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.