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.