. Whatever +you do, I tell you that a harsh word or thought from me you will never +have.” + +Mave, while she spoke, did not shed a tear; nor was her calm, sweet +voice indicative of any extraordinary emotion. Sarah, who had been +weeping until the other began to speak, now rose up, and approaching +Mave, said-- + +“Go, Mave Sullivan--go out of this dangerous house; and you, Condy +Dalton, heed not what she has said. Mave Sullivan, I think I understand +your words, an' they make me ashamed of myself, an' of the thoughts that +have been troublin' me. Oh, what am I when compared to you?--nothing +nothing.” + +Mave had, on entering, deposited the little matters she had brought +for their comfort, and Mary now came over, and placing her hand on her +shoulder, said: + +“Sarah is right, dear Mave; for God's sake do not stay here. Oh, +think--only think if you tuck this faver, an' that anything happened +you.” + +“Come,” said Sarah, “leave this dangerous place; I will see you part of +the way home--you can do nothing here that I won't do, and everything +that I can do will be done.” Her lover's eyes had been fixed upon her, +and with a feeble voice--for the agitation had exhausted him--he added +his solicitations for her departure to theirs. + +“I hope I will soon be better, dear Mave, and able to get up too--but +may God bless you and take care of you till then!” + +Mave again went round and took his hand, on which he felt a few tears +fall. + +“I came here, dear Con,” she said, “to take care of you all, and why +need I be ashamed to say so--to do all I could for yourself. Sarah here +wishes me to spake the truth, an' why shouldn't I? Think of my words +then, Con, and don't let me or the thoughts of me occasion you one +moment's unhappiness. To see you happy is all the wish I have in this +world.” + +She then bade them an affectionate farewell, and was about to take her +departure, when Sarah, who had been musing for a moment, went to Dalton, +and having knelt on one knee, was about to speak, and to speak, as +was evident from her manner, with great earnestness, when she suddenly +restrained herself, clasped her hands with a vehement action, looked +distractedly from him to Mave, and then suddenly rising, took Mave's +hand, and said: + +“Come away--it's dangerous to stop where this fever is--you ought to +be careful of yourself--you have friends that loves you, and that would +feel for you if you were gone. You have a kind good father,--a lovhin' +mother--a lovin' mother, that you could turn to, an' may turn to, if +ever you should have a sore heart--a mother--oh, that blessed word--what +wouldn't I give to say that I have a mother! Many an' outrage--many a +wild fit of passion--many a harsh word, too--oh, what mightn't I be now +if I had a mother? All the world thinks I have a bad heart--that I'm +without feelin'; but, indeed, Mave Sullivan, I'm not without feelin', +an' I don't think I have a bad heart.” + +“You have not a bad heart,” replied Mave, taking her hand; “no one, dear +Sarah, could look into your face and say so; no, but I think so far from +that, your heart is both kind and generous.” + +“I hope so,” she replied, “I hope I have--now come you and leave this +dangerous house; besides I have something to say to you.” + +Mave and she proceeded along the old causeway that led to the cabin, and +having got out upon the open road, Sarah stood. + +“Now, Mave Sullivan,” said she, “listen--you do me only justice to say +that I love truth, an' hate a lie, or consalement of any kind. I ax you +now this--you discovered awhile ago that I love Condy Dalton? Isn't that +thrue?” + +“I wasn't altogether certain,” replied Mave, “but I thought I did--an' +now I think you do love him.” + +“I do love him--oh, I do--an' why as you said, should I be ashamed of +it?--ay, an' it was my intention to tell you so the first time I'd see +you, an' to give you fair notice that I did, an' that I'd lave nothing +undone to win him from you.” + +“Well,” replied the other, “this is open and honest, at all events.” + +“That was my intention,” pursued Sarah, “an' I had, for a short time, +other thoughts; ay, an' worse thoughts; my father was pursuadin' me--but +I can't spake on that--for he has my promise not to do so. Oh, I'm +nothing, dear Mave--nothing at all to you. I can't forget your words +awhile ago--bekaise I knew what you meant at the time, when you said to +Con, 'any earthly thing that I can do to give aise and comfort to your +mind. I am ready to do it. If it would relieve you, forget that you ever +saw me or ever knew me.' Now, Mave, I've confessed to you that I love +Con Dalton--but I tell you not to trouble your heart by any thoughts +of me; my mind's made up as to what I'll do--don't fear me, I'll never +cross you here. I'm a lonely creature,” she proceeded, bursting into +bitter tears; “I'm without friends and relations, or any one that cares +at all about me--” + +“Don't say so,” replied Mave, “I care about you, an' it's only now that +people is beginning to know you--but that's not all, Sarah, if it's +any consolation to you to know it--know it--Condy Dalton loves you--ay, +loves you, Sarah M'Gowan--you may take my word for that--I am certain +this day that what I say is true.” + +“Loves me!” she exclaimed. + +“Loves you,” repeated Mave, “is the word, an I have said it.” + +“I didn't suspect that when I spoke,” she replied. + +Each looked upon the other, and both as they stood were as pale as death +itself. At length Mave spoke. + +“I have only one thought, Sarah, an' that is how to make him happy; to +see him happy.” + +“I can scarcely spake,” replied Sarah; “I wouldn't know what to say if I +did. I'm all confused; Mave, dear, forgive me!” + +“God bless you,” replied Mave, “for you are truth an' honesty itself. +God bless an' you, make him happy! Good-bye, dear Sarah.” + +She put her hand into Sarah's and felt that it trembled excessively--but +Sarah was utterly passive; she did not even return the pressure which +she had received, and when Mave departed, she was standing in a reverie, +incapable of thought, deadly pale, and perfectly motionless. + + + + +CHAPTEE XXV. -- Sarah Without Hope. + + +How Sarah returned to Dalton's cabin she herself knew not. Such was the +tumult which the communication then made to her by Mave, had occasioned +in her mind, that, the scene which had just taken place, altogether +appeared to her excited spirit like a troubled dream, whose impressions +were too unreal and deceptive to be depended on for a moment. The +reaction from the passive state in which Mave had left her, was, to a +temperament like her's, perfectly overwhelming. Her pulse beat high, +her cheek burned, and her eye flashed with more than its usual fire +and overpowering brilliancy, and, with the exception of one impression +alone, all her thoughts were so rapid and indistinct as to resemble the +careering clouds which fly in tumult and confusion along the troubled +sky, with nothing stationary but the sun far above, and which, in this +case, might be said to resemble the bright conviction of Dalton's love +for her, that Mave's assurance had left behind it. On re-entering the +cabin, without being properly conscious of what she either did or said, +she once more knelt by the side of Dalton's bed, and hastily taking his +unresisting hand, was about to speak; but a difficulty how to shape her +language held her in a painful and troubled suspense for some moments, +during which Dalton could plainly perceive the excitement, or rather +rapture, by which she was actuated. At length a gush of hot and burning +tears enabled her to speak, and she said: + +“Con Dalton--dear Con, is it true? can it be true?--oh, no--no--but, +then, she says it--is it true that you like me--like me!--no, no--that +word is too wake--is it true that you love me? but no--it can't +be--there never was so much happiness intended for me; and then, if it +should be true--oh, if it was possible, how will I bear it? what will +I do? what--is to be the consequence? for my love for you is beyond all +belief--beyond all that tongue can tell. I can't stand this struggle--my +head is giddy--I scarcely know what I'm sayin', or is it a dhrame that +I'll waken from, and find it false--false?” + +Dalton pressed her hand, and looking tenderly upon her face, replied: + +“Dear Sarah, forgive me; your dhrame is both thrue and false. It is true +that I like you--that I pity you; but you forbid me to say that--well it +is true, I say, that I like you; but I can't say more. The only girl I +love in the sense you mane, is Mave Sullivan. I could not tell you an +untruth, Sarah; nor don't desave yourself. I like you, but I love her.” + +She started up, and in an instant dashed the tears from her cheeks; +after which she said: + +“I am glad to know it; you have said the truth--the bitther truth; ay, +bitther it will prove, Condy Dalton, to more than me. My happiness in +this world is now over forever. I never was happy; an' its clear that +the doom is against me; I never will be happy. I am now free to act as I +like. No matther what I do, it can't make me feel more than I feel now. +I might take a life; ay, twenty, an' I couldn't feel more miserable than +I am. Then, what is there to prevent me from workin' out my own will, +an' doin' what my father wishes? I may make myself worse an' guiltier; +but unhappier I cannot be. That poor, weak hope was all I had in this +world; but that is gone; and I have no other hope now.” + +“Compose yourself, dear Sarah; calm yourself,” said Dalton. + +“Don't call me dear Sarah,” she replied; “you were wrong ever to do so. +Oh, why was I born! an' what has this world an' this life been to me but +hardship an' sorrow? But still,” she added, drawing herself up, “I will +let you all see what pride can do. I now know my fate, an' what I must +suffer: an' if one tear would gain your love, I wouldn't shed it--never, +never.” + +“Sarah,” said Mary, in a soothing voice, “I hope you won't blame poor +Con. You don't know maybe that himself an' Mave Sullivan has loved one +another ever since they were--” + +“No more about Mave Sullivan,” she replied, almost fiercely; “lave her +to me. As for me, I'll not brake my word, either for good or evil; I +was never the one to do an ungenerous--an ungenerous--no--” She paused, +however, as if struck by some latent conviction, and, in a panting +voice, she added, “I must lave you for a while, but I will be back in an +hour or two; oh, yes I will; an' in the mane time, Mary, anything that +is to be done, you can do it for me till I come agin. Mave Sullivan! +Mave Sullivan! lave Mave Sullivan to me!” + +She then threw an humble garment about her, and in a few minutes was +on her way to have an interview with her father. On reaching home, she +found that he had arrived only a few minutes before her; and to +her surprise he expressed something like; good humor, or, perhaps, +gratification at her presence there. On looking into her face more +closely, however, he had little trouble in perceiving that something +extraordinary had disturbed her. He then glanced at Nelly, who, as +usual, sat gloomily by the fire, knitting her brows and groaning with +suppressed ill-temper as she had been in the habit of doing, ever since +she suspected that Donnel had made a certain disclosure, connecting with +her, to Sarah. + +“Well,” said he, “has there been another battle? have you been _ding +dust_ at it as usual? What's wrong, Sally? eh? Did it go to blows wid +you, for you looked raised?” + +“You're all out of it,” replied Nelly; “her blood's up, now, an' I'm not +prepared for a sudden death. She's dangerous this minute, an' I'll take +care of her. Blessed man, look at her eyes.” + +She repeated these words with that kind of low, dogged ridicule and +scorn which so frequently accompany stupid and wanton brutality; and +which are, besides, provoking, almost beyond endurance, when the mind is +chafed by a consideration of an exciting nature. + +Sarah flew like lightning to the old knife, which we have already +mentioned, and, snatching it from the shelf of the dresser, on which it +lay, exclaimed: + +“I have now no earthly thought, nor any hope of good in this world, +to keep my hand from evil; an' for all ever you made me suffer, take +this--” + +Her father had not yet sat down, and it was, indeed, well that he had +not--for it required all his activity and strength united, to intercept +the meditated blow, by seizing his daughter's arm.' + +“Sarah,” said he, “what is this? are you mad, you murdhering jade, to +attempt the vagabond's life? for she is a vagabond, and an ill-tongued +vagabond. Why do you provoke the girl by sich language, you +double-distilled ould sthrap? you do nothin' but growl an' snarl, an' +curse, an' pray--ay, pray, from mornin' to night, in sich a way, that +the very devil himself could not bear you, or live wid you. Begone out +o' this, or I'll let her at you, an' I'll engage she'll give you what'll +settle you.” + +Nelly rose, and putting on her cloak went out. + +“I'm goin',” she replied, looking at, and addressing the Prophet; “an' +plaise God, before long I'll have the best wish o' my heart fulfilled, +by seein' you hanged; but, until then, may my curse, an' the curse o' +God light on you and pursue you. I know you have tould her everything, +or she wouldn't act towards me as she has done of late.” + +Sarah stood like the Pythoness, in a kind of savage beauty, with the +knife firmly grasped in her hand. + +“I'm glad she's gone,” she said; “but it's not her, father, that I ought +to raise my hand against.” + +“Who then, Sarah?” he asked, with something like surprise. + +“You asked me,” she proceeded, “to assist in a plan to have Mave +Sullivan carried off by young Dick o' the Grange--I'm now ready for +anything, and I'll do it. This world, father, has nothing good or happy +in it for me--now I'll be aquil to it; if it gives me nothing good, +it'll get nothing out of me. I'll give it blow for blow; kindness, good +fortune, if it was to happen--but it can't now--would soften me; but I +know, I feel that ill-treatment, crosses, disappointments, an' want of +all hope in this life, has made, an' will make me a devil--ay, an' oh! +what a different girl I might be this day!” + +“What has vexed you?” asked the father “for I see that something has.” + +“Isn't it a cruel thing,” she proceeded, without seeming to have +attended to him; “isn't it a cruel thing to think that every one you +see about you has some happiness except yourself; an' that your heart is +burstin', an' your brain burnin', an' no relief for you; no one point +to turn to, for consolation--but everything dark and dismal, and fiery +about you?” + +“I feel all this myself,” said the Prophet; “so, don't be disheartened, +Sarah; in the coorse o' time your heart will get so hardened that you'll +laugh at the world--ay, at all that's either bad or good in it, as I +do.” + +“I never wish to come to that state,” she replied; “an' you never felt +what I feel--you never had that much of what was good in your heart. +No,” she proceeded, “sooner than come to that state--that is, to your +state--I'd put this knife into my heart. You, father, never loved one of +your own kind yet.” + +“Didn't I?” he replied, while his eyes lightened into a glare like those +of a provoked tiger; “ay, I loved one of our kind--of your kind; loved +her--ay, an' was happy wid her--oh, how happy. Ah, Sarah M'Gowan, an' +I loved my fellow-creatures then, too, like a fool as I was: loved, ay, +loved; an' she that I so loved proved false to me--proved an adulteress; +an' I tell you now, that it may harden your heart against the world, +that that woman--my wife--that I so loved, an' that so disgraced me, was +your mother.” + +“It's a lie--it's as false as the devil himself,” she replied, turning +round quickly, and looking him with frantic vehemence of manner in the +face. “My mother never did what you say. She's now in her grave, an' +can't speak for or defend herself; but if I were to stand here till +judgment day, I'd say it was false. You were misled or mistaken, or your +own bad, suspicious nature made you do her wrong; an' even if it was +thrue--which it is not, but false as hell--why would you crash and +wring her daughter's heart by a knowledge of it? Couldn't you let me get +through the short but bitther passage of life that's before me, without +addin' this to the other thoughts that's distractin' me?” + +“I did it, as I said,” he replied, “to make you harden your heart, +an' to prevent you from puttin' any trust in the world, or expectin' +anything either of thruth or goodness from it.” + +She started, as if some new light had broken in upon her, and turning to +him, said-- + +“Maybe I undherstand you, father--I hope I do. Oh, could it be that +you wor wanst--a--a--a betther man--a man that had a heart for +fellow-creatures, and cared for them? I'm lookin' into my own heart +now, and I don't doubt but I might be brought to the same state yet. Ha, +that's terrible to think of; but again, I can't believe it. Father, you +can stoop to lies an' falsity--that I could not do; but no matther; you +wor wanst a good man, maybe. Am I right?” + +The Prophet turned round, and fixing his eyes upon his daughter, they +stood each gazing upon the other for some time. He then looked for +a moment into the ground, after which he sat down upon a stool, and +covering his face with both his hands, remained in that position for two +or three minutes. + +“Am I right, father?” she repeated. + +He raised his eyes, and looking upon her with his usual composure, +replied-- + +“No--you are wrong--you are very wrong. When I was a light-hearted, +affectionate boy, playing with my brothers and sisters, I was a villain. +When I grew into youth, Sarah, an' thought every one full of honesty an' +truth, an' the world all kindness, an' nothin' about me but goodness, +an' generosity, an' affection, I was, of coorse, a villain. When I loved +the risin' sun--when I looked upon the stars of heaven with a wonderin' +and happy heart--when the dawn of mornin' and the last light of the +summer evening filled me with joy, and made me love every one and +everything about me--the trees, the runnin' rivers, the green fields, +and all that God--ha, what am I sayin'?--I was a villain. When I loved +an' married your mother, an' when she--but no matther--when all these +things happened, I was, I say, a villain; but now that things is changed +for the betther, I am an honest man!” + +“Father, there is good in you yet,” she said, as her eyes sparkled in +the very depth of her excitement, with a hopeful animation that had its +source in a noble and exalted benevolence, “you're not lost.” + +“Don't I say,” he replied, with a cold and bitter sneer, “that I am an +honest man.” + +“Ah,” she replied, “that's gone too, then--look where I will, +everything's dark--no hope--no hope of any kind; but no matther now; +since I can't do betther, I'll make them think o' me: aye, an' feel me +too. Come, then, what have you to say to me?” + +“Let us have a walk, then,” replied her father. “There is a weeny +glimpse of sunshine, for a wondher. You look heated--your face is +flushed too, very much, an' the walk will cool you a little.” + +“I know my face is flushed,” she replied; “for I feel it burnin', an' +so is my head; I have a pain in it, and a pain in the small o' my back +too.” + +“Well, come,” he continued, “and a walk will be of sarvice to you.” + +They then went out in the direction of the Rabbit Bank, the Prophet, +during their walk, availing himself of her evident excitement to draw +from her the history of its origin. Such a task, indeed, was easily +accomplished, for this singular creature, in whom love of truth, as well +as a detestation of all falsehood and subterfuge, seemed to have been +a moral instinct, at once disclosed to him the state of her affections, +and, indeed, all that the reader already knows of her love for Dalton, +and her rivalry with Mave Sullivan. These circumstances were such +precisely as he could have wished for, and our readers need scarcely +be told that he failed not to aggravate her jealousy of Mave, nor to +suggest to her the necessity on her part, if she possessed either pride +or spirit, to prevent her union with Dalton by every means in her power. + +“I'll do it,” she replied, “I'll do it; to be sure I feel it's not +right, an' if I had one single hope in this world, I'd scorn it; but +I'm now desperate; I tried to be good, but I'm only a cobweb before the +wind--everything is against me, an' I think I'm like some one that never +had a guardian angel to take care of them.” + +The Prophet then gave her a detailed account of their plan for carrying +away Mave Sullivan, and of his own subsequent intentions in life. + +“We have more than one iron in the fire,” he proceeded, “an' as soon as +everything comes off right, and to our wishes, we'll not lose a single +hour in going to America.” + +“I didn't think,” said Sarah, “that Dalton ever murdered Sullivan till +I heard him confess it; but I can well understand it now. He was hasty, +father, and did it in a passion, but it's himself that has a good heart. +Father, don't blame me for what I say, but I'd rather be that pious, +affectionate ould man, wid his murdher on his head, than you in the +state you're in. An' that's thrue, I must turn back and go to them--I'm +too long away: still, something ails me--I'm all sickish, my head and +back especially.” + +“Go home to your own place,” he replied; “maybe it's the sickness you're +takin.” + +“Oh, no,” she replied, “I felt this way once or twice before, an' I know +it'll go off me--good-bye.” + +“Good-bye, Sarah, an' remember, honor bright and saicresy.” + +“Saicresy, father, I grant you, but never honor bright for me again. +It's the world that makes me do it--the wicked, dark, cruel world, that +has me as I am, widout a livin' heart to love me--that's what makes me +do it.” + +They then separated, he pursuing his way to Dick o' the Grange's, +and she to the miserable cabin of the Daltons. They had not gone far, +however, when she returned, and calling after him, said-- + +“I have thought it over again, and won't promise altogether till I see +you again.” + +“Are you goin' back o' your word so soon!” he asked, with a kind of +sarcastic sneer. “I thought you never broke your word, Sarah.” + +She paused, and after looking about her as if in perplexity, she turned +on her heel, and proceeded in silence. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. -- The Pedlar Runs a Close Risk of the Stocks. + + +Nelly's suspicions, apparently well founded as they had been, were +removed from the Prophet, not so much by the disclosure to her and +Sarah, of his having been so long cognizant of Sullivan's murder by +Dalton, as by that unhappy man's own confession of the crime. Still, in +spite of all that had yet happened, she could not divest herself of +an impression that something dark and guilty was associated with +the Tobacco-box; an impression which was strengthened by her own +recollections of certain incidents that occurred upon a particular +night, much about the time of Sullivan's disappearance. Her memory, +however, being better as to facts than to time, was such as prevented +her from determining whether the incidents alluded to had occurred +previous to Sullivan's murder, or afterwards. There remained, however, +just enough of suspicion to torment her own mind, without enabling her +to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion as to Donnel's positive guilt, +arising from the mysterious incidents in question. A kind of awakened +conscience, too, resulting not from any principle of true repentance, +but from superstitious alarm and a conviction that the Prophet had +communicated to Sarah a certain secret connected with her, which she +dreaded so much to have known, had for some time past rendered her whole +life a singular compound of weak terror, ill-temper, gloom, and a kind +of conditional repentance, which depended altogether upon the fact of +her secret being known. In this mood it was that she left the cabin as +we have described. + +“I'm not fit to die,” she said to herself, after she had gone--“an' +that's the second offer for my life she has made. Any way, it's the best +of my play to lave them; an' above all, to keep away from her. That's +the second attempt; and I know to a certainty, that if she makes a third +one, it'll do for me. Oh, no doubt of that--the third time's always the +charm!--an' into my heart that unlucky knife 'ill go, if she ever tries +it a third time! They tell me,” she proceeded, soliloquizing, as she was +in the habit of doing, “that the inquest is to be held in a day or two, +an' that the crowner was only unwell a trifle, and hadn't the sickness +afther all. No matther--not all the wather in the sky 'ud clear my mind +that there's not villany joined with that Tobaccy-box, though where it +could go, or what could come of it (barrin' the devil himself or the +fairies tuck it,) I don't know.” + +So far as concerned the coroner, the rumor of his having caught the +prevailing typhus was not founded on fact. A short indisposition, +arising from a cold caught by a severe wetting, but by no means of a +serious or alarming nature, was his only malady; and when the day to +which the inquest had been postponed had arrived, he was sufficiently +recovered to conduct that important investigation. A very large +crowd was assembled upon the occasion, and a deep interest prevailed +throughout that part of the country. The circumstances, however, did +not, as it happened, admit of any particular difficulty Jerry Sullivan +and his friends attended as, was their duty, in order to give evidence +touching the identity of the body. This, however, was a matter of +peculiar difficulty. On disinterring the remains, it was found that the +clothes worn at the time of the murder had not been buried with them--in +other words, that the body had been stripped of all but the under +garment, previous to its interment. The evidence, nevertheless, of the +Black Prophet and of Red Rody was conclusive. The truth, however, of +most if not of all the details, but not of the fact itself, was denied +by old Dalton, who had sufficiently recovered from his illness, to be +present at the investigation. The circumstances deposed to by the +two witnesses were sufficiently strong and home to establish the fact +against him, although he impugned the details as we have stated, but +admitted that--after a hard battle with weighty sticks, he did kill +Sullivan with an unlucky blow, and left him dead in a corner of the +field for a short time near the Grey Stone. He said that he did not bury +the body, but that he carried it soon afterwards from the field in which +the unhappy crime had been committed, to the roadside, where he laid it +for a time, in order to procure assistance. He said he then changed his +mind, and having become afraid to communicate the unhappy accident +to any of the neighbors, he fled in great terror across the adjoining +mountains, where he wandered nearly frantic until the approach of +day-break the next morning. He then felt himself seized with an +uncontrollable anxiety to return to the scene of conflict, which he +did, and found, not much to his surprise indeed, that the body had been +removed, for he supposed at the time that Sullivan's friends must have +brought it home. This he declared was the truth, neither more nor less, +and he concluded by solemnly stating, that he knew no more than the +child unborn what had become of the body, or how it disappeared. He +also acknowledged that he was very much intoxicated at the time of the +quarrel, and that were it not for the shock he received by perceiving +that the man was dead, he thought he would not have had anything beyond +a confused and indistinct recollection of the circumstance at all. +He admitted also that he had threatened Sullivan in the market, and +followed him closely for the purpose of beating him, but maintained that +the fatal blow was not given with an intention of taking his life. + +The fact, on the contrary, that the body had been privately buried +and stripped before interment, was corroborated by the circumstance of +Sullivan's body-coat having been found the next morning in a torn and +bloody state, together with his great coat and hat; but indeed, the +impression upon the minds of many was, that Dalton's version of the +circumstances was got up for the purpose of giving to what was looked +upon as a deliberate assassination, the character of simple homicide or +manslaughter, so as that he might escape the capital felony, and come +off triumphantly by a short imprisonment. The feeling against him too +was strengthened and exasperated by the impetuous resentment with which +he addressed himself to the Prophet and Rody Duncan, while giving their +evidence, for it was not unreasonable to suppose that the man, who at +his years, and in such awful circumstances, could threaten the lives of +the witnesses against him, as he did, would not hesitate to commit, in +a fit of that ungovernable passion that had made him remarkable through +life, the very crime with which he stood charged through a similar act +of blind and ferocious vengeance. Others, on the contrary held different +opinions; and thought that the old man's account of the matter was both +simple and natural, and bore the stamp of sincerity and truth upon the +very face of it. Jerry Sullivan only swore that, to the best of +his opinion, the skeleton found was much about the size of what his +brother's would be; but as the proof of his private interment by Dalton +had been clearly established by the evidence of the Prophet and Rody, +constituting, as it did, an unbroken chain of circumstances which +nothing could resist, the jury had no hesitation in returning the +following verdict:-- + +“We find a verdict of wilful murder against Cornelius Dalton, Senior, +for that he, on or about the night of the fourteenth of December, in +the year of grace, 1798, did follow and waylay Bartholomew Sullivan, and +deprive him of his life by blows and violence, having threatened him to +the same effect in the early part of the aforesaid day.” + +During the progress of the investigation, our friend the pedlar and +Charley Hanlon were anxious and deeply attentive spectators. The former +never kept his eyes off the Prophet, but surveyed him with a face in +which it was difficult to say whether the expression was one of calm +conviction or astonishment. When the investigation had come to a close, +he drew Hanlon aside and said-- + +“That swearin', Charley, was too clear, and if I was on the jury myself +I would find the same verdict. May the Lord support the poor old man in +the mane time! for in spite of all that happened one can't help pity'n' +him, or at any rate his unfortunate family. However see what comes by +not havin' a curb over one's passions when the blood's up.” + +“God's a just God,” replied Hanlon--“the murderer deserves his +punishment, an' I hope will meet it.” + +“There is little doubt of it,” said the pedlar, “the hand of God is in +it all.” + +“That's more than I see, or can at the present time, then,” replied +Hanlon. “Why should my aunt stay away so long?--but I dare say the truth +is, she is either sick or dead, an' if that's the case, what's all you +have said or done worth? You see it's but a chance still.” + +“Trust in God,” replied the pedlar, “that's all either of us can do or +say now. There's the coffin. I'm tould they're goin' to bury him, and to +have the greatest funeral that ever was in the counthry; but, God knows, +there's funerals enough in the neighborhood widout their making a show +of themselves wid this.” + +“There's no truth in that report either,” said Hanlon. “I was speakin' +to Jerry Sullivan this mornin', an' I have it from him that they intend +to bury him as quietly as they can. He's much changed from what he +was--Jerry is--an' doesn't wish to have the old man hanged at all, if he +can prevent it.” + +“Hanged or not, Charley, I must go on with my petition to Dick o' the +Grange. Of course I have no chance, but maybe the Lord put something +good into Travers's heart, when he bid me bring it to him; at any rate +it can do no harm.” + +“Nor any earthly good,” replied the other. “The farm is this minute the +property of Darby Skinadre, an' to my knowledge Master Dick has a good +hundred pounds in his pocket for befriendin' the meal-monger.” + +“Still an' all, Charley, I'll go to the father, if it was only bekaise +the agent wishes it; I promised I would, an' who knows at any rate but +he may do something for the poor Daltons himself, when he finds that the +villain that robbed and ruined them won't.” + +“So far you may be right,” said Hanlon, “an' as you say, if it does +no good it can do no harm; but for my part, I can scarcely think of +anything but my poor aunt. What, in God's name, except sickness or +death, can keep her away, I don't know.” + +“Put your trust in God, man--that's my advice to you.” + +“And a good one it is,” replied the other, “if we could only follow it +up as we ought. Every one here wondhers at the change that's come over +me--I that was so light and airy, and so fond of every divarsion that +was to be had, am now as grave as a parson; but indeed no wondher, +for ever since that awful night at the Grey Stone--since both nights +indeed--I'm not the same man, an' feel as if there was a weight come +over me that nothing will remove, unless we trace the murdher, an' I +hardly know what to say about it, now that my aunt isn't forthcommin'” + +“Trust in God, I tell you, for as you live, truth will come to light +yet.” + +The conversation took various changes as they proceeded, until they +reached the Grange, where the first person they met was Jemmy Branigan, +who addressed his old enemy, the pedlar, in that peculiarly dry and +ironical tone which he was often in the habit of using when he wished +to disguise a friendly act in an ungracious garb--a method of granting +favors, by the way, to which he was proverbially addicted. In fact, a +surly answer from Jemmy was as frequently indicative of his intention +to serve you with his master as it was otherwise; but so adroitly did he +disguise his sentiments, that no earthly penetration could develop them +until proved by the result. Jemmy, besides, liked the pedlar at heart +for his open, honest scurrility--a quality which he latterly found +extremely beneficial to himself, inasmuch as now that, increasing +infirmity had incapacitated his master from delivering much of the +alternate abuse that took place between them, he experienced great +relief every moment from a fresh breathing with his rather eccentric +opponent. + +“Jemmy,” said Hanlon, “is the master in the office?” + +“Is he in the office?--Who wants him?” and as he put the query he +accompanied it by a look of ineffable contempt at the pedlar. + +“Your friend, the pedlar, wants him; and so now,” added Hanlon, “I leave +you both to fight it out between you.” + +“You're comin' wid your petition, an' a purty object you are, goin' to +look afther a farm for a man that'll be hanged, (may God forbid--this +day, amin!” he exclaimed in an under-tone which the other could not +hear): “an' what can you expect but to get kicked out or put in' the +stocks for attemptin' to take a farm over another man's head.” + +“What other man's head?--nobody has it yet.” + +“Ay, has there--a very daicent respectable man has it, by name one +Darby Skinadre. (May he never warm his hungry nose in the same farm, +the miserable keowt that he is this day,” he added in another soliloquy, +which escaped the pedlar): “a very honest man is Darby Skinadre, so you +may save yourself the trouble, I say.” + +“At any rate there's no harm in tryin'--worse than fail we can't, +an' if we succeed it'll be good to come in for anything from the ould +scoundrel, before the devil gets him.” + +Jemmy gave him a look. + +“Why, what have you to say against the ould boy? Sure it's not casting +reflections on your own masther you'd be.” + +“Oh, not at all,” replied the pedlar, “especially when I'm expectin' a +favor from one of his sarvints. Throth he'll soon by all accounts have +his hook in the ould Clip o' the! Grange--an' afther that some of his +friends will soon folly him. I wouldn't be mainin' one Jemmy Branigan. +Oh, dear no--but it's a sure case that's the Black Boy's intention to +take the whole family by instalments, an' wid respect to the sarvints to +place them in their ould situations. Faith you'll have a warm berth of +it, Jemmy, an' well you desarve it.” + +“Why then you circulating vagabone,” replied Jemmy; “if you wern't a +close friend to him, you'd not know his intentions so well. Don't let +out on yourself, man alive, unless you have the face to be proud of your +acquaintance, which in throth is more than anyone, barrin' the same set, +could be of you.” + +“Well, well,” retorted the pedlar, “sure blood alive, as we're all of +the same connection, let us not quarrel now, but sarve another if we +can. Go an' tell the old blackguard I want to see him about business.” + +“Will I tell him you're itchy about the houghs?--eh? However, the thruth +is, that they,”--and he pointed to the stocks--“might be justice, but no +novelty to you. The iron gathers is an ornament you often wore, an' will +again, plase goodness.” + +“Throth, and. your ornament is one you'll never wear a second time--the +hemp collar will grace your neck yet; but never mind, you're leadin' the +life to desarve it. See now if I can spake a word wid your masther for a +poor family.” + +“Why, then, to avoid your tongue, I may as well tell you that himself, +Masther Richard, and Darby Skinadre's in the office; an' if you can use +the same blackguard tongue as well in a good cause as you can in a bad +one, it would be well for the poor crayturs. Go in now, an',” he added +in another soliloquy, “may the Lord prosper his virtuous endayvors, the +vagabone; although all hope o' that's past, I doubt; for hasn't Skinadre +the promise, and Masther Richard the bribe? However, who can tell?---so +God prosper the vagabone, I say again.” + +The pedlar, on entering, found old Henderson sitting in an arm-chair, +with one of his legs, as usual, bandaged and stretched out before him on +another chair. He seemed much worn and debilitated, and altogether +had the appearance of a man whose life was not worth a single week's +purchase. Skinadre was about taking leave of his patron, the son, who +had been speaking to him as the pedlar entered. + +“Don't be unaisy, Darby,” he said. “We can't give you a lease for about +a week or fortnight; but the agent is now here, an' we must first take +out new leases ourselves. As soon as we do you shall have yours.” + +“If you only knew, your honor, the scrapin' I had in these hard times, +to get together that hundhre--” + +“Hush--there,” said the other, clapping his hand, with an air of +ridicule and contempt upon the miser's mouth; “that will do now; be off, +and depend upon----mum, you understand mo! Ha, ha, ha!--that's not a bad +move, father,” he added; “however, I think we must give him the farm.” + +The pedlar had been standing in the middle of the floor, when young +Dick, turning round suddenly, asked him with a frown, occasioned by the +fact of his having overheard this short dialogue, what he wanted. + +“God save you honors, gintlemen,” said the pedlar, in a loud +straightforward voice. “I'm glad to see your honor looking so well,” + he added, turning to the father; “it's fresh an' young your gettin', +sir!--glory be to God!” + +“Who is this fellow, Dick? Do you think I look better, my man?” + +“Says Jemmy Branigan to me afore I came in,” proceeded the +pedlar,--“he's a thrue friend o' mine, your honor, Jemmy is, an' 'ud +go to the well o' the world's end to sarve me--says he, you'll be +delighted, Harry, to see the masther look so fresh an' well.” + +“And the cursed old hypocrite is just after telling me, Dick, to prepare +for a long journey; adding, for my consolation, that it won't be a +troublesome one, as it will be all down hill.” + +“Why,” replied the son, “he has given you that information for the ten +thousandth time, to my own knowledge. What does this man want? What's +your business, my good fellow?” + +“Beggin' your pardon, sir,” replied the pedlar, “will you allow me +to ask you one question; were you ever in the forty-seventh foot? Oh, +bedad, it must be him to a sartinty,” he added, as if to himself. “No,” + replied Dick; “why so?” + +“Take care, your honor,” said the pedlar, smiling roguishly;--“take care +now, your honor, if it wasn't you--” + +“What are you speaking about--what do you mean?” asked the young man. + +The pedlar went over to him, and said, in a low voice, looking +cautiously at the father, as if he didn't wish that he should hear him-- + +“It was surely your honor took away Lord Handicap's daughter when +you wor an ensign--the handsome ensign, as they called you in the +forty-seventh? Eh? faix I knew you the minute I looked at you.” + +“Ha, ha, ha! Do you know what, father? He says I'm the handsome ensign +of the forty-seventh, that took away Lord Handicap's daughter.” + +“The greatest beauty in all England,” added the pedlar; “an' I knew him +at wanst, your honor.” + +“Well, Dick, that's a compliment, at any rate,” replied the father. + +“Were you ever in the forty-seventh?” asked the son, smiling. + +“Ah, ah!” returned the pedlar, with a knowing wink, “behave yourself, +captain; I'm not so soft as all that comes to; but sure as I have +a favor to ax from his honor, your father, I'm glad to have your +assistance. Faix, by all accounts you pleaded your own cause well, at +any rate; and I hope you'll give me a lift now wid his honor here.” + +Dick the younger laughed heartily, but really had not ready virtue +sufficient about, to disclaim the pedlar's compliment. + +“Come, then,” he added; “let us hear what your favor is?” + +“Oh, thin, thank you, an' God bless you, captain. It's this: only to +know if you'd be good enough to grant a new lease of Cargah Farm to +young Condy Dalton; for the ould man, by all accounts, is not long for +this world.” + +Both turned their eyes upon him with a look of singular astonishment. + +“Who are you at all, my good fellow?” asked the father; “or what devil +drove you here on such an impudent message? A lease to the son of that +ould murderer and his crew of beggars! That's good, Dick! Well done, +soger! will you back him in that, captain? Ha, ha, ha! D--n me, if I +ever heard the like of it!” + +“I hope you will back me, captain,” said the pedlar. + +“Upon what grounds, comrade? Ha, ha, ha! Go on! Let us hear you!” + +“Why, your honor, bekaise he's best entitled to it. Think of what it +was when he got it, an' think of what it is now, and then ax +yourselves--'Who raised it in value an' made it worth twiste what it +was worth?' Wasn't it the Daltons? Didn't they lay out near eight hundre +pounds upon it? An, didn't you, at every renewal, screw them up--beggin' +your pardon, gintlemen--until they found that the more they improved it +the poorer they were gettin'? An' now that it lies there worth double +its value, an' they that made it so (to put money into your pocket) +beggars--within a few hundred yards of it--wouldn't it be rather hard to +let them die an' starve in destitution, an' them wishin' to get it back +at a raisonable rint?” + +“In this country, brother soldier,” replied Dick ironically, “we +generally starve first and die afterwards.” + +“You may well say so, your honor, an' God knows, there's not upon the +face of the arth a counthry where starvation is so much practised, or so +well understood. Faith, unfortunately, it's the national divarsion wid +us. However, is what I'm sayin' raisonable, gintlemen?” + +“Exceedingly so,” said Dick; “go on.” + +“Well, then, I wish to know, will you give them a new lease of their +farm?” + +“You do! do you?” + +“Troth I do, your honor.” + +“Well, then,” replied the son, “I beg to inform you that we will not.” + +“Why so, your honor?” + +“Simply, you knave,” exclaimed the father, in a passion, “because we +don't wish it. Kick him out, Dick!” + +“My good friend and brother soldier,” said Dick, “the fact is, that we +are about to introduce a new system altogether upon our property. We are +determined to manage it upon a perfectly new principle. It has been too +much sublet under us, and we have resolved to rectify this evil. That is +our answer. You get no lease. Provide for yourself and your friends, the +Daltons, as best you can, but on this property you get no lease. That is +your answer.” + +“Begone, now, you scoundrel,” said the father, “and not a word more out +of your head.” + +“Gintlemen!--gintlemen!”--exclaimed the pedlar, “have you no +consciences? Is there no justice in the world? The misery, and sorrow, +and sufferin's of this misfortunate family, will be upon you, I doubt, +if you don't do them justice.” + +“Touch the bell, Dick! Here some one! Jemmy Branigan! Harry Lowry! Jack +Clinton! Where are you all, you scoundrels? Here, put this rascal in the +stocks immediately! in with him!” + +Jemmy, who, from an adjoining room, had been listening to every word +that passed, now entered. + +“Here, you, sir: clap this vagabond in the stocks for his insolence. He +has come here purposely to insult myself and my son. To the stocks with +him at once.” + +“No!” replied Jemmy; “the devil resave the stock will go on him this +day. Didn't I hear every word that passed? An' what did he say but the +thruth, an' what every one knows to be the thruth?” + +“Put him in the stocks, I desire you, this instant!” + +“Throth if you wor to look at your mug in the glass, you'd feel that +you'll soon be in a worse stocks yourself than ever you put any poor +craythur into,” replied the redoubtable Jemmy. “Do you be off about +your business, in the mane time, you good-natured vagabone, or this ould +fire-brand will get some one wid less conscience than I have, that'll +clap you in them.” + +“Never mind, father,” observed the son; “let the fellow go about his +business--he's not worth your resentment.” + +The pedlar took the hint and withdrew, accompanied by Jemmy, on whose +face there was a grin of triumph that he could not conceal. + +“I tould you,” he added, as they went down the steps, “that the same +stocks was afore you; an' in the mane time, God pardon me for the +injustice I did in keepin' you out o' them.” + +“Go on,” replied the other; “devila harsh word ever I'll say to you +again.” + +“Throth will you,” said Jemmy; “an' both of us will be as fresh as a +daisy in the mornin', plaise goodness. I have scarcely any one to abuse +me, or to abuse, either, now that the ould masther is so feeble.” + +Jemmy extended his hand as he spoke, and gave the pedlar a squeeze, the +cordiality of which was strongly at variance with the abuse he had given +him. + +“God bless you!” said the pedlar, returning the pressure; “your bark is +worse than your bite. I'm off now, to mention the reception they gave +me and the answers I got, to a man that will, maybe, bring themselves to +their marrow-bones afore long.” + +“Ay, but don't abuse them, for all that,” replied Jemmy, “for I won't +bear it.” + +“Throth,” returned the other, “you're a quare Jemmy--an' so God bless +you!” + +Having uttered these words, in an amicable and grateful spirit, our +friend the pedlar bent his steps to the head inn of the next town--being +that of the assizes, where Mr. Travers, the agent, kept his office. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. -- Sarah Ill--Mave Again, Heroic. + + +Young Henderson, whose passion for Mave Sullivan was neither virtuous +nor honorable, would not have lent himself, notwithstanding, to the +unprincipled projects of the Prophet, had not that worthy personage +gradually and dishonestly drawn him into a false position. In other +words, he led the vain and credulous young man to believe that Mave had +been seized with a secret affection for him, and was willing, provided +everything was properly managed, to consent to an elopement. For this +purpose, it was necessary that the plan should be executed without +violence, as the Prophet well knew, because, on sounding young Dick upon +that subject, in an early stage of the business, he had ascertained +that the proposal of anything bordering upon outrage or force, would +instantly cause him to withdraw from the project altogether. For this +reason, then, he found it necessary, if possible to embark Sarah as an +accomplice, otherwise, he could not effect his design without violence, +and he felt that her co-operation was required to sustain the falsehood +of his assertions to Henderson with regard to Mave's consent to: place +herself under his protection. This was to be brought about so as to +hoodwink Henderson, in the following manner: The Prophet proposed that +Sarah should, by his own or her ingenuity, contrive to domicile herself +in Jerry Sullivan's house for a few days previous to the execution of +their design; not only for the purpose of using her influence, such as +it was, to sway the young creature's mind and principles from the path +of rectitude and virtue, by dwelling upon the luxury and grandeur of her +future life with Henderson, whose intentions were to be represented as +honorable, but, if necessary, to leave a free ingress to the house, so +as that under any circumstances, and even with a little violence, +Mave should be placed in Henderson's hands. Should the Prophet, by his +management, effect this, he was to receive a certain sum of money from +his employer the moment he or his party had her in their possession--for +such were the terms of the agreement--otherwise Donnel Dhu reserved to +himself the alternative of disclosing the matter to her friends, and +acquainting them with her situation. This, at all events, was readily +consented to by Henderson, whose natural vanity and extraordinary +opinion of his own merits in the eyes of the sex, prevented him +from apprehending any want of success with Mave, provided he had an +opportunity of bringing the influence of his person, and his wonderful +powers of persuasion, to bear upon such a simple country girl as he +considered her to be. So far, then, he had taken certain steps to secure +himself, whilst he left Henderson to run the risk of such contingencies +as might in all probability arise from the transaction. + +This, however, was but an under-plot of the Prophet, whose object was +indeed far beyond that of becoming the paltry instrument of a rusty +intrigue. It was a custom with Dick o' the Grange, for a few years +previous to the date of our story, to sleep during the assizes, in the +head inn of the town, attended by Jemmy Branigan. This was rendered +in some degree necessary, by the condition of his bad leg, and his +extraordinary devotion to convivial indulgence--a propensity to which he +gave full stretch during the social license of the grand jury dinners. +Now, the general opinion was, that Henderson always kept large sums of +money in the house--an opinion which we believe to have been correct, +and which seemed to have been confirmed by the fact, that on no occasion +were both father and son ever known to sleep out of the house at the +same time, to which we may also add another--viz., that the whole family +were well provided with fire arms, which were freshly primed and loaded +every night. + +The Prophet, therefore, had so contrived it, that young Dick's design +upon Mave Sullivan, or in other words, the Prophet's own design upon +the money coffers of the Grange, should render his absence from home +necessary whilst his father was swilling at the assizes, by which +arrangement, added to others that will soon appear, the house must, to +a certain degree, be left unprotected, or altogether under the care +of dissolute servants, whose habits, caught from those of the +establishment, were remarkable for dissipation and neglect. + +The Prophet, indeed, was naturally a plotter. It is not likely, however, +that he would ever have thought of projecting the robbery of the Grange, +had he not found himself, as he imagined, foiled in his designs upon +Mave Sullivan, by the instinctive honor and love of truth which shone +so brilliantly in the neglected character of his extraordinary daughter. +Having first entrapped her into a promise of secrecy--a promise which he +knew death itself would scarcely induce her to violate, he disclosed to +her the whole plan in the most plausible and mitigated language. Effort +after effort was made to work upon her principles, but in vain. Once +or twice, it is true, she entertained the matter for a time--but a +momentary deliberation soon raised her naturally noble and generous +spirit above the turpitude of so vile a project. + +It was, then, in this state of things that the failure of the one, and +the lesser plan, through the incorruptible honor of his daughter, drove +him upon the larger and more tempting one of the burglary. In this +latter, he took unto himself as his principal accomplice, Red Rody +Duncan, whose anxiety to procure the driver's situation arose from the +necessity that existed, to have a friend in the house, who might aid +them in effecting a quiet entrance, and by unloading or wetting the +fire-arms, neutralize the resistance which they might otherwise expect. + +Sarah's excitement and distraction, however, resulting from her last +interview with young Dalton, giving as it did, a fatal blow to her +passion and her hopes, vehement and extraordinary as they were, threw +her across her father's path at the precise moment when her great but +unregulated spirit, inflamed by jealousy and reckless from despair, +rendered her most accessible to the wily and aggravating arguments with +which he tempted and overcame her. Thus did he, so far as human means +could devise, or foresight calculate, provide for the completion of two +plots instead of one. + +It is true, Mave Sullivan was not left altogether without being +forewarned. Nobody, however, had made her acquainted with the peculiar +nature of the danger that was before her. Nelly M'Gowan, as she was +called, had strongly cautioned her against both Donnel and Sarah, but +then Nelly herself was completely in the dark as to the character of the +injury against which she warned her, so that her friendly precautions +were founded more upon the general and unscrupulous profligacy of +Donnel's principles, and his daughter's violence, than upon any +particular knowledge she possessed of her intentions towards her. Mave's +own serene and innocent disposition was such in fact as to render her +not easily impressed by suspicion; and our readers may have perceived, +by the interview which took place between her and Sarah, that from the +latter, she apprehended no injury. + +It was on the following day after that interview, about two o'clock, +that while she was spreading some clothes upon the garden hedge, during +a sickly gleam of sunshine, our friend the pedlar made his appearance, +and entered her father's house. Mave having laid her washing before the +sun, went in and found him busily engaged in showing his wares, which +consisted principally of cutlery and trinkets. The pedlar, as she +entered, threw a hasty glance at her, perceived that she shook down her +luxuriant hair, which had been disarranged by a branch of thorn that +was caught in it while stretching over the hedge. She at once recognized +him, and blushed deeply; but he seemed altogether to have forgotten her. + +“Ha!” he exclaimed, “well, that I may be blest, but it's many a long day +since I seen such a head o' hair as that! Holy St. Countryman, but it's +a beauty. Musha, a _Ora Gal_, maybe you'll dispose of it, for, in troth, +if ever a face livin' could afford to part with its best ornament, +your's is that one.” + +Mave smiled and blushed at the compliment, and the pedlar eyed her +apparently with a mixed feeling of admiration and compassion. + +“No,” she replied, “I haven't any desire to part with it.” + +“You had the sickness, maybe?” + +“Thanks be to the mercy of God,” she fervently exclaimed, “no one in +this family has had it yet.” + +“Well, achora,” he continued, “if you take my advice you'll dispose of +it, in regard that if the sickness--which may God prevent--should come, +it will be well for you to have it off you. If you sell it, I'll give +you either money or value for it; for indeed, an' truth it flogs all +I've seen this many a day.” + +“They say,” observed her mother, “that it's not lucky to sell one's +hair, and whether it's true or not I don't know; but I'm tould for a +sartinty, that there's not a girl that ever sould it but was sure to +catch the sickness.” + +“I know that there's truth in that,” said Jerry himself. “There's Sally +Hacket, and Mary Geoghegan, and Katy Dowdall, all sould it, and not +one of them escaped the sickness. And, moreover, didn't I hear Misther +Cooper, the bleedin' doctor, say, myself, in the market, on Sathurday, +that the people couldn't do a worse thing than cut their hair close, as +it lets the sickness in by the head, and makes it tin times as hard upon +them, when it comes.” + +“Well, well, there's no arguin' wid you,” said the pedlar, “all I say +is, that you ought to part wid it, acushla--by all means you ought.” + +“Never mind him, Mave darlin',” said her mother, whose motive in saying +so was altogether dictated by affectionate apprehensions for her health. + +“No,” replied her daughter, “it is not my intention, mother, to part +with what God has given me. I have no notion of it.” + +At this stage of the dialogue, her eldest brother, who had been getting +a horse shod at the next forge, entered the house, and threw himself +carelessly on a chair. His appearance occasioned a alight pause in the +conversation. + +“Well, Denny,” said the father, “what's the news?” + +“Bad news with the Daltons,” replied the boy. + +“With the Daltons!” exclaimed Mave, trembling, and getting paler, if +possible, than she was; “for God's mercy, Dennis, what has happened +amongst them?” + +“I met Mrs. Dalton a while ago,” he replied, “and she tould me that they +had no one now to take care of them. Sarah M'Gowan, the Black Prophet's +daughter, has catched the sickness, and is lyin' in a shed there beyant, +that a poor thravellin' family was in about a week ago. Mrs. Dalton says +her own family isn't worse wid the sickness, but betther, she thinks; +but she was cryin', the daicent craythur, and she says they'll die +wid neglect and starvation, for she must be out, and there's no one to +attend to them, and they have nothing but the black wather, God help +them!” + +While he spoke, Mave's eyes were fastened upon him, as if the sentence +of her own life or death was about to issue from his lip. Gradually, +however, she breathed more freely; a pale red tinged her cheek for a +moment, after which, a greater paleness settled upon it again. + +The pedlar shook his head. “Ah,” he exclaimed, “they are hard times, +sure enough; may the Lord bring us all safe through them! Well, I see +I'm not likely to make my fortune among you,” he added, smiling, “so +I must tramp on, but any way, I must thank you for house-room and your +civility.” + +“I'd offer something to ait,” said Mrs. Sullivan, with evident pain, +“but the truth is--” + +“Not a morsel,” replied the other, “if the house was overflown.'. God +bless you all--God bless you.” + +Mave, almost immediately after her brother had concluded, passed to +another room, and returned just as the old pedlar had gone out. She +instantly followed him with a hasty step; while he, on hearing her foot, +turned round. + +“You told me that you admired my hair,” she said, on coming up to him. +“Now, supposin' I'm willin' to sell it to you, what ought I to get for +it?” + +“Don't be alarmed by what they say inside,” replied the pedlar; “any +regular doctor would tell that, in these times, it's safer to part wid +it--that I may be happy but I'm tellin' you thruth. What is it worth? +What are you axin?” + +“I don't know; but for God's sake cut it off, and give me the most you +can afford for it. Oh! believe me, it's not on account of the mere value +of it, but the money may save lives.” + +“Why, achora, what do you intend doin' wid the money, if it's a fair +question to ax?” + +“It's not a fair question for a stranger--it's enough for me to tell you +that I'll do nothing with it without my father and mother's knowledge. +Here, Denny,” she said, addressing her brother, who was on his way to +the stable, “slip a stool through the windy, an' stay wid me in the +barn--I want to send you of a message in a few minutes.” + +It is only necessary to say that the compensation was a more liberal one +than Mave had at all expected, and the pedlar disencumbered her of as +rich and abundant a mass of hair as ever ornamented a female head. This +he did, however, in such a way as to render the absence of it as little +perceptible as might be; the side locks he did not disturb, and Mave, +when she put on a clean night cap, looked as if she had not undergone +any such operation. + +As the pedlar was going away, he called her aside, so as that her +brother might not hear. + +“Did you ever see me afore?” he asked. + +“I did,” she replied, blushing. “Well, achora,” he proceeded, “if ever +you happen to be hard set, either for yourself or your friends, send +for me, in Widow Hanlon's house at the Grange, an' maybe I may befriend +either you or them; that is, as far as I can--which, dear knows, is not +far; but, still an' all, send. I'm known as the _Cannie Sugah_, or Merry +Pedlar, an' that'll do. God mark you, _ahagur!_” + +Her brother's intelligence respecting the situation of the Daltons, as +well as of Sarah M'Gowan, saved Mave a long explanation to her parents +for the act of having parted with her hair. + +“We are able to live--barely able to live,” she exclaimed; “an' thanks +be to God we have our health; but the Daltons--oh! they'll never get +through what they're sufferin'; an' that girl--oh! mother, sich a girl +as that is--how little does the world know of the heart that beautiful +craythur has. May the mercy of God rest upon her! This money is for the +poor Daltons an' her; we can do without it--an', mother dear, my hair +will grow again. Oh! father dear, think of it--lyin' in a could shed by +the road-side, an' no one to help or assist her--to hand her a drink--to +ease her on her hard bed--bed!--no on the cold earth I suppose! Oh! +think if I was in that desolate state. May God support me, but she's +the first I'll see; an' while I have life an' strength, she musn't want +attendance; an' thank God her shed's on my way to the Daltons!” + +She then hastily sent her brother into Ballynafail for such comforts as +she deemed necessary for both parties; and in the mean time, putting a +bonnet over her clean nightcap, she proceeded to the shed in which Sarah +M'Gowan lay. + +On looking at it ere she entered, she could not help shuddering. It +was such a place as the poorest pauper in the poorest cabin would not +willingly place an animal in for shelter. It simply consisted of a +few sticks laid up against the side of a ditch; over these sticks were +thrown a few scraws--that is, the sward of the earth cut thin; in the +inside was the remnant of some loose straw, the greater part having been +taken away either for bedding or firing. + +When Mave entered, she started at the singular appearance of Sarah. From +the first moment her person had been known to her until the present, she +had never seen her look half so beautiful. She literally lay stretched +upon a little straw, with no other pillow than a sod of earth under that +rich and glowing cheek, while her raven hair had fallen down, and added +to the milk-white purity of her shining neck and bosom. + +“Father of Mercy!” exclaimed Mave, mentally, “how will she live--how +can she live here? An' what will become of her? Is she to die in this +miserable way in a Christian land?” + +Sarah lay groaning with pain, and starting from time to time with the +pangs of its feverish inflictions. Mave spoke not when she entered the +shed, being ignorant whether Sarah was asleep or awake; but a very few +moments soon satisfied her that the unhappy and deserted girl was under +the influence of delirium. + +“I won't break my promise, father, but I'll break my heart; an' I can't +even give her warnin'. Ah! but it's threacherous--an' I hate that. No, +no--I'll have no hand in it--manage it your own way--it's threacherous. +She has crossed my happiness,you say--ay, an' there you're right--so +she has--only for her I might--amn't I as handsome, you say, an' as +well shaped--haven't I as white a skin?--as beautiful hair, an' as good +eyes?--people say betther--an' if I have, wouldn't he come to love me in +time?--only for her--or if there wasn't that bar put between us. You're +right, you're right. She's the cause of all my sufferin' an' sorrow. She +is--I agree--I agree--down with her--out o' my way with her--I hate the +thoughts of her--an' I'll join it--for mark me, father, wicked I may +be, but more miserable I can't--so I'll join you in it. What need I care +now?” + +Mave felt her heart sink, and her whole being disturbed with a heavy +sense of terror, as Sarah uttered the incoherent rhapsody which we have +just repeated. The vague, but strongly expressed warnings which she +had previously heard from Nelly, and the earnest admonitions which that +person had given her to beware of evil designs on the part of Donnel Dhu +and his daughter, now rushed upon her mind; and she stood looking upon +the desolate girl with feelings that it is difficult to describe. She +also remembered that Sarah herself had told her in their very last +interview, that she had other thoughts, and worse thoughts than the fair +battle of rivalry between them would justify; and it was only now, too, +that the unconscious allusion to the Prophet struck her with full force. + +Her sweet and gentle magnanimity, however, rose over every other +consideration but the frightfully desolate state of her unhappy rival. +Even in this case, also, her own fears of contagion yielded to the +benevolent sense of duty by which she was actuated. + +“Come what will,” she said to her own heart; “we ought to return good +for evil; an' there's no use in knowing what is right, unless we strive +to put it in practice. At any rate, poor girl--poor, generous Sarah, I'm +afeard that you're never likely to do harm to me, or any one else, in +this world. May God, in his mercy, pity and relieve you--and restore you +wanst more to health!” + +Mave, unconsciously, repeated the last words aloud; and Sarah, who had +been lying with her back to the unprotected opening of the shed, having +had a slight mitigation, and but a slight one, of the paroxysm under +which she had uttered the previous incoherencies, now turned round, and +fixing her eyes upon Mave, kept sharply, but steadily, gazing at her +for some time. It was quite evident, however, that consciousness had +not returned, for after she had surveyed Mave for a minute or two, she +proceeded-- + +“The devil was there a while ago, but I wasn't afeard of him, because +I knew that God was stronger than him; and then there came an +angel--another angel, not you--and put him away; but it wasn't my +guardian angel for I never had a guardian angel--oh, never, never--no, +nor any one to take care o' me, or make me love them.” + +She uttered the last words in a tone of such deep and distressing +sorrow, that Mave's eyes filled with tears, and she replied-- + +“Dear Sarah, let me be your guardian angel; I will do what I can for +you; do you not know me?” + +“No, I don't; arn't you one o' the angels that come about me?--the place +is full o' them.” + +“Unhappy girl--or maybe happy girl,” exclaimed Mave, with a fresh gush +of tears, “who knows but the Almighty has your cold and deserted--bed +I can't call it--surrounded with beings that may comfort you, an' take +care that no evil thing will harm you. Oh no, dear Sarah, I am far from +that--I'm a wake, sinful mortal.” + +“Bekaise they're about me continually an'--let me see--who are you? I +know you. One o' them said a while ago, 'May God relieve you and restore +you wanst more to health;' I heard the voice.” + +“Dear Sarah, don't you know me?” reiterated Mave; “look at me--don't you +know Mave Sullivan--your friend, Mave Sullivan, that knows your value +and loves you.” + +“Who?” she asked, starting a little; “who--what name is that?--who is +it?--say it again.” + +“Don't you know Mave Sullivan, that loves you, an' feels for your +miserable situation, my dear Sarah.” + +“I never had a guardian angel, nor any one to take care o' me--nor a +mother, many a time--often--often the whole world--jist to look at her +face--an' to know--feel--love me. Oh, a dhrink, a dhrink--is there no +one to get me a dhrink! I'm burnin', I'm burnin'--is there no one to get +me a dhrink! Mave Sullivan, Mave Sullivan, have pity on me! I heard some +one name her--I heard her voice--I'll die without a dhrink.” + +Mave looked about the desolate shed, and to her delight spied a tin +porringer, which Sarah's unhappy predecessors had left behind them; +seizing this, she flew to a little stream that ran by the place, and +filling the vessel, returned and placed it to Sarah's lips. She drank +it eagerly, and looking piteously and painfully up into Mave's face, she +laid back her head, and appeared to breathe more freely. Mave hoped that +the drink of cold water would have cooled her fever and assuaged her +thirst, so as to have brought her to a rational state--such a state +as would have enabled the poor girl to give some account of the +extraordinary situation in which she found herself, and of the +circumstances which occasioned her to take shelter in such a place. In +this, however, she was disappointed. Sarah having drank the cold water, +once more shut her eyes, and fell into that broken and oppressive +slumber which characterizes the terrible malady which had stricken her +down. For some time she waited with this benign expectation, but seeing +there was no likelihood of her restoration, to consciousness, she again +filled the tin vessel, and placing it upon a stone by her bedside, +composed the poor girl's dress about her, and turned her steps toward a +scene in which she expected to find equal misery. + +It is not our intention, however, to dwell upon it. It is sufficient +to say, that she found the Daltons--who, by the way, had a pretty long +visit from the pedlar--as her brother had said, beginning to recover, +and so far this was consolatory; but there was not within the walls of +the house, earthly comfort, or food or nourishment of any kind. Poor +Mary was literally gasping for want of sustenance, and a few hours more +might have been fatal to them all. There was no fire--no gruel, milk or +anything that could in the slightest possible degree afford them relief. +Her brother Denny, however, who had been desired by her to fetch his +purchases directly to their cabin, soon returned, and almost at a moment +that might be called the crisis, not of their malady, for that had +passed, but of their fate itself, his voice was heard, shouting from a +distance that he had discharged his commission; for we may observe that +no possible inducement could tempt him to enter that or any other house +where fever was at work. Mave lost little time in administering to their +wants and their weaknesses. With busy and affectionate hands she did all +that could be done for them at that particular juncture. She prepared +food for Mary, made whey and gruel, and left as much of her little purse +as she thought could be spared from the wants of Sarah M'Gowan. + +In the course of two or three days afterwards, however, Sarah's +situation was very much changed for the better; but until that change +was effected, Mave devoted as much time to the poor girl as she could +possibly spare. Nor was the force of her example without its beneficial +effects in the neighborhood, especially as regarded Sarah herself. The +courage she displayed, despite her constitutional timidity, communicated +similar courage to others, in consequence of which Sarah was scarcely +ever without some one in her bleak shed to watch and take care of her. +Her father, however, on hearing of her situation, availed himself of +what some of the neighbors considered a mitigation of her symptoms, and +with as much care and caution as possible, she was conveyed home on a +kind of litter, and nurse-tended by an old woman from the next village, +Nelly having disappeared from the neighborhood. + +The attendance of this old woman, by the way, surprised the Prophet +exceedingly. He had not engaged her to attend on Sarah, nor could he +ascertain who had. Upon this subject she was perfectly inscrutable. All +he could know or get out of her was, that she had been engaged; and +he could perceive also, that she was able to procure her many general +comforts, not usually to be had about the sick bed of a person in her +condition of life. + +Mave, during all her attendance upon Sarah, was never able to ascertain +whether, in the pauses of delirium, she had been able to recognize her. +At one period, while giving her a drink of whey, she looked up into her +eyes with something like a glance of consciousness, mingled with wonder, +and appeared about to speak, but in a moment it was gone, and she +relapsed into her former state. + +This, however, was not the only circumstance that astonished Mave. +The course of a single week also made a very singular change in the +condition of the Daltons. Their miserable cabin began to exhibit an +abundance of wholesome food, such as fresh meat, soup, tea, sugar,white +bread, and even to wine, to strengthen the invalids. These things were +to Mave equally a relief and a wonder; nor were the neighbors less +puzzled at such an unaccountable improvement in the circumstances of +this pitiable and suffering family. As in the case of Sarah, however, +all these comforts, and the source from whence they proceeded, were +shrouded in mystery. It is true, Mrs. Dalton smiled in a melancholy way +when any inquiries were made about the matter, and shaking her head, +declared, that although she knew, it was out of her power to break the +seal of secrecy, or violate the promise she had made to their unknown +benefactor. + +Sarah's fever was dreadfully severe, and for some time after her removal +from the shed, there was little hope of her recovery. Our friend, the +pedlar, paid her a visit in the very height of her malady, and without +permission, given or asked, took the liberty, in her father's absence, +of completely removing her raven hair, with the exception, as in Mave's +case, of those locks which adorn the face and forehead, and, to +his shame and dishonesty be it told, without the slightest offer of +remuneration. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. -- Double Treachery. + + +The state of the country at this period of our narrative was, indeed, +singularly gloomy and miserable. Some improvement, however, had taken +place in the statistics of disease; but the destitution was still so +sharp and terrible, that there was very little diminution of the tumults +which still prevailed. Indeed the rioting, in some districts, had risen +to a frightful extent. The cry of the people was, for either bread or +work; and to still, if possible, this woeful clamor, local committees, +by large subscriptions, aided, in some cases, by loans from government, +contrived to find them employment on useful public works. Previous to +this, nothing could surpass the prostration and abject subserviency with +which the miserable crowds solicited food or labor. Only give them labor +at any rate--say sixpence a day--and they did not wish to beg or violate +the laws. No, no; only give them peaceable employment, and they would +rest not only perfectly contented, but deeply grateful. In the meantime, +the employment they sought for was provided, not at sixpence, but +at one-and-sixpence a day; so that for a time they appeared to feel +satisfied, and matters went on peaceably enough. This, however, was too +good to last. There are ever, among such masses of people, unprincipled +knaves, known as “politicians”--idle vagabonds, who hate all honest +employment themselves, and ask no better than to mislead and fleece +the ignorant unreflecting people, however or wherever they can. These +fellows read and expound the papers on Sundays and holidays; rail not +only against every government, no matter what its principles are, but, +in general, attack all constituted authority, without feeling one single +spark of true national principle, or independent love of liberty. It is +such corrupt scoundrels that always assail the executive of the country, +and at the same time supply the official staff of spies and informers +with their blackest perjurers and traitors. In truth, they are always +the first to corrupt, and the first to betray. You may hear these +men denouncing government this week, and see them strutting about the +Castle, its pampered instruments, and insolent with its patronage, the +next. If there be a strike, conspiracy, or cabal of any kind, these +“patriots” are at the bottom of it; and wherever ribbonism and other +secret societies do not exist, there they are certain to set them +agoing. + +For only a short time were these who had procured industrial employment +permitted to rest satisfied with the efforts which had been made on +their behalf. The “patriots” soon commenced operations. + +“Eighteen pence a day was nothing; the government had plenty of money, +and if the people wished to hear a truth, it could be tould them by +those who knew--listen hether”--as the Munster men say--“the country +gentlemen and the committees are putting half the money into their own +pockets”--this being precisely what the knaves would do themselves if +they were in their places--“and for that reason we'll strike for higher +wages.” + +In this manner were the people led first into folly, and ultimately +into rioting and crime; for it is not, in point of fact, those who are +suffering most severely that take a prominent part in these senseless +tumults, or who are the first to trample upon law and order. The evil +example is set to those who do suffer by these factious vagabonds; +and, under such circumstances, and betrayed by such delusions, the +poor people join the crowd, and find themselves engaged in the outrage, +before they have time to reflect upon their conduct. + +At the time of which we write, however, the government did not consider +it any part of its duty to take a deep interest in the domestic or +social improvement of the people. The laws of the country, at that +period, had but one aspect--that of terror; for it was evident that the +legislature of the day had forgotten that neither an individual nor a +people can both love and fear the same object at the same time. The laws +checked insubordination and punished crime; and having done this, the +great end and object of all law was considered to have been attained. +We hope, however, the day has come when education, progress, improvement +and reward, will shed their mild and peaceful lustre upon our +statute-books, and banish from them those Draconian enactments, that +engender only fear and hatred, breathe of cruelty, and have their origin +in a tyrannical love of blood. + +We have said that the aspect of the country was depressing and gloomy; +but we may add here, that these words convey but a vague and feeble +idea of the state to which the people at large were reduced. The general +destitution, the famine, sickness and death, which had poured such +misery and desolation over the land, left, as might be expected, their +terrible traces behind them. Indeed the sufferings which a year of +famine and disease--and they usually either accompany or succeed each +other--inflicts upon the multitudes of poor, are such as no human pen +could at all describe, so as to portray a picture sufficiently faithful +to the dreary and death-like spirit which should breath in it. Upon +the occasion we write of, nothing met you, go where you might, but +suffering, and sorrow, and death, to which we may add, tumult, and +crime, and bloodshed. Scarcely a family but had lost one or more. +Every face you met was an index of calamity, and bore upon it the +unquestionable impressions of struggle and hardship. Cheerfulness and +mirth had gone, and were forgotten. All the customary amusements of the +people had died away. Almost every house had a lonely and deserted look; +for it was known that one or more beloved beings had gone out of it to +the grave. A dark, heartless spirit was abroad. The whole land, in fact, +mourned, and nothing on which the eye could rest, bore a green or a +thriving look, or any symptom of activity, but the churchyards, and here +the digging and delving were incessant--at the early twilight, during +the gloomy noon, the dreary dusk, and the still more funeral looking +light of the midnight taper. + +The first days of the assizes were now near, and among all those who +awaited them, there was none whose fate excited so profound an interest +as that of old Condy Dalton. His family had now recovered from their +terrible sufferings, and were able to visit him in his prison--a +privilege which was awarded to them as a mark of respect for their many +virtues, and of sympathy for their extraordinary calamities and trials. +They found him resigned to his fate, but stunned with wonder at the +testimony on which he was likely to be convicted. The pedlar, who +appeared to take so singular an interest in the fortunes of his family, +sought and obtained a short interview with him, in which he requested +him to state, as accurately as he could remember, the circumstances on +which the prosecution was founded, precisely as they occurred. This he +did, closing his account by the usual burthen of all his conversation +ever since he went to gaol: + +“I know I must suffer; but I think nothing of myself, only for the shame +it will bring upon my family.” + +Sarah's unexpected illness disconcerted at least one of the projects of +Donnel Dhu. There were now only two days until the assizes, and she +was as yet incapable of leaving her bed, although in a state of +convalescence. This mortified the Prophet very much, but his subtlety +and invention never abandoned him. It struck him that the most effectual +plan now would be--as Sarah's part in aiding to take away Mave was +out of the question--to merge the violence to which he felt they must +resort, into that of the famine riots; and under the character of one +of these tumults, to succeed, if possible, in removing Mave from her +father's house, ere her family could understand the true cause of her +removal. Those who were to be engaged in this were, besides, principally +strangers, to whom neither Mave nor her family were personally known; +and as a female cousin of hers--an orphan--had come to reside with them +until better times should arrive, it would be necessary to have some one +among the party who knew Mave sufficiently to make no mistake as to her +person. For this purpose he judiciously fixed upon Thomas Dalton, as the +most appropriate individual to execute this act of violence against the +very family who were likely to be the means of bringing his father to +a shameful death. This young man had not yet recovered the use of his +reason, so as to be considered sane. He still roved about as before, +sometimes joining the mobs, and leading them on to the outrage, and +sometimes sauntering in a solitary mood, without seeming altogether +conscious of what he did or said. To secure his co-operation was a +matter of little or difficulty, and the less so as he heard, with +infinite satisfaction, that Dalton was perpetually threatening every +description of vengeance against the Sullivans, about to be tried, and +very likely to suffer for the murder. + +It was now the day but one previous to the commencement of the assizes, +and our readers will be kind enough to accompany us to the Grange, +or rather to the garden of the Grange, at the gate of which our +acquaintance Red Rody is knocking. He has knocked two or three times, +and sent, on each occasion, Hanlon, old Dick, young Dick, together with +all the component parts of the establishment, to a certain territory, +where, so far as its legitimate historians assure us, the coldness of +the climate has never been known to give any particular offence. + +“I know he's inside, for didn't I see him goin' in--well, may all +the devils--hem--oh, good morrow, Charley--troth you'd make a good +messenger for death. I'm knocking here till I have lost the use of my +arm wid downright fatigue.” + +“Never mind, Rody, you'll recover it before you're twice married--come +in.” They then entered. “Well, Rody, what's the news?” + +“What the news, is it? Why then is anything in the shape of news--of +good news I mean--to be had in such a counthry as this? Troth it's a +shame for any one that has health an' limbs to remain in it. An' now +that you're answered, what's the news yourself, Charley? I hope that +the Drivership's safe at last, I thought I was to sleep at home in my +comfortable berth last--” + +“Not now till afther the 'sizes, Rody.” + +“The master's goin' to them? bekaise I heard he wasn't able.” + +“He's goin', he says, happen what may; he thinks it's his last visit +to them, and I agree wid him--he'll soon have a greater 'sizes and a +different judge to meet.” + +“Ay, Charley, think of that now; an' tell me, he sleeps in Ballynafail, +as usual; eh, now?” + +“He does of course.” + +“An' Jemmy Branigan goes along wid him?” + +“Are you foolish, Kody? Do you think he could live widout him?” + +“Well, I b'lieve not. Throth, whenever the ould fellow goes in the next +world, there'll be no keepin' Jemmy from him. Howandiver, to dhrop that. +Isn't these poor times, Charley, an' isn't this a poor counthry to live +in--or it would be nearer the truth to say starve in?” + +“No, but it would be the truth itself,” replied the other. “What is +there over the whole counthry but starvation and misery?” + +“Any dhrames about America since, Charley? eh, now?” + +“Maybe ay, and maybe no, Rody. Is it true that Tom Dalton threatens all +kinds of vengeance on the Sullivans?” + +“Ay, is it, an' the whole counthry says that he's as ready to knock one +o' them on the head as ever the father before him was. They don't think +the betther of the ould man for it; but what do you mane by 'maybe ay, +an' maybe no,' Charley?” + +“What do you mane by axin' me?” + +Each looked keenly for some time at the other as he spoke, and after +this there was a pause. At length, Hanlon, placing his hand upon Rody's +shoulder, replied: + +“Rody, it won't do. I know the design--and I tell you now that one word +from my lips could have you brought up at the assizes--tried--and I +won't say the rest. You're betrayed!” + +The ruffian's lip fell--his voice faltered, and he became pale. + +“Ay!” proceeded the other, “you may well look astonished--but listen, +you talk about goin' to America--do you wish to go?” + +“Of coorse I do,” replied Body, “of coorse--not a doubt of it.” + +“Well,” proceeded Hanlon again, “listen still! your plan's discovered, +you're betrayed; but I can't tell you who betrayed you, I'm not at +liberty. Now listen, I say, come this way. Couldn't you an' I ourselves +do the thing--couldn't we make the haul, and couldn't we cut off to +America without any danger to signify, that is, if you can be faithful?” + +“Faithful!” he exclaimed. “By all the books that was ever opened an' +shut, I'm thruth and honesty itself, so I am--howandiver, you said I was +betrayed?” + +“But I can't tell you the man that toald me. Whether you're able to +guess at him or not, I don't know; but the thruth is, Rody, I've taken +a likin' to you--an' if you'll just stand the trial I'm goin' to put you +to, I'll be a friend to you--the best you ever had too.” + +“Well, Charley,” said the other, plucking up courage a little, for the +fellow was a thorough coward, “what is the thrial?” + +“The man,” continued Hanlon, “that betrayed you gave me one account of +what you're about; but whether he tould me thruth or not I don't know +till I hear another, an' that's yours. Now, you see clearly, Rody, that +I'm up to all as it is, so you need not be a bit backward in tellin' the +whole thruth. I say you're in danger, an' it's only trustin' to me--mark +that--by trustin' faithfully to me that you'll get out of it; an', +plaise the fates, I hope that, before three mouths is over, we'll be +both safe an' comfortable in America. Do you undherstand that? I had my +dhrames, Rody; but if I had, there must be nobody but yourself and me to +know them.” + +“It wasn't I that first thought of it, but Donnel Dhu,” replied Kody; “I +never dreamt that he'd turn thraitor though.” + +“Don't be sayin' to-morrow or next day that I said he did,” replied +Hanlon. “Do you mind me now? A nod's as good as a wink to a blind +horse.” + +Rody, though cowardly and treacherous, was extremely cunning, and upon +turning the matter over in his mind, he began to dread, or rather +to feel that Hanlon had so far over-reached him. Still it might be +possible, he thought, that the prophet had betrayed him, and he resolved +to put a query to his companion that would test his veracity; after +which he would leave himself at liberty to play a double game, if +matters should so fall out as to render it necessary. + +“Did the man that tould you everything,” he asked, “tell you the night +that was appointed for this business?” + +Hanlon felt this was a puzzler, and that he might possibly commit +himself by replying in the affirmative. + +“No,” he replied, “he didn't tell me that.” + +“Ah, ha!” thought his companion, “I see whereabouts you are.” + +He disclosed, however, the whole plot, with the single exception of the +night appointed for the robbery, which, in point of date, he placed in +his narrative exactly a week after the real time. + +“Now,” he said to himself, “so far I'm on the safe side; still, if he +has humbugged me, I've paid him in his own coin. Maybe the whole haul, +as he calls it, may be secured before they begin to prepare for it.” + +Hanlon, however, had other designs. After musing a little, they +sauntered along the garden walks, during which he proposed a plan +of their own for the robbery of Henderson; and so admirably was it +concocted, and so tempting to the villainous cupidity of Duncan, that +he expressed himself delighted from the commencement of its fancied +execution until their ultimate settlement in America. + +“It was a treacherous thing, I grant, to betray you, Rody,” said Hanlon; +“an' if I was in your place, I'd give him tit for tat. An', by the +way, talkin' of the Prophet--not that I say it was he betrayed you--for +indeed now it wasn't--bad cess to me if it was--I think you wanst said +you knew more about him than I thought.” + +“Ah, ha,” again thought Rody, “I think I see what you're afther at last; +but no matther, I'll keep my eye on you. Hut, ay did I,” he replied; +“but I forget now what's this it was. However, I'll try if I can +remember it; if I do, I'll tell you.” + +“You an' he will hang that murdherin' villain, Dalton--” + +“I'm afeard o' that,” replied the other; “an' for my part, I'd as soon +be out of the thing altogether; however, it can't be helped now.'” + +“Isn't it sthrange, Rody, how murdher comes out at last?” observed +Hanlon; “now there's that ould man, an' see, after twenty years or more, +how it comes against him. However, it's not a very pleasant subject, so +let it dhrop. Here's Masther Richard comin' through the private gate,” + he added; “but if you slip down to my aunt's to-night, we'll have a +glass of something that'll do us no harm at any rate, and we can talk +more about the other business.” + +“Very well,” replied Rody, “I'll be down, so goodbye; an' whisper, +Charley,” he added, putting on a broad grin; “don't be too sure that I +tould you a single word o' thruth about the rob--hem--ha, ha! take care +of yourself--good people is scarce you know--ha, ha, ha!” + +He then left Hanlon in a state of considerable doubt as to the discovery +he had made touching the apprehended burglary; and his uncertainty was +the greater, inasmuch as he had frequently heard the highest possible +encomiums lavished upon Duncan's extraordinary powers of invention and +humbug. + +Young Henderson, on hearing these circumstances, did not seriously +question their truth; neither did they in the slightest degree shake +his confidence in the intentions of the Prophet with respect to Mave +Sullivan. Indeed, he argued very reasonably and correctly, that the man +who was capable of the one act, would have little hesitation to commit +the other. This train of reflection, however, he kept to himself, for it +is necessary to state here, that Hanlon was not at all in the secret of +the plot against Mave. Henderson had, on an earlier occasion sounded him +upon it, but perceived at once that his scruples could not be overcome, +and that of course it would be dangerous to repose confidence in him. + +The next evening was that immediately preceding the assizes, and it was +known that Dalton's trial was either the second or third on the list, +and must consequently come on, on the following day. The pedlar and +Hanlon sat in a depressed and melancholy mood at the fire; an old crone +belonging to the village, who had been engaged to take care of the house +during the absence of Hanlon's aunt, sat at the other side, occasionally +putting an empty dudeen into her mouth, drawing it hopelessly, and +immediately knocking the bowl of it in a fretful manner, against the +nail of her left thumb. + +“What's the matther, Ailey?” asked the pedlar; “are you out o' tobaccy?” + +“Throth it's time for you to ax--ay am I; since I ate my dinner, sorra +puff I had.” + +“Here then,” he replied, suiting the action to the word, and throwing +a few halfpence into her lap; “go to Peggy Finigan's an' buy yourself a +couple of ounces, an' smoke rings round you; and listen to me, go down +before you come back to Bamy Keeran's an' see whether he has my shoes +done or not, an' tell him from me, that if they're not ready for me +tomorrow mornin', I'll get him exkummunicated.” + +When the crone had gone out, the pedlar proceeded: + +“Don't be cast down yet, I tell you; there's still time enough, an' they +may be here still.” + +“Be here still! why, good God! isn't the thrial to come on to-morrow, +they say?” + +“So itself; you may take my word for it, that even if he's found guilty, +they won't hang him, or any man of his years.” + +“Don't be too sure o' that,” replied Hanlon; “but indeed what could I +expect afther dependin' upon a foolish dhrame?” + +“Never mind; I'm still of the opinion that everything may come about +yet. The Prophet's wife was with Father Hanratty, tellin' him something, +an' he is to call here early in the mornin'; he bid me tell you so.” + +“When did you see him?” + +“To day at the cross roads, as he was goin' to a sick call. + +“But where's the use o' that, when they're not here? My own opinion is, +that she's either sick, or if God hasn't said it, maybe dead. How can +we tell if ever she has seen or found the man you sent her for? Sure, if +she didn't, all's lost.” + +“Throth, I allow,” replied the pedlar, “that things is in a distressin' +state with us; however, while there's life there's hope, as the Doctor +says. There must be something extraordinary wrong to keep them away so +long, I grant--or herself, at any rate; still, I say again, trust +in God. You have secured Duncan, you say; but can you depend on the +ruffian?” + +“If it was on his honesty, I could not, one second, but I do upon his +villainy and love of money. I have promised him enough, and it all +depends on whether he'll believe me or not.” + +“Well, well,” observed the other, “I wish things had a brighter look up. +If we fail, I won't know what to say. We must only thry an' do the best +we can, ourselves.” + +“Have you seen the agint since you gave him the petition?” asked Hanlon. + +“I did, but he had no discoorse with the Hendherson's; and he bid me +call on him again.” + +“I dunna what does he intend to do?” + +“Hut, nothing. What 'id he do? I'll go bail, he'll never trouble his +head about it more; at any rate I tould him a thing.” + +“Very likely he won't,” replied Hanlon; “but what I'm thinkin' of now, +is the poor Daltons. May God in his mercy pity an' support them this +night!” + +The pedlar clasped his hands tightly as he looked up, and said “Amen!” + +“Ay,” said he, “it's now, Charley, whin I think of them, that I get +frightened about our disappointment, and the way that everything has +failed with us. God pity them, I say, too!” + +The situation of this much tried family, was, indeed, on the night in +question, pitiable in the extreme. It is true, they had now recovered, +or nearly so, the full enjoyment of their health, and were--owing, as +we have already said, to the bounty of some unknown friend--in +circumstances of considerable comfort. Dalton's confession of the murder +had taken away from them every principle upon which they could rely, +with one only exception. Until the moment of that confession, they +had never absolutely been in possession of the secret cause of his +remorse--although, it must be admitted, that, on some occasions, the +strength of his language and the melancholy depth of his sorrow, filled +them with something like suspicion. Still such they knew to be the +natural affection and tenderness of his heart, his benevolence and +generosity, in spite of his occasional bursts of passion, that they +could not reconcile to themselves the notion that he had ever murdered a +fellow creature. Every one knows how slow the heart of wife or child is +to entertain such a terrible suspicion against a husband or a parent, +and that the discovery of their guilt comes upon the spirit with +a weight of distress and agony that is great in proportion to the +confidence felt in them. + +The affectionate family in question had just concluded their simple act +of evening worship, and were seated around a dull fire, looking forward +in deep dejection to the awful event of the following day. The silence +that prevailed was only broken by an occasional sob from the girls, or +a deep sigh from young Con, who, with his mother, had not long been +returned from Ballynafail, where they had gone to make preparations for +the old man's defence. His chair stood by the fire, in its usual place, +and as they looked upon it from time to time, they could not prevent +their grief from bursting out afresh. The mother, on this occasion, +found the usual grounds for comfort taken away from both herself and +them--we mean, the husband's innocence. She consequently had but one +principle to rely on--that of single dependence upon God, and obedience +to His sovereign will, however bitter the task might be, and so she told +them. + +“It's a great thrial to us, children,” she observed; “an' it's only +natural we should feel it. I do not bid you to stop cryin', my poor +girls, because it would be very strange if you didn't cry. Still, let +us not forget that it's our duty to bow down humbly before whatever +misfortune--an' this is indeed a woeful one--that it pleases God in His +wisdom (or, may be, in His mercy), to lay in our way. That's all we can +do now, God help us--an' a hard thrial it is--for when we think of what +he was to us--of his kindness--his affection!----” + +Her own voice became infirm, and, instead of proceeding, she paused a +moment, and then giving one long, convulsive sob, that rushed up from +her very heart, she wept out long and bitterly. The grief now became +a wail; and were it not for the presence of Con, who, however, could +scarcely maintain a firm voice himself, the sorrow-worn mother and her +unhappy daughters would have scarcely known when to cease. + +“Mother dear!” he exclaimed--“what use is in this? You began with givin' +us a good advice, an' you ended with settin' us a bad example! Oh, +mother, darlin', forgive me the word--never, never since we remember +anything, did you ever set us a bad example.” + +“Con dear, I bore up as long as I could,” she replied, wiping her eye; +“but you know, after all, nature's nature, an' will have its way. You +know, too, that this is the first tear I shed, since he left us.” + +“I know,” replied her son, laying her careworn cheek over upon his +bosom, “that you are the best mother that ever breathed, an' that I +would lay down my life to save your heart from bein' crushed, as it is, +an' as it has been.” + +She felt a few warm tears fall upon her face as he spoke; and the only +reply she made was, to press him affectionately to her heart. + +“God's merciful, if we're obedient,” she added, in a few moments; “don't +you remember, that when Abraham was commanded to kill his only son, he +was ready to obey God, and do it; and don't you remember that it +wasn't until his very hand was raised, with the knife in it, that God +interfered. Whisht,” she continued, “I hear a step--who is it? Oh, poor +Tom!” + +The poor young man entered as she spoke; and after looking about him for +some time, placed himself in the arm chair. + +“Tom, darlin',” said his sister Peggy, “don't sit in that--that's our +poor father's chair; an' until he sits in it again, none of us ever +will.” + +“Nobody has sich a right to sit in it as I have,” he replied, “I'm a +murdherer.” + +His words, his wild figure, and the manner in which he uttered them, +filled them with alarm and horror. + +“Tom, dear,” said his brother, approaching him, “why do you speak that +way?--you're not a murdherer!” + +“I am!” he replied; “but I haven't done wid the Sullivans yet, for what +they're goin' to do--ha, ha, ha!--oh, no. It's all planned; an' they'll +suffer, never doubt it.” + +“Tom,” said Mary, who began to fear that he might, in some wild +paroxysm, have taken the life of the unfortunate miser, or of some one +else; “if you murdhered any one, who was it?” + +“Who was it?” he replied; “if you go up to Curraghbeg churchyard, you'll +find her there; the child's wid her--but I didn't murdher the child, did +I?” + +On finding that he alluded only to the unfortunate Peggy Murtagh, they +recovered from the shock into which his words had thrown them. Tom, +however, appeared exceedingly exhausted and feeble, as was evident from +his inability to keep himself awake. His head gradually sank upon his +breast, and in a few minutes he fell into a slumber. “I'll put him to +bed,” said Con; “help me to raise him.” + +They lifted him up, and a melancholy sight it was to see that face, +which had once been such a noble specimen of manly beauty, now shrunk +away into an expression of gaunt and haggard wildness, that was painful +to contemplate. His sisters could not restrain their tears, on looking +at the wreck that was before them; and his mother, with a voice of deep +anguish, exclaimed-- + +“My brave, my beautiful boy, what, oh, what has become of you? Oh, +Tom, Tom,” she added--“maybe it's well for you that you don't know the +breakin' hearts that's about you this night--or the bitter fate that's +over him that loved you so well.” + +As they turned him about, to take off his cravat, he suddenly raised his +head, and looking about him, asked-- + +“Where's my father gone?--I see you all about me but him--where's my +fath--” + +Ere the words were pronounced, however, he was once more asleep, and +free for a time from the wild and moody malady which oppressed him. + +Such was the night, and such were the circumstances and feelings that +ushered in the fearful day of Condy Dalton's trial. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. -- A Picture of the Present--Sarah Breaks her Word. + + +The gray of a cold frosty morning had begun to dawn, and the angry +red of the eastern sky gradually to change into that dim but darkening +aspect which marks a coming tempest of snow, when the parish priest, +the Rev. Father Hanratty, accompanied by Nelly M'Gowan, passed along the +Ballynafail road, on their way to the Grange, for the purpose of having +a communication with Charley Hanlon. It would, indeed, be impossible +to describe a morning more strongly marked than the one in question, +by that cold and shivering impression of utter misery which it is +calculated to leave on any mind, especially when associated with the +sufferings of our people. The breeze was keen and so cutting, that +one felt as if that part of the person exposed to it had undergone the +process of excoriation, and when a stronger blast than usual swept over +the naked and desolate-looking fields, its influence actually benumbed +the joints, and penetrated the whole system with a sensation that made +one imagine the very marrow within the bones was frozen. + +They had not proceeded far beyond the miserable shed where Sarah, in the +rapid prostration of typhus, had been forced to take shelter, when, in +passing a wretched cabin by the roadside, which, from its open door and +ruinous windows, had all the appearance of being uninhabited, they heard +the moans of some unhappy individual within, accompanied, as it were, +with something like the low feeble wail of an infant. + +“Ah,” said the worthy priest, “this, I fear, is another of those awful +cases of desertion and death that are too common in this terrible and +scourging visitation. We must not pass here without seeing what is the +matther, and rendering such assistance as we can.” + +“Wid the help o' God, my foot won't cross the threshel,” replied +Nelly--“I know it's the sickness--God keep it from us!--an' I won't put +myself in the way o' it.” + +“Don't profain the name of the Almighty, you wretched woman,” replied +the priest, alighting from his horse; “it is always His will and wish, +that in such trials as these you should do whatever you can for your +suffering fellow-creatures.” + +“But if I should catch it,” the other replied, “what 'ud become o' me? +mightn't I be as bad as they are in there; an' maybe in the same place, +too; an' God knows I'm not fit to die.” + +“Stay where you are,” said the priest, “until I enter the house, and if +your assistance should be necessary, I shall command you to come in.” + +“Well, if you ordher me,” replied the superstitious creature, “that +changes the case. I'll be then undher obadience to my clargy.” + +“If you had better observed the precepts of your religion, and the +injunctions of your clergy, wretched woman, you would not be the vile +creature you are to-day,” he replied, as he hooked his horse's bridle +upon a staple in the door-post, and entered the cabin. + +“Oh, merciful father, support me!” he exclaimed, “what a sight is here! +Come in at once,” he added, addressing himself to Nelly; “and if you +have a woman's heart within you, aid me in trying what can be done.” + +Awed by his words, but with timidity and reluctance, she approached the +scene of appalling misery which there lay before them. But how shall we +describe it? The cabin in which they stood had been evidently for some +time deserted, a proof that its former humble inmates had been all swept +off by typhus; for in these peculiar and not uncommon cases, no other +family would occupy the house thus left desolate, so that the cause +of its desertion was easily understood. The floor was strewed in some +places with little stopples of rotten thatch, evidently blown in by the +wind of the previous night; the cheerless fire-place was covered with +clots of soot, and the floor was all spattered over with the black +shining moisture called soot-drops, which want of heat and habitation +caused to fall from the roof. The cold, strong blast, too, from time +to time, rushed in with wild moans of desolation, that rose and fell in +almost supernatural tones, and swept the dead ashes and soot from the +fireplace, and the rotten thatch from the floor, in little eddies that +spun about until they had got into some nook or corner where the fiercer +strength of the blast could not reach them. Stretched out in this +wretched and abandoned hut, lay before the good priest and his +companion, a group of misery, consisting of both the dying and the +dead--to wit, a mother and her three children. Over in the corner, +on the right hand side of the fire-place, the unhappy and perishing +creature lay, divided, or rather torn asunder, as it were, by the rival +claims of affection. Lying close to her cold and shivering breast was an +infant of about six months old, striving feebly, from time to time, to +draw from that natural source of affection the sustenance which had been +dried up by chilling misery and want. Beside her, on the left, lay +a boy--a pale, emaciated boy--about eight years old, silent and +motionless, with the exception that, ever and anon, he turned round his +heavy blue eyes as if to ask some comfort or aid, or even some notice +from his unfortunate mother, who, as if conscious of these affectionate +supplications, pressed his wan cheek tenderly with her fingers, to +intimate to him, that as far as she could, she responded to, and +acknowledged these last entreaties of the heart; whilst, again, she +felt her affections called upon by the apparently dying struggles of +the infant that was, in reality, fast perishing at the now-exhausted +fountain of its life. Between these two claimants was the breaking heart +of the woeful mother divided, but the alternations of her love seemed +now almost wrought up to the last terrible agonies of mere animal +instinct, when the sufferings are strong in proportion to that debility +of reason which supervenes in such deaths as arise from famine, or under +those feelings of indescribable torture which tore her affection, as +it were, to pieces, and paralyzed her higher powers of moral suffering. +Beyond the infant again, and next the wall, lay a girl, it might be +about eleven, stretched, as if in sleep, and apparently in a state of +composure that struck one forcibly, when contrasted, from its utter +stillness, with the yet living agonies by which she was surrounded. It +was evident, from the decency with which the girl's thin scanty covering +was arranged, and the emaciated arms placed by her side, that the poor +parent had endeavored, as well as she could, to lay her out; and, oh, +great God! what a task for a mother, and under what circumstances must +it have been performed! There, however, did the corpse of this fair and +unhappy child lie; her light and silken locks blown upon her still and +death-like features by the ruffian blast, and the complacency which had +evidently characterized her countenance when in life, now stamped by +death, with the sharp and wan expression of misery and the grave. Thus +surrounded lay the dying mother, and it was not until the priest had +taken in, at more than one view, the whole terrors of this awful scene, +that he had time to let his eyes rest upon her countenance and person. +When he did, however, the history, though a fearful one, was, in her +case, as indeed in too many, legible at a glance, and may be comprised +in one word--starvation. + +Father Hanratty was a firm minded man, with a somewhat rough manner, but +a heart natural and warm. After looking upon her face for a few moments, +he clasped, his hands closely together, and turning up his eyes to +Heaven, he exclaimed: + +“Great God, guide and support me in this trying scene!” + +And, indeed, it is not to be wondered at that he uttered such an +exclamation. There lay in the woman's eyes--between her knit and painful +eye-brows, over her shrunk upper forehead, upon her sharp cheek-bones, +and along the ridge of her thin, wasted nose--there lay upon her +skeleton arms, pointed elbows, and long-jointed fingers, a frightful +expression, at once uniform and varied, that spoke of gaunt and yellow +famine in all its most hideous horrors. Her eyeballs protruded even +to sharpness, and as she glared about her with a half conscious and +half-instinctive look, there seemed a fierce demand in her eye that +would have been painful, were it not that it was occasionally tamed down +into something mournful and imploring, by a recollection of the helpless +beings that were about her. Stripped, as she then was, of all that +civilized society presents to a human being on the bed of death--without +friends, aid of any kind, comfort, sympathy, or the consolations of +religion--she might be truly said to have sunk to the mere condition of +animal life--whose uncontrollable impulses had thus left their startling +and savage impress upon her countenance, unless, as we have said, when +the faint dawn of consciousness threw a softer and more human light into +her wild features. + +“In the name and in the spirit of God's mercy,” asked the priest, “if +you have the use of your tongue or voice, tell me what the matter is +with you or your children? Is it sickness or starvation?” + +The sound of a human voice appeared to arrest her attention, and rouse +her a little. She paused, as it were, from her sufferings, and looked +first at the priest, and then at his companion--but she spoke not. He +then repeated the question, and after a little delay he saw that her +lips moved. + +“She is striving to speak,” said he, “but cannot. I will stoop to her.” + +He repeated the question a third time, and, stooping, so as to bring +his ear near her mouth, he could catch, expressed very feebly and +indistinctly, the word--hunger. She then made an effort, and bent down +her mouth to the infant which now lay still at her breast. She felt for +its little heart, she felt its little lips--but they were now chill +and motionless; its little hands ceased to gather any longer around her +breast; it was cold--it was breathless--it was dead! Her countenance +now underwent a singular and touching change--a kind of solemn joy--a +sorrowful serenity was diffused over it. She seemed to remember their +position, and was in the act, after having raised her eyes to heaven, +of putting round her hand to feel for the boy who lay on the other side, +when she was seized with a short and rather feeble spasm, and laying +down her head in its original position between her children, she was +at last freed from life and all the sufferings which its gloomy lot had +inflicted upon her and those whom she loved. + +The priest, seeing that she was dead, offered up a short but earnest +prayer for the repose of her soul, after which he turned his attention +to the boy. + +“The question now is,” he observed to his companion, “can we save this +poor, but interesting child?” + +“I hardly think it possible,” she replied; “doesn't your reverence see +that death's workin' at him--and an' aisey job he'll have of the poor +thing now.” + +“Hunger and cold have here done awful work,” said Father Hanratty, “as +they have and will in many other conditions similar to this. I shall +mount my horse, and if you lift the poor child up, I will wrap him as +well as I can in my great coat,”--which, by the way, he stripped off +him as he spoke. He then folded it round the boy, and putting him into +Nelly's arms, was about to leave the cabin, when the child, looking +round him for a moment, and then upon his mother, made a faint struggle +to get back. + +“What is it, asthore?” asked the woman; “what is it you want?” + +“Lave me wid my mother,” he said; “let me go to her; my poor father's +dead, an' left us--oh! let me stay with her.” + +The poor boy's voice was so low and feeble, that it was with difficulty +she heard the words, which she repeated to the priest. + +“Dear child,” said the latter, “we are bringing you to where you will +get food and drink, and a warm bed to go to, and you will get better, I +hope.” + +And as he took the helpless and innocent sufferer into his arms, after +having fixed himself in the saddle, the tears of strong compassion ran +down his cheeks. + +“He is as light as a feather, poor thing,” exclaimed the kind-hearted +man; “but I trust in heaven we may save him yet.” + +And they immediately hurried onward to the next house, which happened to +be that of our friend Jerry Sullivan, to the care of whose humane and. +affectionate family they consigned him. + +We cannot dwell here upon that which every reader can anticipate; it is +enough to say that the boy with care recovered, and that his unfortunate +mother with her two children received an humble grave in the nearest +churchyard, beyond the reach of the storms and miseries of life forever. + +On reaching the Grange, or rather the house now occupied by widow +Hanlon, the priest having sent for Charley, into whose confidence he had +for some time been admitted, had a private conference, of considerable +length, with him and the pedlar; after which, Nelly was called in, as it +would seem, to make some disclosure connected with the subject they +were discussing. A deep gloom, however, rested upon both Hanlon and +the pedlar; and it was sufficiently evident that whatever the import of +Nelly M'Gowan's communication may have been, it was not of so cheering +a nature as to compensate for the absence of widow Hanlon, and the party +for which she had been sent. Father Hanratty having left them, they took +an early breakfast, and proceeded to Ballynafail--which we choose to +designate as the assize town--in order to watch, with disappointed +and heavy hearts, the trial of Condy Dalton, in whose fate they felt a +deeper interest than the reader might suppose. + +All the parties attended, the Prophet among the rest; and it might +have been observed, that his countenance was marked by an expression of +peculiar determination. His brow was, if possible, darker than +usual; his eye was quicker and more circumspect, but his complexion, +notwithstanding this, was not merely pale, but absolutely white as +ashes. The morning came, however, and the assies were opened with the +usual formalities. The judge's charge to the grand jury, in consequence +of the famine outrages which had taken place to such an extent, was +unusually long; nor was the “King against Dalton,” for the murder +of Sullivan, left without due advice and comment. In this way +a considerable portion of the day passed. At length a trial for +horse-stealing came on, but closed too late to allow them to think +of commencing any other case during that day; and, as a natural +consequence, that of Condy Dalton was postponed until the next morning. + +It is an impressive thing; and fills the mind with a reverend sense of +the wisdom manifested by an over-ruling Providence, to reflect upon the +wondrous manner in which the influence of slight incidents is made to +frustrate the subtlest designs of human ingenuity, and vindicate the +justice of the Almighty in the eyes of his creatures, sometimes for the +reward of the just, and as often for the punishment of the guilty. Had +the trial of Dalton, for instance, gone on, as had been anticipated, +during the first day, it is impossible to say how many of the characters +in our humble drama might have grievously suffered or escaped in +consequence. At all events it is not likely that the following dialogue +would have ever taken place, or been made instrumental in working out +purposes, and defeating plans, with which the reader, if he is not +already, will very soon be made acquainted. + +Donnel Dhu had returned from the assizes, and was sitting, as usual, +poring over the fire, when he asked the old woman who nursed Sarahif +there had been any persons inquiring for him since nightfall. + +“Three or four,” she replied; “but I said you hadn't come home yet; an' +divil a one o' them but was all on the same tune, an' bid me to tell you +that it was a safe night.” + +“Well, I hope it is, Biddy,” he replied, “but not so safe,” he added to +himself, “as I could wish it to be. How is Sarah?” + +“She's better,” replied the woman, “an' was up to-day for an hour or +two; but still she's poorly, and I think her brain isn't right yet.” + +“Very likely it isn't,” said the Prophet. “But, Biddy, when were you at +Shanco?” + +“Not this week past.” + +“Well, then, if you like to slip over for an hour or so now, you may, +an' I'll take care of Sarah till you come back; only don't be longer.” + +“Long life to you, Donnel; throth an' I want to go, if it was only to +set the little matthers right for them poor orphans, my grandchildre.” + +“Well, then, go,” he replied; “but don't be more than an hour away, +mind. I'll take care of Sarah for you till you come back.” + +At this moment a tap came to the door, and Donnel, on hearing it, went +out, and in a minute or two returned again, saying-- + +“Hurry, Biddy; make haste, if you wish to go at all; but remember not to +be more than an hour away.” + +The old creature accordingly threw her cloak about her, and made the +best of her way to see her grandchildren, both of whose parents had been +swept away by the first deadly ravages of the typhus fever. + +She had not been long gone, when another tap was given, and Donnel, on +opening the door, said-- + +“You may come in now; she's off to Shanco. I didn't think it safe that +she should see us together on this night, at all events. Sit down. This +girl's illness has nearly spoiled all; however, we must only do the best +we can. Thank God the night's dark, that's one comfort.” + +“If we could a' had Dalton found guilty,” replied Body, “all would be +well over this night, an' we might be on our way out o' this to America; +but what 'ud you do wid Sarah if we had? Sure she wouldn't be able to +travel, nor she won't, I doubt, as it is.” + +“Sarah,” replied the Prophet, who suspected the object of the question, +“is well fit to take care of herself. We must only go without her, if +she's not able to come the day afther to-morrow. Where are the boys _for +the Grange?_” + +“Undher shelter of the Grey Stone, waitin' to start.” + +“Well, then, as it it,” said Donnel, “they know their business, at any +rate. The Grange folk don't expect them this week to come, you think?” + +Rody looked at the Prophet very keenly, as he thought of the +conversation that took place between himself and Charley Hanlon, and +which, upon an explanation with Donnel, he had detailed. The fellow, +however, as we said, was both cowardly and suspicious, and took it into +his head that his friend might feel disposed to play him a trick, by +sending him to conduct the burglary, of which Hanlon had spoken with +such startling confidence--a piece of cowardice which, indeed, was +completely gratuitous and unfounded on his part; the truth being, that +it was the Prophet's interest, above all things, to keep Rody out of +danger, both for that worthy individual's sake and his own. Rody, We +say, looked at him; and of a certainty it must be admitted, that the +physiognomy of our friend, the Seer, during that whole day, was one +from which no very high opinion of his integrity or good faith could be +drawn. + +“It's a very sthrange thing,” replied Rody, in a tone of thought and +reflection, “how Charley Hanlon came to know of this matther at all.” + +“He never heard a word of it,” replied Donnel, “barrin' from yourself.” + +“From me!” replied Rody, indignantly; “what do you mane by that?” + +“Why, when you went to sound him,” said Donnel, “you let too much out; +and Charley was too cute not to see what you wor at.” + +“All _feathalagh_ an' nonsense,” replied Eody, who, by the way, +entertained a very high opinion of his own sagacity; “no mortal could +suspect that there was a plot to rob the house from what I said; but +hould,” he added, slapping his knee, as if he had made a discovery, “_ma +chorp an' dioul_, but I have it all.” + +“What is it?” said the Prophet, calmly. + +“You tould the matther to Sarah, an' she, by coorse, tould it to Charley +Hanlon, that she tells everything to.” + +“No such thing,” replied the other. “Sarah knows nothing about the +robbery that's to go on to-night at the Grange, but she did about the +plan upon Mave Sullivan, and promised to help us in it, as I tould you +before.” + + +[Illustration: PAGE 913-- I'll have nothing to do with this robbery] + + +“Well, at any rate,” replied Duncan, “I'll have nothing to do with this +robbery--devil a thing; but I'll make a bargain wid you--if you manage +the Grange business, I'll lend a hand in Mave Sullivan's affair.” + +The Prophet looked at him, fastening his dark piercing eyes-upon his +face-- + +“I see,” he proceeded, “you're suspicious or you're cowardly, or maybe +both; but to make you feel that I'm neither the one nor the other, and +that you have no raison to be so either, I say I'll take you at your +word. Do you manage Mave Sullivan's business, and I'll see what can be +done with the other. An' listen to me now, it's our business, in case +of a discovery of the robbery, to have Masther Dick's neck as far in the +noose for Mave's affair as ours may be for the other thing; an' for the +same raison you needn't care how far you drive him. He doesn't wish to +have violence; but do you take care that there will be violence, +an' then maybe we may manage him if there's a discovery in the other +affair.” + +“Donnel, you're a great headpiece--the divil's not so deep as you are; +but as the most of them all is strangers, an' they say there's two girls +in Sullivan's instead o' one, how will the strange boys know the right +one?” + +“If it goes to that,” said the Prophet, “you'll know her by the clipped +head. The minute they seize upon the girl with the clipped head, let +them make sure of her. Poor foolish Tom Dalton, who knows nothing about +our scheme, thinks the visit is merely to frighten the Sullivans; +but when you get the girl, let her be brought to the crossroads of +Tulnavert, where Masther Dick will have a chaise waitin' for her, an' +wanst she's with him your care's over. In the meantime, while he's +waitin' there, I an' the others will see what can be done at the +Grange.” + +“But tell me, Donnel; you don't intend, surely, to leave poor Sarah +behind us?” + +“Eh? Sarah?” returned the Prophet. + +“Ay; bekaise you said so awhile a-gone.” + +“I know I said so awhile ago; but regardin' Sarah, Rody, she's the only +livin' thing on this earth that I care about. I have hardened my heart, +thank God, against all the world but herself; an' although I have never +much showed it to her, an' although I have neglected her, an' sometimes +thought I hated her for her mother's sake--well, no matther--she's +the only thing I love or care about for all that. Oh! no--go wid-out +Sarah--come weal come woe--we must not.” + +“Bekaise,” continued Rody, “when we're all safe, an' out o' the raich o' +danger, I have a thing to say to you about Sarah.” + +“Very well, Rody,” said the Prophet, with a grim but bitter smile, +“it'll be time enough then. Now, go and manage these fellows, an' see +you do things as they ought to be done.” + +“She's fond o' Charley Hanlon, to my own knowledge.” + +“Who is?” + +“Sarah, an' between you an' me, it's not a Brinoge like him that's fit +for her. She's a, hasty and an uncertain kind of a girl--:a good dale +wild or so--an' it isn't, as I said, the! likes o' that chap that 'id +answer her, but a steady, experienced, sober--” + +“Honest man, Rody. Well, I'm not in a laughin' humor, now; be off, an' +see that you do yourself an' us all credit.” + +When he was gone, the Prophet drew a long breath--one, however, from its +depth, evidently indicative of anything but ease of mind. He then rose, +and was preparing to go out, when Sarah, who had only laid herself on +the bed, without undressing, got up, and approaching him, said, in a +voice tremulous with weakness: + +“Father, I have heard every word you and Rody said.” + +“Well,” replied her father, looking at her, “I supposed as much. I made +no secret of anything; however, keep to your bed--you're--” + +“Father, I have changed my mind; you have neither my heart nor wish in +anything you're bent on this night.” + +“Changed your mind!” replied the Prophet, bitterly. “Oh! you're a real +woman, I suppose, like your mother; you'll drive some unfortunate man +to hate the world an all that's in it yet?” + +“Father, I care as little about the world as you do; but still never +will I lay myself out to do anything that's wrong.” + +“You promised to assist us then in Mave Sullivan's business, for all +that,” he replied. “You can break your word, too. Ah! real woman again.” + +“Sooner than keep that promise, father, now, I would willingly let the +last dhrop of blood out o' my heart--my unhappy heart--Father, you're +provin' yourself to be what I can't name. Listen to me--you're on the +brink o' destruction. Stop in time, an' fly, for there's a fate over +you. I dremt since I lay down--not more than a couple of hours ago--that +I saw the Tobacco Box you were lookin' for, in the hands of--” + +“Don't bother or vex me with your d--d nonsense about dhrames,” he +replied, in a loud and excited voice. “The curse o' Heaven on all +dhrames, an' every stuff o' the kind. Go to bed.” + +He slapped the door violently after him as he spoke, and left her to her +own meditations. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. -- Self-sacrifice--Villany + + +Time passes now as it did on the night recorded in the preceding +chapter. About the hour of two o'clock, on the same night, a chaise was +standing at the cross roads of Tulnavert, in which a gentleman, a little +but not much the worse of liquor, sat in a mood redolent of anything but +patience. Many ejaculations did he utter, and some oaths, in consequence +of the delay of certain parties whom he expected to meet there. At +length the noise of many feet was heard, and in the course of a few +minutes a body of men advanced in the darkness, one of whom approached +the chaise, and asked--“Is that Masther Dick?” + +“Master Dick, sirrah: no, it's not.” + +“Then there must be some mistake,” replied the fellow, who was a +stranger; “and as it's a runaway match, by gorra, it would never do to +give the girl to the wrong person. It was Masther Dick that the Prophet +desired us to inquire for.” + +“There is a mistake, my friend; there is--my name, my good fellow, +happens to be Master Richard, or rather Mister Richard. In all other +respects, everything is right. I expect a lady; and I am the gentleman, +but not Master Dick, though--Richard is the correct reading.” + +“Then, sir,” replied the fellow, “here she is;” and whilst speaking, +a horseman, bearing a female before him, came forward, and in a few +minutes she was transferred without any apparent resistance, to the +inside of the vehicle which awaited her. This vehicle we shall now +follow. + +The night, as we said, was dark, but it was also cold and stormy. The +driver, who had received his instructions, proceeded in the direction of +the Grange; and we only I say so generally, because so many cross roads +branched off from that which they took, that it was impossible to say +when or where; Master or Mister Richard may have intended to stop. In +the meantime, that enterprising and gallant young gentleman commenced a +dialogue, somewhat as follows:-- + +“My dear Miss Sullivan, I must be satisfied that these fellows have +conducted this business with all due respect to your feelings, I hope +they have not done anything to insult you.” + +“I am very weak,” replied the lady; “you needn't expect me to spake +much, for I'm not able. I only wish I was in Heaven, or anywhere out of +this world.” + +“You speak as if you had been agitated or frightened; but compose +yourself, you are now under my protection at last, and you shall want +for nothing that can contribute to your ease and comfort. Upon my +honor--upon my sacred honor, I say--I would not have caused you +even this annoyance, were it not that you yourself expressed a +willingness--very natural, indeed, considering our affection--to meet me +here to-night.” + +“Who tould you that I was willin' to meet you?” + +“Who? why who but our mutual friend, the Black Prophet; and by the way, +he is to meet us at the Grey Stone, by and by.” + +“He tould you false, then,” replied his companion, feebly. + +“Why,” asked Henderson, “are you not here with your own consent?” + +“I am--oh, indeed, I am,--it's altogether my own act that brings me +here--my own act--an' I thank God, that I had strength for it.” + +“Admirable girl!--that is just what I have been led to expect from you, +and you shall not regret it; I have, as I said, everything provided that +can make you happy.” + +“Happy!--I can't bear this, sir; I'm desavin' you. I'm not what you +think me.” + +“You are ill, I fear, my dear Miss Sullivan; the bustle and disturbance +have agitated you too much, and you are ill.” + +“You are speaking truth. I am very ill; but I'll soon be better--I'll +soon be better. She feared nothing from me,” added she, in a low +soliloquy; “an' could I let her outdo mo in generosity and kindness. Is +this fire? Is there fire in the coach?” she asked, in a loud voice; “or +is it lighthnin'? Oh, my head, my head; but it will soon be over.” + +“Compose yourself, I entreat of you, my dearest girl. What! good +Heavens, how is this? You have not been ill for any time? Your +hand--pardon me; you need not withdraw it so hastily--is quite burning +and fleshless. What is wrong?” + +“Everything, sir, is wrong, unless that I am here, an' that is as it +ought to be. Ha, ha!” + +“Good, my dearest girl--that consoles me again. Upon my honor, the old +Prophet shall not lose by this; on the contrary, I shall keep my word +like a prince, and at the Grey Stone shall he pocket, ere half an hour, +the reward of his allegiance to his liege lord. I have, for a long time, +had my eye on you, Miss Sullivan, an' when the Prophet assured me that +you had discarded Dalton for my sake, I could scarcely credit him, until +you confirmed the delightful fact, by transmitting me a tress of your +beautiful hair.” + +His companion made no reply to this, and the chaise went on for some +minutes without any further discourse. Henderson, at length, ventured to +put over his hand towards the corner in which his companion sat; but it +no sooner came in contact with her person, than he felt her shrinking, +as it were, from his very touch. With his usual complacent confidence, +however, in his own powers of attraction and strongly impressed, +besides, with a belief in his knowledge of the sex, he at once imputed +all this to caprice on the behalf of Mave, or rather to that assumption +of extreme delicacy, which is often resorted to, and overacted, when the +truthful and modest principle from which it should originate has ceased +to exist. + +“Well, my dear girl,” he proceeded, “I grant that all this is natural +enough--quite so--I know the step you have taken shows great strength +of character; for indeed it requires a very high degree of moral +courage and virtue in you, to set society and the whole world at perfect +defiance, for my sake; but, my dearest girl, don't be cast down--you are +not alone in this heroic sacrifice; not at all, believe me. You are not +the first who has made it for me; neither, I trust, shall you be the +last. This I say, of course, to encourage you, because I see that +the step you have taken has affected you very much, as is natural it +should.” + +A low moan, apparently of great pain, was the only reply Henderson +received to this eloquent effort at consolation. The carriage again +rolled onward in silence, and nothing could be heard but the sweep +of the storm without--for it blew violently--and deep breathings, or +occasional moanings, from his companion within. They drove, it might be, +for a quarter of an hour, in this way, when Henderson felt his companion +start, and the next moment her hand was placed upon his arm. + +“Ha! ha! my dearest,” thought he, “I knew, notwithstanding all your +beautiful startings and fencings, that matters would come to this. There +is nothing, after all, like leaving you to yourselves a little, and you +are sure to come round. My dear Miss Sullivan,” he added, aloud, “be +composed--say but what it is you wish, and if a man can accomplish it, +it must be complied with, or procured for you.” + +“Then,” said she, “if you are a human being, let me know when we come to +the Grey Stone.” + +“Undoubtedly, I shall. The grim old Prophet promised to meet us +there--and, for a reason I have, I know he will keep his word. We shall +be there in less than a quarter of an hour. But, my precious creature, +now that you understand how we are placed with relation to each other, I +think you might not, and ought not, object to allowing me to support you +after the fatigue and agitation of the night--hem! Do repose your head +upon my bosom, like a pretty, trembling, agitated dear, as you are.” + +“Hould away!” exclaimed his companion; “don't dare to lay a hand upon +me. If your life is worth anything--an' it's not worth much--keep your +distance. You'll find your mistake soon. I didn't put myself in your +power without the manes of defendin' myself an' punishin' you, if you +should desarve it.” + +“Beautiful caprice! But, my dearest girl, I can understand it all--it +is well done; and I know, besides, that a little hysterics will be +necessary in their proper place; but for that you must wait till we get +to our destination; and then you will be most charmingly affected with +a fit--a delightful, sweet, soft, sobbing fit--which will render it +necessary for me to soothe and console you; to wipe your lovely eyes; +and then, you know, to kiss your delicious lips. All this, my darling +girl, will happen as a natural consequence, and in due time every thing +will be well.” + +There was no reply given to this; but the moaning was deeper, and +apparently more indicative of pain and distress than before. A third +silence ensued, during which they arrived at the Grey Stone, of whose +proximity the driver had received orders to give them intimation. + +“Hallo!” exclaimed Henderson, “what's the matter? Why do you stop, my +good fellow?” + +“We are at the Grey Stone, your honor,” replied the man. + +“Oh, very well; pull up a moment,” he added. “My dear Miss Sullivan, we +are at the Grey Stone now,” said he, addressing her. + +She moaned again, and started. “Whist,” said she; “I don't hear his +voice.” + +At this moment a man approached the driver, and desired him to let him +know that a person wished to speak with him. + +The female in the carriage no sooner heard the voice, even although the +words were uttered in whispers, than she called out-- + +“Father, come to me--help me home--I'm dyin'! You've been desaved, Mr. +Henderson,” she added. “It wasn't Mave Sullivan, but the Prophet's own +daughter, you took away. Blessed be God, I've saved her that disgrace. +Father, help me home. I won't be long a throuble to you now.” + +“What's this!” exclaimed Henderson. “Are you not Miss Sullivan?” + +“Am I in a dhrame?” said the Prophet, approaching the door of the +chaise. “Surely--now--what is it? It's my daughter's voice! Is that +Sarah that I left in her bed of typhus faver this night? Or, am I in a +dhrame still, I say? Sarah, is it you? Spake.” + +“It is me, father; help me home. It will be your last throuble with me, +I think--at laste, I hope so--oh, I hope so!” + +“Who talks about typhus fever?” asked Henderson, starting out of the +chaise with alarm. “What means this? Explain yourself.” + +“I can no more explain it,” replied the Prophet, “than you can. I left +my daughter lyin' in bed of typhus faver, not more than three or four +hours ago; an' if I'm to believe my ears, I find her in the carriage +with you now!” + +“I'm here,” she replied; “help me out.” + +“Oh, I see it all now,” observed Henderson, in a fit of passion, +aggravated by the bitterness of his disappointment--“I see your trick; +an' so, you old scoundrel, you thought to impose your termagant daughter +upon me instead of Miss Sullivan, and she reeking with typhus fever, +too, by your own account. For this piece of villany I shall settle with +you, however, never fear. Typhus fever! Good God!--and I so dreadfully +afraid of it all along, that I couldn't bear to look near a house in +which it was, nor approach any person even recovering out of it. Driver, +you may leave the girl at home. As for me, I shall not enter your chaise +again, contaminated, as it probably is, with that dreadful complaint, +that is carrying off half the country. Call to the Grange in the +morning, an' you shall be paid. Good-night, you prophetical old +impostor. I shall mark you for this piece of villany; you may rest +assured of that. A pretty trudge I shall have to the Grange, such a vile +and tempestuous night; but you shall suffer for it, I say again.” + +Donnel Dhu was not merely disappointed at finding Sarah in such a +situation; he was literally stupefied with amazement, and could scarcely +believe the circumstances to be real. It had been agreed between him and +Henderson, that should the latter succeed in fetching Mave Sullivan as +far as the Grey Stone, he (the Prophet) should be considered to have +fulfilled the conditions of the compact entered into between them, and +the wages of his iniquity were to have been paid to him on that spot. It +is unnecessary to say, therefore, that his disappointment and indignation +were fully equal to those of Henderson himself. + +“Where am I to go now?” asked the driver. + +“To hell!” replied the Prophet, “an you may bring your fare with you.” + +“You must take the reins yourself, then,” replied the man, “for I don't +know the way.” + +“Drive across the river, here then,” continued the other, “and up the +little road to the cottage on the right; yes, to the right--till we get +that--that--I can't find words to name her--in the house.” + +A few minutes brought them to the door, and poor Sarah found herself +once more in her own cabin, but in such a state as neutralized most of +her father's resentment. When the driver had gone, Donnel came in again, +and was about to wreak upon her one of those fits of impetuous fury, +in which, it was true, he seldom indulged, but which, when wrought to a +high state of passion, were indeed frightful. + +“Now,” he began, “in the name of all that's”--he paused, however, for +on looking closely at her, there appeared something in her aspect so +utterly subversive of resentment, that he felt himself disarmed at once. +Her face was as pale as his own, but the expression of it was so chaste, +so mournful, and yet so beautiful, that his tongue refused its office. + +“Sarah,” said he, “what is the matter with, you?--account for all +this--I don't understand it.” + +She rose with great difficulty, and, tottering over towards him, laid +her head upon his bosom, and looking up with a smile of melancholy +tenderness into his face, burst into tears. + +“Father,” said she, “it is not worth your while to be angry with Sarah +now. I heard words from your lips this night that would make me forgive +you a thousand crimes. I heard you say that you loved me--loved me +better than anything else in this world. I'm glad I know it, for that +will be all the consolation I will have on my bed of death--an' there it +is, father,” she said, pointing to that which she always occupied; “help +me over to it now, for I feel that I will never rise from it more.” + +Her father spoke not, but assisted her to the bed from which the old +nurse, who had fallen asleep in it, now rose. He then went into the open +air for a few minutes, but soon returned, and going over to the bedside +where she lay, he looked upon her long and earnestly. + +“Father,” said she, “I only did my duty this night. I knew, indeed, I +would never recover it--but then she risked her life for me, an' why +shouldn't I do as much for her?” + +The Prophet still looked upon her, but spoke not a word; his lips were +closely compressed, his hands tightly clasped, and his piercing eyes +almost immovable. Minute after minute thus passed, until nearly half +an hour had elapsed, and Sarah dreadfully exhausted by what she had +undergone, found her eyes beginning to close in an unsettled and +feverish slumber. At length he said, in a tone of voice which breathed +of tenderness itself-- + +“Sleep, dear Sarah--dear Sarah, sleep.” + +She apparently was asleep, but not so as to be altogether unconscious +of his words, for, in spite of illness and fatigue, a sweet and serene +smile stole gently over her pale face, rested on it for a little, and +again, gradually, and with a mournful placidity died away. Her father +sighed deeply, and turning to the bedside, said-- + +“It is useless to ask her anything this night, Biddy. Can you tell me +what became of her, or how she got out?” + +“Oh, the sorra word,” replied the old woman; “I'm sure such a start was +never taken out o' mortal as I got when I came here, and found her gone. +I searched all the neighborhood, but no use--divil a sowl seen her--so +afther trottin' here an' there, an' up and down, I came in not able to +mark the ground, and laid myself down on the bed, where I fell asleep +till you came back; but where, in the name of all that's wonderful, was +she?” + +Donnel sat down in silence, and the crone saw that he was in no mood +for answering questions, or entering into conversation; she accordingly +clapped herself on her hunkers, and commenced sucking her dudeen, +without at all seeming to expect a reply. + +We, however, shall avail ourselves of the historian's privilege, in +order to acquaint our readers, very briefly, with that, of which +we presume, so far as Sarah is concerned, they can scarcely plead +ignorance. Having heard the conversation between Rody Duncan and her +father, which satisfied her that the plot for taking away Mave Sullivan +was to be executed that very night, Sarah, with her usual energy and +disregard for herself, resolved to make an effort to save her generous +rival, for we must here acquaint our readers, that during the progress +of her convalescence, she had been able to bring to her recollection the +presence of Mave Sullivan in the shed on more than one occasion. She did +not, however, depend upon her own memory or impressions for this, +but made inquiries from her nurse, who, in common with the whole +neighborhood, had heard of Mave's humanity and attention towards her, +to which it was well known, she owed her life. The generous girl, +therefore, filled with remorse at having, for one moment, contemplated +any act of injury towards Mave, now determined to save her from the +impending danger, or lose her life in the attempt. How she won her way +in such an enfeebled state of health, and on such a night, cannot now be +known; it is sufficient here to say, that she arrived only a few minutes +before the attack was made upon Sullivan's house, and just in time to +have Mave and her cousin each concealed under a bed. Knowing, however, +that a strict search would have rendered light of some kind necessary, +and enable the ruffians to discover Mave besides, she, at once, threw +herself in their way, under a feigned attempt to escape, and the next +moment three or four voices exclaimed, exultingly, “we have her--the +cropped head--here she is--all's right--come away; you darlin', you'll +be a happy girl before this day week!” + +“I hope so,” she replied; “oh, I hope so--bring me away!” + +The Prophet's own adventure was not less disastrous. Rody Duncan's +sudden withdrawal from the robbery surprised him very much. On seriously +and closely reconsidering the circumstances, it looked suspicious, and +ere a single hour had passed, Donnel felt and impression that, on +that business at least, Rody had betrayed him. Acting upon this +conviction.--for it amounted to that--he soon satisfied himself that the +house was secured against, the possibility of any successful attack upon +it. This he discovered in the village of Grange, when, on inquiring, he +found that most of the young men were gone to sit up all night in the +“big house”. So much being known, any additional information to Donnel +was unnecessary. He accordingly relinquished the enterprise; and +remembering the engagement with young Henderson at the Grey Stone, met +him there, to receive the wages of his iniquity; but with what success, +the reader is already acquainted. + +This double failure of his projects, threw the mind of the Prophet into +a train of deep and painful reflection. He began to reflect that his +views of life and society might not, after all, be either the safest +or the best. He looked back over his own past life, and forward to the +future, and he felt as if the shadow of some approaching evil was over +him. He then thought of his daughter, and pictured to himself what she +might have been, had he discharged, as he ought to have done, the +duties of a Christian parent towards her. This, and other recollections, +pressed upon Mm, and his heart was once or twice upon the point of +falling back into the fresh impulses of its early humanity, when the +trial of tomorrow threw him once more into a gloom, that settled him +down into a resentful but unsatisfactory determination to discharge the +duty he had imposed upon himself. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. -- A Double Trial--Retributive Justice. + + +With beating and anxious hearts did the family of the Daltons rise upon +the gloomy morning of the old man's trial. Deep concern prevented them +from eating, or even feeling inclined to eat; but when about to sit down +to their early and sorrowful repast, Mrs. Dalton, looking around her, +asked-- + +“Where is poor Tom from us this morning?” + +“He went out last night,” replied one of his sisters, “but didn't come +back since.” + +“That poor boy,” said his mother, “won't be long with us; he's gone +every way--health and strength, and reason. He has no appetite--and a +child has more strength. After this day he must be kept in the house, if +possible, or looked to when he goes out; but indeed I fear that in a +day or two he will not be able to go anywhere. Poor affectionate boy! +he never recovered the death of that unhappy girl, nor ever will; an' it +would be well for himself that he was removed from this world, in which, +indeed, he's now not fit to live.” + +Little time was lost in the despatch of their brief meal, and they set +out, with the exception of Mary, to be present at the trail of their +aged father. + +The court was crowded to excess, as was but natural, for the case had +excited a very deep interest throughout almost the whole country. + +At length the judge was seated, and in a few minutes Cornelius Dalton +was put to the bar, charged with the wilful murder of Bartholomew +Sullivan, by striking him on the head with a walking-stick, in the +corner of a field, near a place called the Grey Stone, &c, &c, situate +and being in the barony of, &c, &c. + +When the reverend looking old man stood up at the bar, we need scarcely +say that all eyes were immediately turned on him with singular interest. +It was clear, however, that there was an admission of guilt in his very +face, for, instead of appearing with the erect and independent attitude +of conscious innocence, he looked towards the judge and around the court +with an expression of such remorse and sorrow, and his mild blue eye had +in it a feeling so full of humility, resignation and contrition, that +it was impossible to look on his aged figure and almost white hairs with +indifference, or, we should rather say, without sympathy. Indeed, his +case appeared to be one of those in which the stern and unrelenting +decree of human law comes to demand its rights, long after the unhappy +victim has washed away his crime by repentance, and made his peace with +God, a position in connection with conventional offences that is too +often overlooked in the administration of justice and the distribution +of punishment. + +It was not without considerable difficulty that they succeeded in +prevailing on him to plead not guilty; which he did at length, but in a +tone of voice that conveyed anything but a conviction of his innocence +to the court, the jury, and those about him. + +The first witness called was Jeremiah Sullivan, who deposed that he +was present in one of the Christmas Margamores [Big Market] in the year +1798, when an altercation took place between his late brother Bartle and +the prisoner at the bar, respecting the price of some barley, which the +prisoner had bought from his brother. The prisoner had bought it, he +said, for the sum of thirty-five pounds fifteen shillings, whilst +his brother affirmed that it was only thirty-five pounds thirteen +shillings--upon which they came to blows; his brother, when struck by +the prisoner, having returned the blow, and knocked the prisoner down. +They were then separated by their friends, who interposed, and, as the +cause of the dispute was so trifling, it was proposed that it should be +spent in drink, each contributing one-half. To this both assented, and +the parties having commenced drinking, did not confine themselves to +the amount disputed, but drank on until they became somewhat tipsy, and +were, with difficulty, kept from quarrelling again. The last words he +heard from them that night were, as far as he can remember--“Dalton,” + said his brother, “you have no more brains than the pillar of a gate.” + Upon which the other attempted to strike him, and, on being prevented, +he shook his stick at him, and swore that “before he slept he'd know +whether he had brains or not.” Their friends then took them different +ways, he was separated from them, and knows nothing further about what +happened. He never saw his brother alive afterwards. He then deposed to +the finding of his coat and hat, each in a crushed and torn state. The +footmarks in the corner of the field were proved to have been those of +his brother and the prisoner, as the shoes of each exactly fitted them +when tried. He was then asked how it could be possible, as his brother +had altogether disappeared, to know whether his shoes fitted the +foot-prints or not, to which he replied, that one of his shoes was found +on the spot the next morning, and that a second pair, which he had at +home, were also tried, and fitted precisely. + +The next witness was Rody Duncan, who deposed that on the night in +question, he was passing on a car, after having sold a load of oats in +the market. On coming to the corner of the field, he saw a man drag or +carry something heavy like a sack, which, on seeing him, Rody, he (the +man,) left hastily inside the ditch, and stooped, as if to avoid being +known. He asked the person what he was about, who replied that, “he +hoped he was no gauger;” by which he understood that he was concerned +in private distillation, and that it might have been malt; an opinion in +which he was confirmed, on hearing the man's voice, which he knew to be +that of the prisoner, who had been engaged in the poteen work for some +years. One thing struck him, which he remembered afterwards, that +the prisoner had a hat in his hand; and when it was observed in the +cross-examination that the hat might have been his own, he replied that +he did not think it could, as he had his own on his head at the time. +He then asked was that Condy Dalton, and the reply was, “it is, +unfortunately;” upon which he wished him good-night, and drove +homewards. He remembers the night well, as he lived at that time down at +the Long Ridge, and caught a severe illness on his way home, by reason +of a heavy shower that wet him to the skin. He wasn't able to leave the +house for three months afterwards. It was an unlucky night any way. + +Next came the Prophet. It was near daybreak on the morning of the same +night, and he was on his way through Glendhu. He was then desired to +state what it was that brought him through Glendhu at such an hour. He +would tell the truth, as it was safe to do so now--he had been making +United Irishmen that night, and, at all events, he was on his keeping, +for the truth was, he had been reported to government, and there was a +warrant out for him. He was then desired to proceed in his evidence, +and he did so. On his way through Glendhu he came to a very lonely +spot, where he had been obliged to hide, at that time, more than once or +twice, himself. Here, to his surprise, he found the body of a man +lying dead, and he knew it at once to be that of the late Bartholomew +Sullivan; beside it was a grave dug, about two feet deep. He was +astonished and shocked, and knew not what to say; but he felt that +murder had been committed, and he became dreadfully afraid. In his +confusion and alarm he looked about to try if he could see any person +near, when he caught a glimpse of the prisoner, Condy Dalton, crouched +among a clump of black-thorn bushes, with a spade in his hands. It +instantly came into his head that he, the prisoner, on finding himself +discovered, might murder him also; and, in order to prevent the other +from supposing that he had seen him, he shouted out and asked is there +any body near? and hearing no answer, he was glad to get off safe. In +less than an hour he was on his way out of the country, for on coming +within sight of his own house, he saw it surrounded with soldiers, and +he lost no time in going to England, where, in about a month afterwards, +he heard that the prisoner had been hanged for the murder, which was +an untrue account of the affair, as he, the prisoner, had only been +imprisoned for a time, which he supposed led to the report. + +When asked why he did not communicate an account of what he had seen to +some one in the neighborhood before he went, he replied, that “at that +hour the whole country was in bed, and when a man is flying for his +life, he is not very anxious to hould conversations with any body.” + +On the cross-examination he said, that the reason why he let the matter +rest until now was, that he did not wish to be the means of bringin' +a fellow-creature to an untimely death, especially such a man as the +prisoner, nor to be the means of drawing down disgrace upon his decent +and respectable family. His conscience, however, always kept him uneasy, +and to tell the truth, he had neither peace nor rest for many a long +year, in consequence of concealing his knowledge of the murder, and he +now came forward to free his own mind from what he had suffered by it. +He wished both parties well, and he hoped no one would blame him for +what he was doing, for, indeed, of late, he could not rest in his bed +at night. Many a time the murdhered man appeared to him, and threatened +him, he thought for not disclosing what he knew. + +At this moment, there was a slight bustle at that side of the court +where the counsel for the defense sat, which, after a little time, +subsided, and the evidence was about to close, when the latter +gentleman, after having closely cross-examined him to very little +purpose, said: + +“So you tell us, that in consequence of your very tender conscience, you +have not, of late, been able to rest in your bed at night?” + +“I do.” + +“And you say the murdered man appeared to you and threatened you?” + +“I do.” + +“Which of them?” + +“Peter Magennis--what am I sayin'? I mean Bartle Sullivan.” + +“Gentlemen of the jury, you will please take down the name of Peter +Magennis--will your lordship also take a note of that? Well,” he +proceeded, “will you tell us what kind of a man this Bartle or +Bartholomew Sullivan was?” + +“He was a very remarkable man in appearance; very stout, with a long +face, a slight scar on his chin, and a cast in his eye.” + +“Do you remember which of them?” + +“Indeed I don't, an' it wouldn't be raison able that I should, afther +sich a distance of time.” + +“And, you saw that man murdered?” + +“I seen him dead, afther having been murdhered.” + +“Very right--I stand corrected. Well, you saw him buried?” + +“I didn't see him buried, but I saw him dead, as I said, an' the grave +ready for him.” + +“Do you think now if he were to rise again from that grave, that you +would know him?” + +“Well I'm sure I can't say. By all accounts the grave makes great +changes, but if it didn't change him very much entirely, it wouldn't be +hard to know him again--for, as I said, he was a remarkable man.” + +“Well, then, we shall give you an opportunity of refreshing your +memory--here,” he said, addressing himself to some person behind him; +“come forward--get up on the table, and stand face to face with that +man.” + +The stranger advanced--pushed over to the corner of the table, and, +mounting it, stood, as he had been directed, confronting the Black +Prophet. + +“Whether you seen me dead,” said the stranger, “or whether you seen me +buried, is best known to yourself; all I can say is, that here I am--by +name Bartle Sullivan, alive an' well, thanks be to the Almighty for it!” + +“What is this?” asked the judge, addressing Dalton's counsel; “who is +this man?” + +“My lord,” replied that gentleman, “this is the individual for the +murder of whom, upon the evidence of these two villains, the prisoner +at the bar stands charged. It is a conspiracy as singular as it is +diabolical; but one which, I trust, we shall clear up, by and by.” + +“I must confess, I do not see my way through it at present,” returned +the judge; “did not the prisoner at the bar acknowledge his guilt?--had +you not some difficulty in getting him to plead not guilty? Are you +sure, Mr. O'Hagan, that this stranger is not a counterfeit?” + +The reply of counsel could not now be heard--hundreds in the court +house, on hearing his name, and seeing him alive and well before them, +at once recognized his person, and testified their recognition by the +usual manifestations of wonder, satisfaction and delight. The murmur, +in fact, gradually gained strength, and deepened until it fairly burst +forth in one loud and astounding cheer, and it was not, as usual, until +the judge had threatened to commit the first person who should again +disturb the court, that it subsided. There were two persons present, +however, to whom we must direct the special attention of our readers--we +mean Condy Dalton and the Prophet, on both of whom Sullivan's unexpected +appearance produced very opposite effects. When old Dalton first noticed +the strange man getting upon the table, the appearance of Sullivan, +associated, as it had been, by the language of his counsel, with some +vague notion of his resurrection from the grave, filled his mind with +such a morbid and uncertain feeling of everything about him that he +began to imagine himself in a dream, and that his reason must +soon awaken to the terrible reality of his situation. A dimness of +perception, in fact, came ever all his faculties, and for some minutes +he could not understand the nature of the proceedings around him. The +reaction was too sudden for a mind that had been broken down so long, +and harrassed so painfully, by impressions of remorse and guilt. The +consequence was, that he had forgot, for a time, the nature of his +situation--all appeared unintelligible confusion about him,--he could +see a multitude of faces, and the people, all agitated by some great +cause of commotion, and that was, then, all he could understand about +it. + +“What is this,” said he to himself;--“am I on my trial?--or is it +some dhrame that I'm dhramin' at home in my own poor place among my +heart-broken family?” + +A little time, however, soon undeceived him, and awoke his honest heart +to a true perception of his happiness. + +“My lord,” said the strange man, in reply to the judge's last +observation, “I am no counterfeit--an' I thank my good an' gracious God +that I have been able to come in time to save this worthy and honest +man's life. Condy Dalton,” said he, “I can explain all; but in the +mane time let me shake hands wid you, and ax your pardon for the bad +tratement and provocation I gave you on that unlucky day--well may I say +so, so far as you are concerned--for, as I hear, an' as I see, indeed, +it has caused you and your family bitter trouble and sorrow.” + +“Bartle Sullivan! Merciful Father, is this all right? is it real? No +dhrame, then! an' I have my ould friend by the hand--let me see--let +me feel you!--it is--it's truth--but, there now--I don't care who sees +me--I must offer one short prayer of thanksgivin' to my marciful God, +who has released me from the snares of my enemies, an' taken this great +weight off o' my heart!” As he-spoke, he elapsed his hands, looked up +with an expression of deep and heartfelt gratitude to heaven, then knelt +down in a corner of the dock, and returned thanks to God. + +The Prophet, on beholding the man, stood more in surprise than +astonishment, and seemed evidently filled more with mortification rather +than wonder. He looked around the court with great calmness, and then +fastening his eyes upon Sullivan, studied, or I appeared to study, his +features for a considerable time. A shadow so dark or we should rather +say, so fearfully black settled upon his countenance, that it gave him +an almost supernatural aspect; it looked in fact, as if the gloom of his +fate had fallen upon him in the midst of his plans and iniquities. He +seemed, for a moment, to feel this himself; for while the confusion and +murmurs were spreading through the court, he muttered to himself-- + +“I am doomed; I did this, as if something drove me to it; however, if I +could only be sure that the cursed box was really lost, I might laugh at +the world still.” + +He then looked around him with singular composure, and ultimately at +the judge, as if to ascertain whether he might depart or not. At this +moment, a pale, sickly-looking female, aided, or rather supported, by +the Pedlar and Hanlon, was in the act of approaching the place where +Dalton's attorney stood, as if to make some communication to him, when a +scream was heard, followed by the exclamation-- + +“Blessed Heaven! it's himself!--it's himself!” + +Order and silence were immediately called by the crier, but the +Prophet's eyes had been already attracted to the woman, who was no other +than Hanlon's aunt, and for some time he looked at her with an apparent +sensation of absolute terror. Gradually, however, his usual indomitable +hardness of manner returned to him; he still kept his gaze fixed upon +her, as if to make certain that there could be no mistake, after which +his countenance assumed an expression of rage and malignity that no +language could describe; his teeth became absolutely locked, as if he +could have ground her between them, and his eyes literally blazed +with fury, that resembled that of a rabid beast of prey. The shock was +evidently more than the woman could bear, who, still supported by +the Pedlar and Planlon, withdrew in a state almost bordering on +insensibility. + +A very brief space now determined the trial. Sullivan's brother and +several of the jurors themselves clearly established his identity, +and as a matter of course, Condy Dalton was instantly discharged. His +appearance in the street was hailed by the cheers and acclamations +of the people, who are in general delighted with the acquittal of +a fellow-creature, unless under circumstances of very atrocious +criminality. + +“I suppose I may go down,” said the Prophet,--“you have done with me?” + +“Not exactly,” replied Dalton's counsel. + +“Let these two men be taken into custody,” said the judge, “and let an +indictment for perjury be prepared against them, and sent to the grand +jury forthwith.” + +“My lord,” proceeded the counsel, “we are, we think, in a capacity to +establish a much graver charge against M'Gowan--a charge of murder, my +lord, discovered, under circumstances little short of providential.” + +In short, not to trouble the reader with, the dry details of the courts, +after some discussion, it was arranged that two bills should be prepared +and sent up--one for perjury, and the other for the murder of a carman, +named Peter Magennis, almost at the very spot where it had, until then, +been supposed that poor Dalton had murdered Bartholomew Sullivan. The +consequence was, that Donnel, or Donald M'Gowan, the Black Prophet, +found himself in the very dock where Dalton had stood the preceding day. +His case, whether as regarded the perjury or the murder, was entitled to +no clemency, beyond that which the letter of the law strictly +allowed. The judge assigned him counsel, with whom he was permitted +to communicate; and he himself, probably supposing that his chance of +escape was then greater than if more time were allowed to procure and +arrange evidence against him, said he was ready and willing, without +further notice, to be brought to trial. + +We beg to observe here, that we do not strictly confine ourselves to the +statements made during the trial, inasmuch as we deem it necessary +to mention circumstances to the reader, which the rules of legitimate +evidence would render inadmissable in a court of justice. We are not +reporting the case, and consequently hold ourselves warranted in +adding whatever may be necessary to making it perfectly clear, or in +withholding circumstances that did not bear upon our narrative. With +this proviso, we now proceed to detail the denouement. + +The first evidence against him, was that of our female friend, whom we +have called the Widow Hanlon, but who, in fact, was no other than the +Prophet's wife, and sister to the man Magennis, whom he had murdered. +The Prophet's real name, she stated, was M'Ivor, but why he changed +it, she knew not. He had been a man, in the early part of his life, of +rather a kind and placid disposition, unless when highly provoked, and +then his resentments were terrible. He was all his life, however, the +slave of a dark and ever-wakeful jealousy, that destroyed his peace, and +rendered his life painful both to himself and others. It happened that +her brother, the murdered man, had prosecuted M'Ivor for taking forcible +possession of a house, for which he, M'Ivor, received twelve months' +imprisonment. It happened also about that time, that is, a little before +the murder, that he had become jealous of her and a neighbor, who had +paid his addresses to her before marriage. M'Ivor, at this period, acted +in the capacity of a plain Land Surveyor among the farmers and cottiers +of the barony, and had much reputation for his exactness and accuracy. +While in prison, he vowed deadly vengeance against her brother, +Magennis, and swore, that if ever she spoke to him, acknowledged him, +or received him into her house during his life, she should never live +another day under his roof. + +In this state matters were, when her brother, having heard that her +husband was in a distant part of the barony, surveying, or subdividing +a farm, came to ask her to her sister's wedding, and while in the house, +the Prophet, most unexpectedly, was discovered, within a few perches +of the door, on his return. Terror, on her part, from a dread of his +violence, and also an apprehension lest he and her brother should meet, +and, perhaps, seriously injure each other, even to bloodshed, caused her +to hurry the latter into another room, with instructions to get out of +the window as quietly as possible, and to go home. Unfortunately he did +so, but had scarcely escaped, when a poor mendicant woman, coming in +to ask alms, exclaimed--“Take care, good people, that you have not been +robbed--I saw a man comin' out of the windy, and runnin' over toward +Jemmy Campel's house”--Campel being the name of the young man of whom +her husband was jealous. + +M'Ivor, now furious, ran towards Campel's, and meeting that person's +servant-maid at the door, asked “if her master was at home.” + +She replied, “Yes, he just came in this minute.” + +“What direction did he come from?” + +“From the direction of your own house,” she answered. + +It should be stated, however, that his wife, at once recollecting his +jealousy, told him immediately that the person who had left the house +was her brother; but he rushed on, and paid no attention whatsoever to +her words. + +From this period forward he never lived with her, but she has heard +recently--no longer ago than last night--that he had associated himself +with a woman named Eleanor M'Guirk, about thirty miles farther west from +their original neighborhood, near a place called Glendhu, and it was at +that place her brother was murdered. + +Neither her anxieties nor her troubles, however, ended here. When her +husband left her, he took a daughter, their only child, then almost an +infant, away with him, and contrived to circulate a report that he and +she had gone to America. After her return home, she followed her nephew +to this neighborhood, and that accounted for her presence there. So +well, indeed, did he manage this matter, that she received a very +contrite and affectionate letter, that had been sent, she thought, from +Boston, desiring her to follow himself and the child there. The deceit +was successful. Gratified at the prospect of joining them, she made +the due preparations, and set sail. It is unnecessary to say, that on +arriving at Boston she could get no tidings whatsoever of either the one +or the other; but as she had some relations in the place, she found them +out, and resided there until within a few months ago, when she set sail +for Ireland, where she arrived only a short time previous to the period +of the trial. She has often heard M'Ivor say that he would settle +accounts with her brother some fine night, but he usually added, “I will +take my time and kill two birds with one stone when I go about it,” by +which she thought he meant robbing him, as well as murdering him, as her +brother was known mostly to have a good deal of money about him. + +We now add here, although the fact was not brought out until a later +stage of the trial, that she proved the identity of the body found in +Glendhu, as being that of her brother, very clearly. His right leg had +been broken, and having been mismanaged, was a little crooked, which +occasioned him to have a slight halt in his walk. The top joint also of +the second toe, on the same foot had been snapped off by the tramp of a +horse, while her brother was a schoolboy--two circumstances which were +corroborated by the Coroner, and one or two of those who had examined +the body at the previous inquest, and which they could then attribute +only to injuries received during his rude interment, but which were now +perfectly intelligible and significant. + +The next witness called was Bartholemew Sullivan, who deposed-- + +That about a month before his disappearance from the country, he was one +night coming home from a wake, and within half a mile of the Grey Stone +he met a person, evidently a carman, accompanying a horse and cart, who +bade him the time of night as he passed. He noticed that the man had a +slight halt as he walked, but could not remember his face, although the +night was by no means dark. On passing onwards, towards home, he met +another person walking after the carman, who, on seeing him (Sullivan) +hastily threw some weapon or other into the ditch. The hour was about +three o'clock in the night (morning,) and on looking close at the man, +for he seemed to follow the other in a stealthy way, he could only +observe that he had a very pale face, and heavy black eyebrows; indeed +he has little doubt but that the prisoner is the man, although he will +not actually swear it after such a length of time. + +This was the evidence given by Bartholomew Sullivan. + +The third witness produced was Theodosius M'Mahon, or, as he was better +known, Toddy Mack, the Pedlar, who deposed to the fact of having, +previously to his departure for Boston, given to Peter Magennis a +present of a steel tobacco-box as a keep-sake, and as the man did not +use tobacco, he said, on putting it into his pocket-- + +“This will do nicely to hould my money in, on my way home from Dublin.” + +Upon which Toddy Mack observed, laughingly-- + +“That if he put either silver or brass in it, half the country would +know it by the jingle.” + +“I'll take care of that, never fear,” replied Magennis, “for I'll put +nothing in this, but the soft, comfortable notes.” + +He was asked if the box had any particular mark by which it might be +known? + +“Yes, he had himself punched upon the lid of it the initials of the +person to whom he gave it--P. M., for Peter Magennis.” + +“Would you know the box if you saw it?” + +“Certainly!” + +“Is that it?” asked the prosecuting attorney, placing the box in his +hands. + +“That is the same box I gave him, upon my oath. It's a good deal rusted +now, but there's the holes as I punched them; and by the same token, +there is the letter P., the very place yet where the two holes broke +into one, as I was punchin' it.” + +“Pray, how did the box come to turn up?” asked the judge:--“In whose +possession has it been ever since?” + +“My lord, we have just come to that. Crier, call Eleanor M'Guirk.” + +The woman hitherto known as Nelly M'Gowan, and supposed to be the +Prophet's wife now made her appearance. + +“Will you state to the gentlemen of the jury what you know about this +box?” + +Our readers are partially aware of her evidence with respect to it. We +shall, however, briefly recapitulate her account of the circumstance. + +“The first time she ever saw it,” she said, “was the night the carman +was murdered, or that he disappeared, at any rate. She resided by +herself, in a little house at the mouth of the Glendhu--the same she and +the Prophet had lived in ever since. They had not long been acquainted +at that time--but still longer than was right or proper. She had +been very little in the country then, and any time he did come was +principally at night, when he stopped with her, and went away again, +generally before day in the morning. He passed himself on her as an +unmarried man, and said his name was M'Gowan. On that evening he came +about dusk, but went out again, and she did not see him till far in the +night, when he returned, and appeared to be fatigued and agitated--his +clothes, too, were soiled and crumpled, especially the collar of his +shirt, which was nearly torn off, as in a struggle of some kind. She +asked him what was the matter with him, and said he looked as if he had +been fighting.” He replied-- + +“No, Nelly; but I've killed two birds with one stone this night.” + +She asked him what he meant by those words, but he would give her no +further information. + +“I'll give no explanation,” said he, “but this;” and turning his back +to her, he opened a tobacco-box, which, by stretching her neck, she saw +distinctly, and, taking out a roll of bank notes, he separated one from +the rest, and handing it to her, exclaimed--“there's all the explanation +you can want; a close mouth, Nelly, is the sign of a wise-head, an' by +keepin' a close mouth, you'll get more explanations of this kind. Do you +understand that?” said he. “I do,” she replied. + +“Very well, then,” he observed “let that be the law and gospel between +us.” + +When he fell asleep, she got up, and looking at the box, saw that it +was stuffed with bank notes, had a broken hinge--the hinge was freshly +broken--and something like two letters on the lid of it. + +“She then did not see it,” she continued, “until some weeks ago, when +his daughter and herself having had a quarrel, in which the girl cut +her--she (his daughter) on stretching up for some cobwebs on the wall +to stanch the bleeding, accidentally pulled the box out of a crevice, in +which it had been hid. About this time,” she added, “the prisoner became +very restless at night, indeed, she might say by day and night, and +after a good deal of gloomy ill temper, he made inquiries for it, and on +hearing that it had again appeared, even threatened her life if it were +not produced.” She closed her evidence by stating that she had secreted +it, but could tell nothing of its ultimate and mysterious disappearance. + +Hanlon's part in tracing the murder is already known, we presume, to the +reader. He dreamt, but his dream was not permitted to go to the jury, +that his father came to him, and said, that if he repaired to the Grey +Stone, at Glendhu, on a night which he named, at the hour of twelve +o'clock, he would get such a clue to his murder as would enable him to +bring his murderer to justice. + +“Are you the son, then, of the man who is said to have been murdered?” + asked the judge. + +“He was his son,” he replied, “and came first to that part of the +country in consequence of having been engaged in a Party fight in his +native place. It seems a warrant had been issued against him and others, +and he thought it more prudent to take his mother's name, which was +Hanlon, in order to avoid discovery, the case being a very common one +under circumstances of that kind.” + +Rody Duncan's explanation, with respect to the Tobacco-Box, was not +called for on the trial, but we shall give it here in order to satisfy +the reader. He saw Nelly M'Gowan, as we may still call her, thrusting +something under the thatch of the cabin, and feeling a kind of curiosity +to ascertain what it could be, he seized the first opportunity of +examining, and finding a tobacco-box, he put it in his pocket, and +thought himself extremely fortunate in securing it, for reasons which +the reader will immediately understand. The truth is, that Rody, +together with about half a dozen virtuous youths in the neighborhood, +were in the habit of being out pretty frequently at night--for +what purposes we will not now wait to inquire. Their usual place +of rendezvous was the Grey Stone, in consequence of the shelter and +concealment which its immense projections afforded them. On the night +of the first meeting between Sarah and Hanlon, Rody had heard the whole +conversation by accident, whilst waiting for his companions, and very +judiciously furnished the groans, as he did also upon the second night, +on both occasions for his own amusement. His motives for ingratiating +himself through means of the box, with Sarah and Hanlon, are already +known to the reader, and require no further explanation from us. + +In fact, such a train of circumstantial evidence was produced, as +completely established the Prophet's guilt, in the opinion of all who +had heard the trial, and the result was a verdict of guilty by the jury, +and a sentence of death by the judge. + +“Your case,” said the judge, as he was about to pronounce sentence, “is +another proof of the certainty with which Providence never, so to speak, +loses sight of the man who deliberately sheds his fellow creature's +blood. It is an additional and striking instance too, of the retributive +spirit with which it converts all the most cautious disguises of guilt, +no matter how ingeniously assumed, into the very manifestations by which +its enormity is discovered and punished.” + +After recommending him to a higher tribunal, and impressing upon him the +necessity of repentance, and seeking peace with God, he sentenced him to +be hanged by the neck on the fourth day after the close of the assizes, +recommending his soul, as usual, to the mercy of his Creator. + +The Prophet was evidently a man of great moral intrepidity and firmness. +He kept his black, unquailing eye fixed upon the judge while he spoke, +but betrayed not a single symptom of a timid or vacillating spirit. When +the sentence was pronounced, he looked with an expression of something +like contempt upon those who had broken out, as usual, into those +murmurs of compassion and satisfaction, which are sometimes uttered +under circumstances similar to his. + +“Now,” said he to the gaoler, “that every thing is over, and the worst +come to the worst, the sooner I get to my cell the better. I have +despised the world too long to care a single curse what it says or +thinks of me, or about me. All I'm sorry for is, that I didn't take more +out of it, and that I let it slip through my hands so asily as I did. My +curse upon it and its villany! Bring me in.” + +The gratification of the country for a wide circle round, was +now absolutely exuberant. There was not only the acquittal of the +good-hearted and generous old man, to fill the public with a feeling +of delight, but also the unexpected resurrection, as it were, of honest +Bartholomew Sullivan, which came to animate all parties with a double +enjoyment. Indeed, the congratulations which both parties received, were +sincere and fervent. Old Condy Dalton had no sooner left the dock than +he was surrounded by friends and relatives, each and all anxious to +manifest their sense of his good fortune, in the usual way of “treating” + him and his family. Their gratitude, however, towards the Almighty for +the unexpected interposition in their favor, was too exalted and pious +to allow them to profane it by convivial indulgences. With as little +delay, therefore, as might be, they sought their humble cabin, where +a scene awaited them that was calculated to dash with sorrow the +sentiments of justifiable exultation which they felt. + +Our readers may remember that owing to Sarah's illness, the Prophet, +as an after thought, had determined to give to the abduction of Mave +Sullivan the color of a famine outrage; and for this purpose he had +resolved also to engage Thomas Dalton to act as a kind of leader--a +circumstance which he hoped would change the character of the +proceedings altogether to one of wild and licentious revenge on the part +of Dalton. Poor Dalton lent himself to this, as far as its aspect of a +mere outbreak had attractions for the melancholy love of turbulence, by +which he had been of late unhappily animated. He accordingly left home +with the intention of taking a part in their proceedings; but he never +joined them. Where he had gone to, or how he had passed the night, +nobody knew. Be this as it may, he made his appearance at home about +noon on the day of his father's trial, in evidently a dying state, and +in this condition his family found him on their return. 'Tis true they +had the consolation of perceiving that he was calmer and more collected +than he had been since the death of Peggy Murtagh. His reason, indeed, +might be said to have been altogether restored. + +They found him sitting in his father's arm chair, his head +supported--oh, how tenderly supported!--by his affectionate sister, +Mary. + +Mrs. Dalton herself had come before, to break the joyful tidings to +this excellent girl, who, on seeing her, burst into tears, exclaiming in +Irish-- + +“Mother, dear, I'm afraid you're bringing a heavy heart to a house of +sorrow!” + +“A light heart, dear Mary--a light and a grateful heart. Your father, +_acushla machree_--your father, my dear, unhappy Tom, is not a +murderer.” + +The girl had one arm around her brother's neck, but she instinctively +raised the other, as if in ecstatic delight, but in a moment she dropped +it again, and said sorrowfully-- + +“Ay; but, mother dear, didn't he say himself he was guilty?” + +“He thought so, dear; but it was only a rash blow; and oh, how many a +deadly accident has come from harsh blows! The man was not killed at +all, dear Mary, but is alive and well, and was in the court-house this +day. Oh! what do we not owe to a good God for His mercy towards us all? +Tom, dear, I am glad to see you at home; you must not go out again.” + +“Oh, mother dear,” said his sister, kissing him, and bursting into +tears, “Tom's dying!” + +“What's this?” exclaimed his mother--“death's in my boy's face!” + +He raised his head gently, and, looking at her, replied, with a faint +smile-- + +“No, mother, I will not go out any more; I will be good at last--it's +time for me.” + +At this moment old Dalton and the rest of the family entered the house, +but were not surprised at finding Mary and her mother in tears; for they +supposed, naturally enough, that the tears were tears of joy for the +old man's acquittal. Mrs. Dalton raised her hand to enjoin silence; and +then, pointing to her son, said-- + +“We must keep quiet for a little.” + +They all looked upon the young man, and saw, that death, immediate +death, was stamped upon his features, gleamed wildly out of his eyes, +and spoke in his feeble and hollow voice. + +“Father,” said he, “let me kiss you, or come and kiss me. Thank God for +what has happened this day. Father,” he added, looking up into the +old man's face, with an expression of unutterable sorrow and +affection--“father, I know I was wild; but I will be wild no more. I was +wicked, too; but I will be wicked no more. There, is an end now to all +my follies and all my crimes; an' I hope--I hope that God will have +mercy upon me, an' forgive me.” + +The tears rained fast upon his pale face from the old man's eyes, as he +exclaimed-- + +“He will have mercy upon you, my darlin' son; look to Him. I know, +darlin', that whatever crimes or follies you committed, you are sorry +for them, an' God will forgive you.” + +“I am,” he replied; “kiss me all of you; my sight is gettin' wake, an' +my tongue isn't isn't so strong as it was.” + +One after one they all kissed him, and as each knew that this tender and +sorrowful, embrace must be the last that should ever pass between them, +it is impossible adequately to describe the scene which then took place. + +“I have a request to make,” he added, feebly; “an' it is, that I may +sleep with Peggy and our baby. Maybe I'm not worthy of that; but still +I'd like it, an' my heart's upon it; an' I think she would like it, +too.” + +“It can be done, an' we'll do it,” replied his mother; “we'll do it my +darlin' boy--my son, my son, we'll do it.” + +“Don't you all forgive me--forgive me--everything?” + +They could only, for some time, reply by their tears; but at length they +did reply, and he seemed satisfied. + +“Now,” said he, “there was an ould Irish air that Peggy used to sing for +me--I thought I heard her often singin' it of late--did I?” + +“I suppose so, darlin',” replied his mother; “I suppose you did.” + +“Mary, here,” he proceeded, “sings it; I would like to hear it before I +go; it's the air of _Gra Gal Machree_.” + +“Before you go, _alanna!_” exclaimed his father, pressing him tenderly +to his breast. “Oh! but they're bitther words to us, my darlin' an' my +lovin' boy. But the air, Mary, darlin', strive an' sing it for him as +well as you can.” + +It was a trying task for the affectionate girl, who, however, so far +overcame her grief, as to be able to sing it with the very pathos of +nature itself. + +“Ay,” said he, as she proceeded, “that's it--that's what Peggy used to +sing for me, bekaise she knew I liked it.” + +Tender and full of sorrow were the notes as they came from the innocent +lips of that affectionate sister. Her task, however, was soon over; for +scarcely had she concluded the air, when her poor brother's ears and +heart were closed to the melody and affection it breathed, forever. + +“I know,” said she, with tears, “that there's one thing will give +comfort to you all respecting poor Tom. Peter Rafferty, who helped +him home, seein' the dyin' state he was in, went over to the Car, and +brought one of Father Hanratty's curates to him, so that he didn't +depart without resaving the rites of the Church, thank God!” + +This took the sting of bitterness out of their grief, and infused +into it a spirit that soothed their hearts, and sustained them by that +consolation which the influence of religion and its ordinances, in the +hour of death and sorrow, never fail to give to an Irish family. + +Old Dalton's sleep was sound that night; and when he awoke the next +morning the first voice he heard was that of our friend Toddy Mack, +which, despite of the loss they had sustained, and its consequent +sorrow, diffused among them a spirit of cheerfulness and contentment. + +“You have no raison,” said he, “to fly in the face of God--I don't mane +you, Mrs. Dalton--but these youngsters. If what I heard is thrue that +that poor boy never was himself since the girl died, it was a mercy for +God to take him; and afther all He is a betther judge of what's fit for +us than we ourselves. Bounce, now, Mr. Dalton; you have little time to +lose. I want you to come wid me to the agent, Mr. Travers. He wishes, I +think, to see yourself, for he says he has heard a good account o' you, +an' I promised to bring you. If we're there about two o'clock we'll hit +the time purty close.” + +“What can he want with him, do you think?” asked Mrs. Dalton. + +“Dear knows--fifty things--maybe to stand for one of his +childhre--or--but, ah! forgive me--I could be merry anywhere else; but +here--here--forgive me, Mrs. Dalton.” + +In a short time Dalton and he mounted a car which Toddy had brought with +him, and started for the office of Mr. Travers. + +While they are on their way, we shall return to our friend, young Dick, +who was left to trudge home from the Grey Stone on the night set apart +for the abduction of Mave Sullivan. Hanlon, or Magennis, as we ought now +to call him, having by his shrewdness, and Rody Duncan's loose manner +of talking, succeeded in preventing the burglarious attack upon his +master's house, was a good deal surprised at young Dick's quick return, +for he had not expected him at all that night. The appearance of +the young gentleman was calculated to excite impressions of rather a +serio-comic character. + +“Hanlon,” said he, “is all right?--every man at his post?” + +“All right, sir; but I did not expect you back so soon. Whatever you've +been engaged on to-night is a saicret you've kep' me out of.” + +“D--e, I was afraid of you, Hanlon--you were too honest for what I was +about to-night. You wouldn't have stood it--I probed you on it once +before, and you winced.” + +“Well, sir, I assure you I don't wish to know what it is.” + +“Why, as the whole thing has failed there, can be no great secret in +it now. The old Prophet hoaxed me cursedly to-night. It was arranged +between us that he should carry off Sullivan's handsome daughter for +me--and what does the mercenary old scoundrel do but put his own in her +place, with a view of imposing her on me.” + +“Faith, an' of the two she is thought to be the finest an' handsomest +girl; but, my God! how could he do what you say, an' his daughter sick +o' the typhus?” + +“There's some d--d puzzle about it, I grant--he seemed puzzled--his +daughter-seemed sick, sure enough--and I am sick. Hanlon, I fear I've +caught the typhus from her--I can think of nothing else.” + +“Go to bed, sir; I tould you as you went out that you had taken rather +too much. You've been disappointed, an' you're vexed;--that's what ails +you; but go to bed, an' you'll sleep it off.” + +“Yes, I must. In a day or two it's arranged that I and Travers are to +settle about the leases, and I must meet that worthy gentleman with a +clear head.” + +“Is Darby Skinadre, sir, to have Dalton's farm?” + +“Why, I've pocketed a hundred of his money for it, an' I think he ought. +However, all this part of the property is out of lease, and you know we +can neither do nor say anything till we get the new leases.” + +“Oh, yes, you can, sir,” replied Hanlon, laughing; “it's clear you can +_do_ at any rate.” + +“How is that? What do you grin at, confound you?” + +“You can take the money, sir; that's what I mane by _doin'_ him. Ha, ha, +ha!” + +“Very good, Charley; but I'm sick; and I very much fear that I've caught +this confounded typhus.” + +The next day being that on which the trial took place, he rose not from +his bed; and when the time appointed for meeting Travers came he was +not at all in anything of an improved condition. His gig was got ready, +however, and, accompanied by Hanlon, he drove to the agent's office. + +Travers was a quick, expert man of business, who lost but little time +and few words in his dealings with the world. He was clear, rapid, and +decisive, and having once formed an opinion, there was scarcely any +possibility in changing it. This, indeed, was the worst and most +impracticable point about him; for as it often happened that his +opinions were based upon imperfect or erroneous data, it consequently +followed that his inflexibility was but another name for obstinacy, and +not unfrequently for injustice. + +As Henderson entered the office, he met our friend the pedlar and old +Dalton going out. + +“Dalton,” said Travers, “do you and your friend stay in the next room; I +wish to see you again before you go. How do you do, Henderson?” + +“I am not well,” replied Henderson, “not at all well; but it won't +signify.” + +“How is your father?” + +“Much as usual: I wonder he didn't call on you.” + +“No, he did not, I suppose he's otherwise engaged--the assizes always +occupy him. However, now to business, Mr. Henderson;” and he looked +inquiringly at Dick, as much as to say, I am ready to hear you. + +“We had better see, I think,” proceeded Dick, “and make arrangements +about these new leases.” + +“I shall expect to be bribed for each of them, Mr. Richard.” + +“Bribed!” exclaimed the other, “ha, ha, ha! that's good.” + +“Why, do you think there's anything morally wrong or dishonorable in a +bribe?” asked the other, with a very serious face. + +“Come, come, Mr. Travers,” said Dick, “a joke's a joke; only don't put +so grave a face on you when you ask such a question. However, as you say +yourself, now to business--about these leases.” + +“I trust,” continued Travers, “that I am both an honest man and a +gentleman, yet I expect a bribe for every lease.” + +“Well, then,” replied Henderson, “it is not generally supposed that +either an honest man or a gentleman--” + +“Would take a bribe?--eh?” + +“Well, d--n it, no; not exactly that either; but come, let us understand +each other. If you will be wilful on it, why a wilful man, they say, +must have his way. Bribery, however--rank bribery--is a--” + +“Crime to which neither an honest man nor a gentleman would stoop. You +see I anticipate what you are about to say; you despise bribery, Mr. +Henderson?” + +“Sir,” replied the other, rather warmly, “I trust that I am a gentleman +and an honest man, too.” + +“But still, a wilful man, Mr. Henderson must have his way, you know. +Well, of course, you are a gentleman and an honest man.” + +He then rose, and touching the bell, said to the servant who answered +it: + +“Send in the man named Darby Skinadre.” + +If that miserable wretch was thin and shrivelled-looking when first +introduced to our readers, he appeared at the present period little +else than the shadow of what he had been. He not only lost heavily the +usurious credit he had given, in consequence of the wide-spread poverty +and crying distress of the wretched people, who were mostly insolvent, +but he suffered severely by the outrages which had taken place, and +doubly so in consequence of the anxiety which so many felt to wreak +their vengeance on him, under that guise, for his heartlessness and +blood-sucking extortions upon them. + +“Your name,” proceeded the agent, “is Darby Skinadre?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“And you have given this gentleman the sum of a hundred pounds, as a +bribe, for promising you a lease of Cornelius Dalton's farm?” + +“I gave him a hundred pounds, but not at all as a bribe, sir; I'm an +honest man, I trust--an' the Lord forbid I'd have anything to do wid a +bribe; an' if you an' he knew--if you only knew, both o' you--the hard +strivin,' an' scrapin,' an' sweepin' I had to get it together--” + +“That will do, sir; be silent. You received this money, Mr. Henderson?” + +“Tut, Travers, my good friend; this is playing too high a card about +such a matter. Don't you know, devilish well, that these things are +common, aye, and among gentlemen and honest men too, as you say?” + +“Well, that is a discussion upon which I shall not enter. Now, as you +say, to business.” + +“Well, then,” continued Henderson, smiling, “if you have no objection, +I am willing that you should take Skinadre's affair and mine as a +precedent between you and me. Let us not be fools, Mr. Travers; it is +every one for himself in this world.” + +“What is it you expect, in the first place?” asked the agent. + +“Why, new leases,” replied the other, “upon reasonable terms, of +course.” + +“Well, then,” said Travers, “I beg to inform you that you shall not +have them, with only one exception. You shall have a lease of sixty-nine +acres attached to the Grange, being the quantity of land you actually +farm.” + +“Pray, why not of all the property?” asked Dick. + +“My good friend,” replied the agent, nearly in his own words to the +Pedlar; “the fact is, that we are about to introduce a new system +altogether upon our property. We are determined to manage it upon a +perfectly new principle. It has been too much sublet under us, and we +have resolved, Mr. Henderson, to rectify this evil. That is my answer. +With the exception of the Grange farm, you get no leases. We shall turn +over a new leaf, and see that a better order of things be established +upon the property. As for you, Skinadre, settle this matter of your +hundred pounds with Mr. Henderson as best you may. That was a private +transaction between yourselves; between yourselves, then, does the +settlement of it lie.” + +He once more touched the bell, and desired Cornelius Dalton and the +Pedlar to be sent in. + +“Mr. Henderson,” he proceeded, “I will bid you good morning; you +certainly look ill. Skinadre, you may go. I have sent for Mr. Dalton, +Mr. Henderson, to let him know that he shall be reinstated in his farm, +and every reasonable allowance made him for the oppression and injustice +which he and his respectable family have suffered at--I will not say +whose hands.” + +“Travers,” replied Henderson, “your conduct is harsh--and--however, I +cannot now think of leases--I am every moment getting worse--I am very +ill--good-morning.” + +He then went. + +“An' am I to lose my hundre pounds, your honor, of my hard earned money, +that I squeezed--” + +“Out of the blood and marrow and life of the struggling people, you +heartless extortioner! Begone, sirra; a foot of land upon the property +for which I am agent you shall never occupy. You and your tribe, whether +you batten upon the distress of struggling industry in the deceitful +Maelstrooms of the metropolis, or in the dirty, dingy shops of a private +country village, are each a scorpion curse to the people. Your very +existence is a libel upon the laws by which the rights of civil society +are protected.” + +“Troth, your honor does me injustice; I never see a case of distress +that my heart doesn't bleed--” + +“With a leech-like propensity to pounce upon it. Begone!” + +The man slunk out. + +“Dalton,” he proceeded, when the old man, accompanied by the Pedlar, +came in, “I sent for you to say that I am willing you should have your +farm again.” + +“Sir,” replied the other, “I am thankful and grateful to you for that +kindness, but it's now too late; I am not able to go back upon it; I +have neither money nor stock of any kind. I am deeply and gratefully +obliged to you; but I have not a sixpence worth in the world to put on +it. An honest heart, sir, an' a clear fame, is all that God has left me, +blessed be His name.” + +“Don't b'lieve a word of it,” replied the Pedlar. “Only let your honor +give him a good lease, at a raisonable rint, makin' allowance for his +improvements--” + +“Never mind conditions, my good friend,” said the agent, “but proceed; +for, if I don't mistake, you will yourself give him a lift.” + +“May be, we'll find him stock and capital a thrifle, any way,” replied +the Pedlar with a knowing wink. “I haven't carried the pack all my life +for nothing, I hope.” + +“I understand,” said the agent to Dalton, “that one of your sons is +dead. I leave town to-day, but I shall be here this day fortnight;--call +then, and we shall have every thing arranged. Your case was a very hard +one, and a very common one; but it was one with which we had nothing +to do, and in which, until now, we could not interfere. I have looked +clearly into it, and regret to find that such cases do exist upon Irish +property to a painful extent, although I am, glad to find that public +opinion, and a more enlightened experience, are every day considerably +diminishing the evil.” + +He then rang for some one-else, and our friends withdrew, impressed +with a grateful sense of his integrity and justice. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. -- Conclusion. + +The interest excited by the trial, involving as it did so much that +concerned the Sullivans, especially the hopes and affections of their +daughter Mave, naturally induced them--though not on this latter +account--young and old, to attend the assizes, not excepting Mave +herself; for her father, much against her inclination, had made a point +to bring her with them. On finding, however, how matters turned out, a +perfect and hearty reconciliation took place between the two families, +in the course of which Mave and the Prophet's wife once more renewed +their acquaintance. Some necessary and brief explanation took place, in +the course of which allusion was made to Sarah and her state of health. + +“I hope,” said Mave, “you will lose no time in goin' to see her. I know +her affectionate heart; an' that when she hears an' feels that she has +a mother alive an' well, an' that loves her as she ought to be loved, it +will put new life into her.” + +“She is a fine lookin' girl,” replied her mother, “an' while I was +spakin' to her, I felt my heart warm to her sure enough; but she's a +wild crature, they say.” + +“Hasty a little,” said Mave; “but then such a heart as she has. You +ought to go see her at wanst.” + +“I would, dear, an' my heart is longin' to see her; but I think it's +betther that I should not till afther his thrial to-morrow. I'm to be a +witness against the unfortunate man.” + +“Against her father!--against your own husband!” exclaimed Mave, looking +aghast at this information. + +“Yes, dear; for it was my brother he murdhered an' he must take the +consequences, if he was my husband and her father ten times over. My +brother's blood mustn't pass for nothin'. Besides, the hand o' God is in +it, an' I must do my duty.” + +The heart of the gentle and heroic Mave, which could encounter contagion +and death, from a principle of unconscious magnanimity and affection, +that deserved a garland, now shrunk back with pain at the sentiments so +coolly expressed by Sarah's mother. She thought for a moment of young +Dalton, and that if she were called upon to prosecute him,--but she +hastily put the fearful hypothesis aside, and was about to bid her +acquaintance good-bye, when the latter said: + +“To-morrow, or rather the day afther, I'd wish to see her for then I'll +know what will happen to him, an' how to act with her; an' if you'd come +with me, I'd be glad of it, an' you'd oblige me.” + +Mave's gentle and affectionate spirit was disquieted within her by what +she had already heard; but a moment's reflection convinced her that her +presence on the occasion might be serviceable to Sarah, whose excitable +temperament and delicate state of health required gentle and judicious +treatment. + +“I'm afeard,” said Mrs. M'Ivor, “that by the time the trial's over +to-morrow, it'll be too late; but let us say the day afther, if it's the +same to you.” + +“Well, then,” replied Mave, “you can call to our place, as it's on your +way, an' we'll both go together.” + +“If she knew her,” said Mave to her friends, on her way home, “as I do; +if she only knew the heart she has--the lovin', the fearless, the great +heart;--oh, if she did, no earthly thing would prevent her from goin' to +her without the loss of a minute's time. Poor Sarah!--brave and generous +girl--what wouldn't I do to bring her back to health! But ah, mother, +I'm afeard;” and as the noble girl spoke, the tears gushed to her +eyes--“'It's my last act for you,' she whispered to me, on that night +when the house was surrounded by villains--'I know what you risked for +me in the shed; I know it, dear Mave, an' I'm now sthrivin' to pay back +my debt to you.' Oh, mother!” she exclaimed, “where--where could one +look for the like of her! an' yet how little does the world know about +her goodness, or her greatness, I may say. Well,” proceeded Mave, “she +paid that debt; but I'm afeard, mother, it'll turn out that it was with +her own life she paid it.” + +At the hour appointed, Mrs. M'Ivor and Mave set out on their visit to +Sarah, each now aware of the dreadful and inevitable doom that awaited +her father, and of the part which one of them, at least, had taken in +bringing it about. + +About half an hour before their arrival, Sarah, whose anxiety touching +the fate of old Dalton could endure no more, lay awaiting the return of +her nurse--a simple, good-hearted, matter-of-fact creature, who had no +notion of ever concealing the truth under any circumstances. The poor +girl had sent her to get an account of the trial the best way she could, +and, as we said, she now lay awaiting her return. At length she came in. + +“Well, Biddy, what's the news--or have you got any?” + +The old woman gently and affectionately put her hand over on Sarah's +forehead, as if the act was a religious ceremony, and accompanied an +invocation, as, indeed, she intended it to do. + +“May God in His mercy soon relieve you from your thrials, my poor girl, +an' bring you to Himself! but it's the black news I have for you this +day.” + +Sarah started. + +“What news,” she asked, hastily--“what black news?” + +“Husth, now, an' I'll tell you;--in the first place, your mother is +alive, an' has come to the counthry.” + +Sarah immediately sat up in the bed, without assistance, and fastening +her black, brilliant eyes upon the woman, exclaimed--“My mother--my +mother--my own mother!--an' do you dare to tell me that this is black +news? Lave the house, I bid you. I'll get up--I'm not sick--I'm well. +Great God! yes, I'm well--very well; but how dare you name black news +an' my mother--my blessed mother--in the same breath, or on the same +day?” + +“Will you hear me out, then?” continued the nurse. + +“No,” replied Sarah, attempting to get up--“I want to hear no more; now +I wish to live--now I am sure of one, an' that one my mother--my own +mother--to love me--to guide me--to taich me all that I ought to know; +but, above all, to love me. An' my father--my poor unhappy father--an' +he is unhappy--he loves me, too. Oh, Biddy, I can forgive you now for +what you said--I will be happy still--an' my mother will be happy--an' +my father,--my poor father--will be happy yet; he'll reform--repent +maybe; an' he'll wanst more get back his early heart--his heart when it +was good, an' not hardened, as he says it was, by the world. Biddy, did +you ever see any one cry with joy before--ha--ha--did you now?” + +“God strengthen you, my poor child,” exclaimed the nurse, bursting into +tears; “for what will become of you? Your father, Sarah dear, is to be +hanged for murdher, an' it was your mother's evidence that hanged him. +She swore against him on the thrial an' his sentence is passed. Bartle +Sullivan wasn't murdhered at all, but another man was, an' it was your +father that done it. On next Friday he's to be hanged, an' your mother, +they say, swore his life away! If that's not black news, I don't know +what is.” + +Sarah's face had been flushed to such a degree by the first portion of +the woman's intelligence, that its expression was brilliant and animated +beyond belief. On hearing its conclusion, however, the change from joy +to horror was instantaneous, shocking, and pitiable, beyond all power +of language to express. She was struck perfectly motionless and ghastly; +and as she kept her large lucid eyes fixed upon the woman's face, the +powers of life, that had been hitherto in such a tumult of delight +within her, seemed slowly, and with a deadly and scarcely perceptible +motion, to ebb out of her system. The revulsion was too dreadful; +and with the appearance of one who was anxious to shrink or hide from +something that was painful, she laid her head down on the humble pillow +of her bed. + +“Now, asthore,” said the woman, struck by the woeful change--“don't take +it too much to. heart; you're young, an' please God, you'll get over it +all yet.” + +“No,” she replied, in a voice so utterly changed and deprived of its +strength, that the woman could with difficulty hear or understand her. +“There's but one good bein' in the world,” she said to herself, “an' +that is Mave Sullivan: I have no mother, no father--all I can love now +is Mave Sullivan--that's all.” + +“Every one that knows her does,” said the nurse. + +“Who?” said Sarah, inquiringly. + +“Why, Mave Sullivan,” replied the other; “worn't you spakin' about her?” + +“Was I?” said she, “maybe so--what was I sayin'?” + +She then put her hand to her forehead, as if she felt pain and +confusion; after which she waved the nurse towards her, but on the woman +stooping down, she seemed to forget that she had beckoned to her at all. + +At this moment Mave and her mother entered, and after looking towards +the bed on which she lay, they inquired in a whisper, from her attendant +how she was. + +The woman pointed hopelessly to her own head, and then looked +significantly at Sarah, as if to intimate that her brain was then +unsettled. + +“There's something wrong here,” she added, in an under tone, and +touching her head, “especially since I tould her what had happened.” + +“Is she acquainted with everything?” asked her mother. + +“She is,” replied the other; “she knows that her father is to die on +Friday an' that you swore agin' him.” + +“But what on earth,” said Mave, “could make you be so mad as to let her +know anything of that kind?” + +“Why, she sent me to get word,” replied the simple creature, “and you +wouldn't have me tell her a lie, an' the poor girl on her death-bed, I'm +afeard.” + +Her mother went over and stood opposite where she lay, that is, near the +foot of her bed, and putting one hand under her chin, looked at her +long and steadily. Mave went to her side and taking her hand gently up, +kissed it, and wept quietly, but bitterly. + +It was, indeed, impossible to look upon her without a feeling of +deep and extraordinary interest. Her singularly youthful aspect--her +surprising beauty, to which disease and suffering had given a character +of purity and tenderness almost etherial--the natural symmetry and +elegance of her very arms and hands--the wonderful whiteness of her +skin, which contrasted so strikingly with the raven black of her glossy +hair, and the soul of thought and feeling which lay obviously expressed +by the long silken eye-lashes of her closed eyes--all, when taken in at +a glance, were calculated to impress a beholder with love, and sympathy, +and tenderness, such as no human heart could resist. + +Mave, on glancing at her mother, saw a few tears stealing, as it were, +down her cheeks. + +“I wish to God, my dear daughter,” exclaimed the latter, in a low voice, +“that I had never seen your face, lovely as it is, an' it surely would +be betther for yourself that you had never been born.” + +She then passed to the bed-side, and taking Mave's place, who withdrew, +she stooped down, and placing her lips upon Sarah's white broad +forehead, exclaimed--“May God bless you, my dear daughter, is the +heart-felt prayer of your unhappy mother!” + +Sarah suddenly opened her eyes, and started.--“What is wrong? There is +something wrong. Didn't I hear some one callin' me daughter? Here's a +strange woman--Charley Hanlon's aunt--Biddy, come here!” + +“Well, acushla, here I am--keep yourself quiet, achora--what is it?” + +“Didn't you tell me that my mother swore my father's life away?” + +“It's what they say,” replied the matter-of-fact nurse. + +“Then it's a lie that's come from hell itself,” she replied--“Oh, if I +was only up and strong as I was, let me see the man or woman that durst +say so. My mother! to become unnatural and treacherous, an' I have a +mother--ha, ha--oh, how often have I thought of this--thought of what a +girl I would be if I was to have a mother--how good I would be too--how +kind to her--how I would love her, an' how she would love me, an' then +my heart would sink when I'd think of home--ay, an' when Nelly would +spake cruelly an' harshly to me I'd feel as if I could kill her, or any +one.” + +Her eye here caught Mave Sullivan's, and she again started. + +“What is this?” she exclaimed; “am I still in the shed? Mave +Sullivan!--help me up, Biddy.” + +“I am here, dear Sarah,” replied the gentle girl--“I am here; keep +yourself quiet and don't attempt to sit up; you're not able to do it.” + +The composed and serene aspect of Mave, and the kind, touching tones +of her voice, seemed to operate favorably upon her, and to aid her +in collecting her confused and scattered thoughts into something like +order. + +“Oh, dear Mave,” said she, “what is this? What has happened? Isn't there +something wrong? I'm confused. Have I a mother? Have I a livin' mother, +that will love me?” + +Her large eyes suddenly sparkled with singular animation as she asked +the last question, and Mave thought it was the most appropriate moment +to make the mother known to her. + +“You have, dear Sarah, an' here she is waitin' to clasp you to her +heart, an' give you her blessin'.” + +“Where?” she exclaimed, starting up in her bed, as if in full health; +“my mother! where?--where?” + +She held her arms out towards her, for Mave had again assumed the +mother's station at her bedside, and the latter stood at a little +distance. On seeing her daughter's arms widely extended towards her, she +approached her, but whether checked by Sarah's allusion to her conduct, +or from a wish to spare her excitement, or from some natural coldness +of disposition, it is difficult to say, she did it with so little +appearance of the eager enthusiasm that the heart of the latter +expected, and with a manner so singularly cool and unexcited, that +Sarah, whose feelings were always decisive and rapid as lightning, had +time to recognize her features as Hanlon's aunt whom she had seen and +talked to before. + +But that was not all; she perceived not in her these external +manifestations of strong affection and natural tenderness for which her +own heart yearned almost convulsively; there was no sparkling glance--no +precipitate emotion--no gushing of tears--no mother's love--in short, +nothing of what her noble and loving spirit could, recognize as +kindred to itself, and to her warm and impulsive heart. The moment--the +glance--that sought and found not what it looked for--were decisive: the +arms that had been extended remained extended still, but the spirit +of that attitude was changed, as was that eager and tumultuous delight +which had just flashed from her countenance. Her thoughts, as we said, +were quick, and in almost a moment's time she appeared to be altogether +a different individual. + +“Stop!” she exclaimed, now repelling instead of soliciting the +embrace--“there isn't the love of a mother in that woman's heart--an' +what did I hear?--that she swore my father's life away--her husband's +life away. No, no; I'm changed--I see my father's blood, shed by her, +too, his own wife! Look at her features, they're hard and harsh--there's +no love in her eyes--they're cowld and sevare. No, no; there's something +wrong there--I feel that--I feel it--it's here--the feelin's in my +heart--oh, what a dark hour this is! You were right, Biddy, you brought +me black news this day--but it won't--it won't throuble me long--it +won't trouble this poor brain long--it won't pierce this poor heart +long--I hope not. Oh!” she exclaimed, turning to Mave, and extending her +arms towards her, “Mave Sullivan, let me die!” + +The affectionate but disappointed girl had all Mave's sympathies, whose +warm and affectionate feelings recoiled from the coldness and apparent +want of natural tenderness which characterized the mother's manner, +under circumstances in themselves so affecting. Still, after having +soothed Sarah for a few minutes, and placed her head once more upon the +pillow, she whispered to the mother, who seemed to think more than to +feel: + +“Don't be surprised; when you consider the state she's in--and indeed +it isn't to be wondered at after what she has heard--you must make every +allowance for the poor girl.” + +Sarah's emotions were now evidently in incessant play. + +“Biddy,” said she, “come here again; help me up.” + +“Dear Sarah,” said Mave, “you are not able to bear all this; if you +could compose yourself an' forget everything unpleasant for a while, +till you grow strong--” + +“If I could forget that my mother has no heart to love me with--that +she's cowld and strange to me: if I could forget that she's brought my +father to a shameful death--my father's heart wasn't altogether bad; no, +an' he was wanst--I mane in his early life--a good man. I know that--I +feel that--'dear Sarah, sleep--deep, dear Sarah'--no, bad as he is, +there was a thousand times more love and nature in the voice that spoke +them words than in a hundred women like my mother, that hasn't yet +kissed my lips. Biddy, come here, I say--here--lift me up again.” + +There was such energy, and fire, and command, in her voice and words +now, that Mave could not remonstrate any longer, nor the nurse refuse to +obey her. When she was once more placed sitting, she looked about her-- + +“Mother,” she said, “come here!” + +And as she pronounced the word mother, a trait so beautiful, so +exquisite, so natural, and so pathetic, accompanied it, that Mave once +more wept. Her voice, in uttering the word, quivered, and softened +into tenderness, with the affection which nature itself seems to have +associated with it. Sarah herself remarked this, even in the anguish of +the moment. + +“My very heart knows and loves the word,” she said. “Oh! why is it that +I am to suffer this? Is it possible that the empty name is all that's +left me afther all? Mother, come here--I am pleadin' for my father +now--you pleaded against him, but I always took the weakest side--here +is God now among us--you must stand before him--look your daughter in +the face--an' answer her as you expect to meet God, when you leave this +throubled life--truth--truth now, mother, an' nothin' else. Mother, I +am dyin'. Now, as God is to judge you, did you ever love my father as a +wife ought?” + +There was some irresistible spirit, some unaccountable power, in her +manner and language,--such command and such wonderful love of candor in +her full dark eye--that it was impossible to gainsay or withstand her. + +“I will spake the thruth,” replied her mother, evidently borne away and +subdued, “although it's against myself--to my shame an' to my sorrow +I say it--that when I married your father, another man had my +affections--but, as I'm to appear before God, I never wronged him. I +don't know how it is that you've made me confess it; but at any rate +you're the first that ever wrung it out o' me.” + +“That will do,” replied her daughter, calmly; “that sounds like murdher +from a mother's lips! Lay me down now, Biddy.” + +Mave, who had scarcely ever taken her eyes from off her varying and busy +features, was now struck by a singular change which she observed come +over them--a change that was nothing but the shadow of death, and cannot +be described. + +“Sarah!” she exclaimed; “dear, darling Sarah, what is the matter with +you? Have you got ill again?” + +“Oh! my child!” exclaimed her mother--“am I to lose you this way at +last? Oh! dear Sarah, forgive me--I'm you mother, and you'll forgive +me.” + +“Mave,” said Sarah, “take this--I remember seein' yours and mine +together not very long ago--take this lock of my hair--I think you'll +get a pair of scissors on the corner of the shelf--cut it off with +your own hands--let it be sent to my father--an' when he's dyin' a +disgraceful death, let him wear it next his heart--an' wherever he's to +be buried, let him have this buried with him. Let whoever will give it +to him, say that it comes from Sarah--an' that, if she was able, she +would be with him through shame, an' disgrace, an' death; that she'd +support him as well as she could in his trouble--that she'd scorn the +world for him--an' that because he said wanst in his life that he loved +her; she'd forgive him all a thousand times, an' would lay down her life +for him.” + +“You would do that, my noble girl!” exclaimed Mave, with a choking +voice. + +“An' above all things,” proceeded Sarah, “let him be told, if it can be +done, that Sarah said to him to die without fear--to bear it up like +a man, an' not like a coward--to look manfully about him on the very +scaffold--an'--an' to die as a man ought to die--bravely an' without +fear--bravely an' without fear!” + +Her voice and strength were, since the last change that Mave observed, +both rapidly sinking, and her mother, anxious, if possible, to have her +forgiveness, again approached her and said: + +“Dear Sarah you are angry with me. Oh! forgive me--am I not your +mother?” + +The girl's resentments, however, had all passed, and the business of her +life, and its functions, she now felt were all over--she said so-- + +“It's all over, at last now, mother,” she replied--“I have no anger +now--come and kiss me. Whatever you have done, you are still my mother. +Bless me--bless your daughter Sarah, I have nothing now in my heart but +love for everybody. Tell Nelly, dear Mave, that Sarah forgave her, an' +hoped that she'd forgive Sarah. Mave, I trust that you an' he will be +happy--that's my last wish, an' tell him so. Mave, there's sweet faces +about me, sich as I seen in the shed; they're smilin' upon me--smilin' +upon Sarah--upon poor, hasty Sarah McGowan--that would have loved every +one. Mave, think of me sometimes--an' let him, when he thinks of the +wild girl that loved him, look upon you, dearest Mave, an' love you, +if possible, better for her sake. These sweet faces are about me again. +Father, I'll be before you--die--die like a man.” + +While uttering these last few sentences, which were spoken with great +difficulty, she began to pull the bedclothes about with her hands, and +whilst uttering the last word, her beautiful hand was slightly clenched, +as if helping out a sentiment so completely in accordance with her brave +spirit. These motions, however, ceased suddenly--she heaved a deep +sigh, and the troubled spirit of the kind, the generous, the erring, but +affectionate Sarah M'Gowan--as we shall call her still--passed away to +another, and, we trust, a better life. The storms of her heart and brain +were at rest forever. + +Thus perished in early life one of those creatures, that sometimes seem +as if they were placed by mistake in a wrong sphere of existence. It is +impossible to say to what a height of moral grandeur and true greatness, +culture and education might have elevated, her, or to say with what +brilliancy her virtues might have shone, had heart and affections been +properly cultivated. Like some beautiful and luxuriant flower, however, +she was permitted to run into wildness and disorder for want of a +guiding hand; but no want, no absence of training, could ever destroy +its natural delicacy, nor prevent its fragrance from smelling sweet, +even in the neglected situation where it was left to pine and die. + +There is little now to be added. “Time, the consoler,” passes not in +vain even over the abodes of wretchedness and misery. The sufferings +of that year of famine we have endeavored to bring before those who may +have the power in their hands of assuaging the similar horrors which are +likely to visit this. The pictures we have given are not exaggerated, +but drawn from memory and the terrible realities of 1817. + +It is unnecessary to add, that when sickness and the severity of winter +passed away, our lovers, Mave and young Condy Dalton, were happily +married, as they deserved to be, and occupied the farm from which the +good old man had been so unjustly expelled. + +It was on the first social evening that the two families, now so happily +reconciled, spent together subsequent to the trial, that Bartle Sullivan +gratified them with the following account of his history: + +“I remimber fightin',” he proceeded, “wid Condy on that night, an' the +devil's own _bulliah battha_ he was. We went into a corner of the field +near the Grey Stone to decide it. All at wanst I forgot what happened, +till I found myself lyin' upon a car wid the M'Mahons of Edinburg, that +lived ten or twelve miles beyant the mountains, at the foot of Carnmore. +They knew me, and good right they had, for I had been spakin' to their +sister Shibby, but she wasn't for me at the time, although I was ready +to kick my own shadow about her, God knows. Well, you see, I felt +disgraced at bein' beaten by Con Dalton, an I was fond of her, so what +'ud you have of us but off we went together to America, for you see she +promised to marry me if I'd go. + +“They had taken me up on one of their carts, thinkin' I was dhrunk, to +lave me for safety in the next neighbor's house we came to. Well, she +an' I married when we got to Boston; but God never blessed us wid a +family; and Toddy here, who tuk the life of a pedlar, came back afther +many a long year, with a good purse, and lived with us. At last I began +to long for home, and so we all came together. The Prophet's wife was +wid us, an' another passenger tould me that Con here had been suspected +of murdherin' me. I got unwell in Liverpool, but I sent Toddy on before +me to make their minds aisy. As we wor talkin' over these matthers, I +happened to mention to the woman what I had seen the night the carman +was murdhered, and I wondhered at the way she looked on hearin' it. She +went on, but afther a time came back to Liverpool for me, an' took the +typhus on her way home, but thank God, we were all in time to clear +the innocent and punish the guilty; ay, an' reward the good, too, eh, +Toddy?'” + +“I'll give Mave away,” replied Toddy, “if there wasn't another man in +Europe; an' when I'm puttin' your hand into Con's, Mave, it won't be an +empty one. Ay, an' if your friend Sarah, the wild girl, had lived--but +it can't be helped--death takes the young as well as the ould; and may +God prepare us all to meet Him!” + +Young Richard Henderson's anticipations were, unfortunately, too true. +On leaving Mr. Travers' office, he returned home, took his bed, and; +in the course of one short week, had paid, by a kind of judicial +punishment, the fatal penalty of his contemplated profligacy. His father +survived him only a few months, so that there is not at this moment, one +of the name or blood of Henderson in the Grange. The old man died of a +quarrel with Jemmy Branigan, to whom he left a pension of fifty pounds a +year; and truly the grief of this aged servant after him was unique and +original. + +“What's to come o' me?” said Jemmy, with tears in his eye; “I have +nothing to do, nobody to attend to, nobody to fight with, nothing to +disturb me or put me out of timper; I knew, however, that he would stick +to his wickedness to the last--an' so he did, for the devil tempted him, +out of sheer malice, when he could get at me no way else, to lave me +fifty pounds a year, to kape me aisy! Sich revenge and villany, by a +dyin' man, was never heard of. God help me, what am I to do now, or what +hand will I turn to? What is there before me but peace and quietness for +the remainder of my life?--but I won't stand that long--an' to lave me +fifty pounds a year, to kape me aisy! God forgive him!” + +The Prophet suffered the sentence of the law, but refused all religious +consolation. Whether his daughter's message ever reached him or not, +we have had no means of ascertaining. He died, however, as she wished, +firmly, but sullenly, and as if he despised and defied the world and +its laws. He neither admitted his guilt, nor attempted to maintain +his innocence, but passed out of existence like a man who was already +wearied with its cares, and who now felt satisfied, when it was too +late, that contempt for the laws of God and man, never leads to safety, +much loss to happiness. His only observation was the following-- + +“When I dreamt that young Dalton drove a nail in my coffin, little I +thought it would end this way.” + +We have simply to conclude by saying that Rody Duncan was transported +for perjury; and that Nelly became a devotee, or voteen, and, as far as +one could judge, exhibited something like repentance for the sinful life +she had led with the Prophet. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Black Prophet: A Tale Of Irish +Famine, by William Carleton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK PROPHET *** + +***** This file should be named 16018-0.txt or 16018-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/0/1/16018/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |