Young Henderson, whose passion for Mave Sullivan was neither virtuous
nor honorable, would not have lent himself, notwithstanding, to the
unprincipled projects of the Prophet, had not that worthy personage
gradually and dishonestly drawn him into a false position. In other
words, he led the vain and credulous young man to believe that Mave had
been seized with a secret affection for him, and was willing, provided
everything was properly managed, to consent to an elopement. For this
purpose, it was necessary that the plan should be executed without
violence, as the Prophet well knew, because, on sounding young Dick upon
that subject, in an early stage of the business, he had ascertained
that the proposal of anything bordering upon outrage or force, would
instantly cause him to withdraw from the project altogether. For this
reason, then, he found it necessary, if possible to embark Sarah as an
accomplice, otherwise, he could not effect his design without violence,
and he felt that her co-operation was required to sustain the falsehood
of his assertions to Henderson with regard to Mave's consent to: place
herself under his protection. This was to be brought about so as to
hoodwink Henderson, in the following manner: The Prophet proposed that
Sarah should, by his own or her ingenuity, contrive to domicile herself
in Jerry Sullivan's house for a few days previous to the execution of
their design; not only for the purpose of using her influence, such as
it was, to sway the young creature's mind and principles from the path
of rectitude and virtue, by dwelling upon the luxury and grandeur of her
future life with Henderson, whose intentions were to be represented as
honorable, but, if necessary, to leave a free ingress to the house, so
as that under any circumstances, and even with a little violence,
Mave should be placed in Henderson's hands. Should the Prophet, by his
management, effect this, he was to receive a certain sum of money from
his employer the moment he or his party had her in their possession--for
such were the terms of the agreement--otherwise Donnel Dhu reserved to
himself the alternative of disclosing the matter to her friends, and
acquainting them with her situation. This, at all events, was readily
consented to by Henderson, whose natural vanity and extraordinary
opinion of his own merits in the eyes of the sex, prevented him
from apprehending any want of success with Mave, provided he had an
opportunity of bringing the influence of his person, and his wonderful
powers of persuasion, to bear upon such a simple country girl as he
considered her to be. So far, then, he had taken certain steps to secure
himself, whilst he left Henderson to run the risk of such contingencies
as might in all probability arise from the transaction.
This, however, was but an under-plot of the Prophet, whose object was
indeed far beyond that of becoming the paltry instrument of a rusty
intrigue. It was a custom with Dick o' the Grange, for a few years
previous to the date of our story, to sleep during the assizes, in the
head inn of the town, attended by Jemmy Branigan. This was rendered
in some degree necessary, by the condition of his bad leg, and his
extraordinary devotion to convivial indulgence--a propensity to which he
gave full stretch during the social license of the grand jury dinners.
Now, the general opinion was, that Henderson always kept large sums of
money in the house--an opinion which we believe to have been correct,
and which seemed to have been confirmed by the fact, that on no occasion
were both father and son ever known to sleep out of the house at the
same time, to which we may also add another--viz., that the whole family
were well provided with fire arms, which were freshly primed and loaded
every night.
The Prophet, therefore, had so contrived it, that young Dick's design
upon Mave Sullivan, or in other words, the Prophet's own design upon
the money coffers of the Grange, should render his absence from home
necessary whilst his father was swilling at the assizes, by which
arrangement, added to others that will soon appear, the house must, to
a certain degree, be left unprotected, or altogether under the care
of dissolute servants, whose habits, caught from those of the
establishment, were remarkable for dissipation and neglect.
The Prophet, indeed, was naturally a plotter. It is not likely, however,
that he would ever have thought of projecting the robbery of the Grange,
had he not found himself, as he imagined, foiled in his designs upon
Mave Sullivan, by the instinctive honor and love of truth which shone
so brilliantly in the neglected character of his extraordinary daughter.
Having first entrapped her into a promise of secrecy--a promise which he
knew death itself would scarcely induce her to violate, he disclosed to
her the whole plan in the most plausible and mitigated language. Effort
after effort was made to work upon her principles, but in vain. Once
or twice, it is true, she entertained the matter for a time--but a
momentary deliberation soon raised her naturally noble and generous
spirit above the turpitude of so vile a project.
It was, then, in this state of things that the failure of the one, and
the lesser plan, through the incorruptible honor of his daughter, drove
him upon the larger and more tempting one of the burglary. In this
latter, he took unto himself as his principal accomplice, Red Rody
Duncan, whose anxiety to procure the driver's situation arose from the
necessity that existed, to have a friend in the house, who might aid
them in effecting a quiet entrance, and by unloading or wetting the
fire-arms, neutralize the resistance which they might otherwise expect.
Sarah's excitement and distraction, however, resulting from her last
interview with young Dalton, giving as it did, a fatal blow to her
passion and her hopes, vehement and extraordinary as they were, threw
her across her father's path at the precise moment when her great but
unregulated spirit, inflamed by jealousy and reckless from despair,
rendered her most accessible to the wily and aggravating arguments with
which he tempted and overcame her. Thus did he, so far as human means
could devise, or foresight calculate, provide for the completion of two
plots instead of one.
It is true, Mave Sullivan was not left altogether without being
forewarned. Nobody, however, had made her acquainted with the peculiar
nature of the danger that was before her. Nelly M'Gowan, as she was
called, had strongly cautioned her against both Donnel and Sarah, but
then Nelly herself was completely in the dark as to the character of the
injury against which she warned her, so that her friendly precautions
were founded more upon the general and unscrupulous profligacy of
Donnel's principles, and his daughter's violence, than upon any
particular knowledge she possessed of her intentions towards her. Mave's
own serene and innocent disposition was such in fact as to render her
not easily impressed by suspicion; and our readers may have perceived,
by the interview which took place between her and Sarah, that from the
latter, she apprehended no injury.
It was on the following day after that interview, about two o'clock,
that while she was spreading some clothes upon the garden hedge, during
a sickly gleam of sunshine, our friend the pedlar made his appearance,
and entered her father's house. Mave having laid her washing before the
sun, went in and found him busily engaged in showing his wares, which
consisted principally of cutlery and trinkets. The pedlar, as she
entered, threw a hasty glance at her, perceived that she shook down her
luxuriant hair, which had been disarranged by a branch of thorn that
was caught in it while stretching over the hedge. She at once recognized
him, and blushed deeply; but he seemed altogether to have forgotten her.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, “well, that I may be blest, but it's many a long day
since I seen such a head o' hair as that! Holy St. Countryman, but it's
a beauty. Musha, a _Ora Gal_, maybe you'll dispose of it, for, in troth,
if ever a face livin' could afford to part with its best ornament,
your's is that one.”
Mave smiled and blushed at the compliment, and the pedlar eyed her
apparently with a mixed feeling of admiration and compassion.
“No,” she replied, “I haven't any desire to part with it.”
“You had the sickness, maybe?”
“Thanks be to the mercy of God,” she fervently exclaimed, “no one in
this family has had it yet.”
“Well, achora,” he continued, “if you take my advice you'll dispose of
it, in regard that if the sickness--which may God prevent--should come,
it will be well for you to have it off you. If you sell it, I'll give
you either money or value for it; for indeed, an' truth it flogs all
I've seen this many a day.”
“They say,” observed her mother, “that it's not lucky to sell one's
hair, and whether it's true or not I don't know; but I'm tould for a
sartinty, that there's not a girl that ever sould it but was sure to
catch the sickness.”
“I know that there's truth in that,” said Jerry himself. “There's Sally
Hacket, and Mary Geoghegan, and Katy Dowdall, all sould it, and not
one of them escaped the sickness. And, moreover, didn't I hear Misther
Cooper, the bleedin' doctor, say, myself, in the market, on Sathurday,
that the people couldn't do a worse thing than cut their hair close, as
it lets the sickness in by the head, and makes it tin times as hard upon
them, when it comes.”
“Well, well, there's no arguin' wid you,” said the pedlar, “all I say
is, that you ought to part wid it, acushla--by all means you ought.”
“Never mind him, Mave darlin',” said her mother, whose motive in saying
so was altogether dictated by affectionate apprehensions for her health.
“No,” replied her daughter, “it is not my intention, mother, to part
with what God has given me. I have no notion of it.”
At this stage of the dialogue, her eldest brother, who had been getting
a horse shod at the next forge, entered the house, and threw himself
carelessly on a chair. His appearance occasioned a alight pause in the
conversation.
“Well, Denny,” said the father, “what's the news?”
“Bad news with the Daltons,” replied the boy.
“With the Daltons!” exclaimed Mave, trembling, and getting paler, if
possible, than she was; “for God's mercy, Dennis, what has happened
amongst them?”
“I met Mrs. Dalton a while ago,” he replied, “and she tould me that they
had no one now to take care of them. Sarah M'Gowan, the Black Prophet's
daughter, has catched the sickness, and is lyin' in a shed there beyant,
that a poor thravellin' family was in about a week ago. Mrs. Dalton says
her own family isn't worse wid the sickness, but betther, she thinks;
but she was cryin', the daicent craythur, and she says they'll die
wid neglect and starvation, for she must be out, and there's no one to
attend to them, and they have nothing but the black wather, God help
them!”
While he spoke, Mave's eyes were fastened upon him, as if the sentence
of her own life or death was about to issue from his lip. Gradually,
however, she breathed more freely; a pale red tinged her cheek for a
moment, after which, a greater paleness settled upon it again.
The pedlar shook his head. “Ah,” he exclaimed, “they are hard times,
sure enough; may the Lord bring us all safe through them! Well, I see
I'm not likely to make my fortune among you,” he added, smiling, “so
I must tramp on, but any way, I must thank you for house-room and your
civility.”
“I'd offer something to ait,” said Mrs. Sullivan, with evident pain,
“but the truth is--”
“Not a morsel,” replied the other, “if the house was overflown.'. God
bless you all--God bless you.”
Mave, almost immediately after her brother had concluded, passed to
another room, and returned just as the old pedlar had gone out. She
instantly followed him with a hasty step; while he, on hearing her foot,
turned round.
“You told me that you admired my hair,” she said, on coming up to him.
“Now, supposin' I'm willin' to sell it to you, what ought I to get for
it?”
“Don't be alarmed by what they say inside,” replied the pedlar; “any
regular doctor would tell that, in these times, it's safer to part wid
it--that I may be happy but I'm tellin' you thruth. What is it worth?
What are you axin?”
“I don't know; but for God's sake cut it off, and give me the most you
can afford for it. Oh! believe me, it's not on account of the mere value
of it, but the money may save lives.”
“Why, achora, what do you intend doin' wid the money, if it's a fair
question to ax?”
“It's not a fair question for a stranger--it's enough for me to tell you
that I'll do nothing with it without my father and mother's knowledge.
Here, Denny,” she said, addressing her brother, who was on his way to
the stable, “slip a stool through the windy, an' stay wid me in the
barn--I want to send you of a message in a few minutes.”
It is only necessary to say that the compensation was a more liberal one
than Mave had at all expected, and the pedlar disencumbered her of as
rich and abundant a mass of hair as ever ornamented a female head. This
he did, however, in such a way as to render the absence of it as little
perceptible as might be; the side locks he did not disturb, and Mave,
when she put on a clean night cap, looked as if she had not undergone
any such operation.
As the pedlar was going away, he called her aside, so as that her
brother might not hear.
“Did you ever see me afore?” he asked.
“I did,” she replied, blushing. “Well, achora,” he proceeded, “if ever
you happen to be hard set, either for yourself or your friends, send
for me, in Widow Hanlon's house at the Grange, an' maybe I may befriend
either you or them; that is, as far as I can--which, dear knows, is not
far; but, still an' all, send. I'm known as the _Cannie Sugah_, or Merry
Pedlar, an' that'll do. God mark you, _ahagur!_”
Her brother's intelligence respecting the situation of the Daltons, as
well as of Sarah M'Gowan, saved Mave a long explanation to her parents
for the act of having parted with her hair.
“We are able to live--barely able to live,” she exclaimed; “an' thanks
be to God we have our health; but the Daltons--oh! they'll never get
through what they're sufferin'; an' that girl--oh! mother, sich a girl
as that is--how little does the world know of the heart that beautiful
craythur has. May the mercy of God rest upon her! This money is for the
poor Daltons an' her; we can do without it--an', mother dear, my hair
will grow again. Oh! father dear, think of it--lyin' in a could shed by
the road-side, an' no one to help or assist her--to hand her a drink--to
ease her on her hard bed--bed!--no on the cold earth I suppose! Oh!
think if I was in that desolate state. May God support me, but she's
the first I'll see; an' while I have life an' strength, she musn't want
attendance; an' thank God her shed's on my way to the Daltons!”
She then hastily sent her brother into Ballynafail for such comforts as
she deemed necessary for both parties; and in the mean time, putting a
bonnet over her clean nightcap, she proceeded to the shed in which Sarah
M'Gowan lay.
On looking at it ere she entered, she could not help shuddering. It
was such a place as the poorest pauper in the poorest cabin would not
willingly place an animal in for shelter. It simply consisted of a
few sticks laid up against the side of a ditch; over these sticks were
thrown a few scraws--that is, the sward of the earth cut thin; in the
inside was the remnant of some loose straw, the greater part having been
taken away either for bedding or firing.
When Mave entered, she started at the singular appearance of Sarah. From
the first moment her person had been known to her until the present, she
had never seen her look half so beautiful. She literally lay stretched
upon a little straw, with no other pillow than a sod of earth under that
rich and glowing cheek, while her raven hair had fallen down, and added
to the milk-white purity of her shining neck and bosom.
“Father of Mercy!” exclaimed Mave, mentally, “how will she live--how
can she live here? An' what will become of her? Is she to die in this
miserable way in a Christian land?”
Sarah lay groaning with pain, and starting from time to time with the
pangs of its feverish inflictions. Mave spoke not when she entered the
shed, being ignorant whether Sarah was asleep or awake; but a very few
moments soon satisfied her that the unhappy and deserted girl was under
the influence of delirium.
“I won't break my promise, father, but I'll break my heart; an' I can't
even give her warnin'. Ah! but it's threacherous--an' I hate that. No,
no--I'll have no hand in it--manage it your own way--it's threacherous.
She has crossed my happiness,you say--ay, an' there you're right--so
she has--only for her I might--amn't I as handsome, you say, an' as
well shaped--haven't I as white a skin?--as beautiful hair, an' as good
eyes?--people say betther--an' if I have, wouldn't he come to love me in
time?--only for her--or if there wasn't that bar put between us. You're
right, you're right. She's the cause of all my sufferin' an' sorrow. She
is--I agree--I agree--down with her--out o' my way with her--I hate the
thoughts of her--an' I'll join it--for mark me, father, wicked I may
be, but more miserable I can't--so I'll join you in it. What need I care
now?”
Mave felt her heart sink, and her whole being disturbed with a heavy
sense of terror, as Sarah uttered the incoherent rhapsody which we have
just repeated. The vague, but strongly expressed warnings which she
had previously heard from Nelly, and the earnest admonitions which that
person had given her to beware of evil designs on the part of Donnel Dhu
and his daughter, now rushed upon her mind; and she stood looking upon
the desolate girl with feelings that it is difficult to describe. She
also remembered that Sarah herself had told her in their very last
interview, that she had other thoughts, and worse thoughts than the fair
battle of rivalry between them would justify; and it was only now, too,
that the unconscious allusion to the Prophet struck her with full force.
Her sweet and gentle magnanimity, however, rose over every other
consideration but the frightfully desolate state of her unhappy rival.
Even in this case, also, her own fears of contagion yielded to the
benevolent sense of duty by which she was actuated.
“Come what will,” she said to her own heart; “we ought to return good
for evil; an' there's no use in knowing what is right, unless we strive
to put it in practice. At any rate, poor girl--poor, generous Sarah, I'm
afeard that you're never likely to do harm to me, or any one else, in
this world. May God, in his mercy, pity and relieve you--and restore you
wanst more to health!”
Mave, unconsciously, repeated the last words aloud; and Sarah, who had
been lying with her back to the unprotected opening of the shed, having
had a slight mitigation, and but a slight one, of the paroxysm under
which she had uttered the previous incoherencies, now turned round, and
fixing her eyes upon Mave, kept sharply, but steadily, gazing at her
for some time. It was quite evident, however, that consciousness had
not returned, for after she had surveyed Mave for a minute or two, she
proceeded--
“The devil was there a while ago, but I wasn't afeard of him, because
I knew that God was stronger than him; and then there came an
angel--another angel, not you--and put him away; but it wasn't my
guardian angel for I never had a guardian angel--oh, never, never--no,
nor any one to take care o' me, or make me love them.”
She uttered the last words in a tone of such deep and distressing
sorrow, that Mave's eyes filled with tears, and she replied--
“Dear Sarah, let me be your guardian angel; I will do what I can for
you; do you not know me?”
“No, I don't; arn't you one o' the angels that come about me?--the place
is full o' them.”
“Unhappy girl--or maybe happy girl,” exclaimed Mave, with a fresh gush
of tears, “who knows but the Almighty has your cold and deserted--bed
I can't call it--surrounded with beings that may comfort you, an' take
care that no evil thing will harm you. Oh no, dear Sarah, I am far from
that--I'm a wake, sinful mortal.”
“Bekaise they're about me continually an'--let me see--who are you? I
know you. One o' them said a while ago, 'May God relieve you and restore
you wanst more to health;' I heard the voice.”
“Dear Sarah, don't you know me?” reiterated Mave; “look at me--don't you
know Mave Sullivan--your friend, Mave Sullivan, that knows your value
and loves you.”
“Who?” she asked, starting a little; “who--what name is that?--who is
it?--say it again.”
“Don't you know Mave Sullivan, that loves you, an' feels for your
miserable situation, my dear Sarah.”
“I never had a guardian angel, nor any one to take care o' me--nor a
mother, many a time--often--often the whole world--jist to look at her
face--an' to know--feel--love me. Oh, a dhrink, a dhrink--is there no
one to get me a dhrink! I'm burnin', I'm burnin'--is there no one to get
me a dhrink! Mave Sullivan, Mave Sullivan, have pity on me! I heard some
one name her--I heard her voice--I'll die without a dhrink.”
Mave looked about the desolate shed, and to her delight spied a tin
porringer, which Sarah's unhappy predecessors had left behind them;
seizing this, she flew to a little stream that ran by the place, and
filling the vessel, returned and placed it to Sarah's lips. She drank
it eagerly, and looking piteously and painfully up into Mave's face, she
laid back her head, and appeared to breathe more freely. Mave hoped that
the drink of cold water would have cooled her fever and assuaged her
thirst, so as to have brought her to a rational state--such a state
as would have enabled the poor girl to give some account of the
extraordinary situation in which she found herself, and of the
circumstances which occasioned her to take shelter in such a place. In
this, however, she was disappointed. Sarah having drank the cold water,
once more shut her eyes, and fell into that broken and oppressive
slumber which characterizes the terrible malady which had stricken her
down. For some time she waited with this benign expectation, but seeing
there was no likelihood of her restoration, to consciousness, she again
filled the tin vessel, and placing it upon a stone by her bedside,
composed the poor girl's dress about her, and turned her steps toward a
scene in which she expected to find equal misery.
It is not our intention, however, to dwell upon it. It is sufficient
to say, that she found the Daltons--who, by the way, had a pretty long
visit from the pedlar--as her brother had said, beginning to recover,
and so far this was consolatory; but there was not within the walls of
the house, earthly comfort, or food or nourishment of any kind. Poor
Mary was literally gasping for want of sustenance, and a few hours more
might have been fatal to them all. There was no fire--no gruel, milk or
anything that could in the slightest possible degree afford them relief.
Her brother Denny, however, who had been desired by her to fetch his
purchases directly to their cabin, soon returned, and almost at a moment
that might be called the crisis, not of their malady, for that had
passed, but of their fate itself, his voice was heard, shouting from a
distance that he had discharged his commission; for we may observe that
no possible inducement could tempt him to enter that or any other house
where fever was at work. Mave lost little time in administering to their
wants and their weaknesses. With busy and affectionate hands she did all
that could be done for them at that particular juncture. She prepared
food for Mary, made whey and gruel, and left as much of her little purse
as she thought could be spared from the wants of Sarah M'Gowan.
In the course of two or three days afterwards, however, Sarah's
situation was very much changed for the better; but until that change
was effected, Mave devoted as much time to the poor girl as she could
possibly spare. Nor was the force of her example without its beneficial
effects in the neighborhood, especially as regarded Sarah herself. The
courage she displayed, despite her constitutional timidity, communicated
similar courage to others, in consequence of which Sarah was scarcely
ever without some one in her bleak shed to watch and take care of her.
Her father, however, on hearing of her situation, availed himself of
what some of the neighbors considered a mitigation of her symptoms, and
with as much care and caution as possible, she was conveyed home on a
kind of litter, and nurse-tended by an old woman from the next village,
Nelly having disappeared from the neighborhood.
The attendance of this old woman, by the way, surprised the Prophet
exceedingly. He had not engaged her to attend on Sarah, nor could he
ascertain who had. Upon this subject she was perfectly inscrutable. All
he could know or get out of her was, that she had been engaged; and
he could perceive also, that she was able to procure her many general
comforts, not usually to be had about the sick bed of a person in her
condition of life.
Mave, during all her attendance upon Sarah, was never able to ascertain
whether, in the pauses of delirium, she had been able to recognize her.
At one period, while giving her a drink of whey, she looked up into her
eyes with something like a glance of consciousness, mingled with wonder,
and appeared about to speak, but in a moment it was gone, and she
relapsed into her former state.
This, however, was not the only circumstance that astonished Mave.
The course of a single week also made a very singular change in the
condition of the Daltons. Their miserable cabin began to exhibit an
abundance of wholesome food, such as fresh meat, soup, tea, sugar,white
bread, and even to wine, to strengthen the invalids. These things were
to Mave equally a relief and a wonder; nor were the neighbors less
puzzled at such an unaccountable improvement in the circumstances of
this pitiable and suffering family. As in the case of Sarah, however,
all these comforts, and the source from whence they proceeded, were
shrouded in mystery. It is true, Mrs. Dalton smiled in a melancholy way
when any inquiries were made about the matter, and shaking her head,
declared, that although she knew, it was out of her power to break the
seal of secrecy, or violate the promise she had made to their unknown
benefactor.
Sarah's fever was dreadfully severe, and for some time after her removal
from the shed, there was little hope of her recovery. Our friend, the
pedlar, paid her a visit in the very height of her malady, and without
permission, given or asked, took the liberty, in her father's absence,
of completely removing her raven hair, with the exception, as in Mave's
case, of those locks which adorn the face and forehead, and, to
his shame and dishonesty be it told, without the slightest offer of
remuneration.