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.