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.