The gray of a cold frosty morning had begun to dawn, and the angry
red of the eastern sky gradually to change into that dim but darkening
aspect which marks a coming tempest of snow, when the parish priest,
the Rev. Father Hanratty, accompanied by Nelly M'Gowan, passed along the
Ballynafail road, on their way to the Grange, for the purpose of having
a communication with Charley Hanlon. It would, indeed, be impossible
to describe a morning more strongly marked than the one in question,
by that cold and shivering impression of utter misery which it is
calculated to leave on any mind, especially when associated with the
sufferings of our people. The breeze was keen and so cutting, that
one felt as if that part of the person exposed to it had undergone the
process of excoriation, and when a stronger blast than usual swept over
the naked and desolate-looking fields, its influence actually benumbed
the joints, and penetrated the whole system with a sensation that made
one imagine the very marrow within the bones was frozen.
They had not proceeded far beyond the miserable shed where Sarah, in the
rapid prostration of typhus, had been forced to take shelter, when, in
passing a wretched cabin by the roadside, which, from its open door and
ruinous windows, had all the appearance of being uninhabited, they heard
the moans of some unhappy individual within, accompanied, as it were,
with something like the low feeble wail of an infant.
“Ah,” said the worthy priest, “this, I fear, is another of those awful
cases of desertion and death that are too common in this terrible and
scourging visitation. We must not pass here without seeing what is the
matther, and rendering such assistance as we can.”
“Wid the help o' God, my foot won't cross the threshel,” replied
Nelly--“I know it's the sickness--God keep it from us!--an' I won't put
myself in the way o' it.”
“Don't profain the name of the Almighty, you wretched woman,” replied
the priest, alighting from his horse; “it is always His will and wish,
that in such trials as these you should do whatever you can for your
suffering fellow-creatures.”
“But if I should catch it,” the other replied, “what 'ud become o' me?
mightn't I be as bad as they are in there; an' maybe in the same place,
too; an' God knows I'm not fit to die.”
“Stay where you are,” said the priest, “until I enter the house, and if
your assistance should be necessary, I shall command you to come in.”
“Well, if you ordher me,” replied the superstitious creature, “that
changes the case. I'll be then undher obadience to my clargy.”
“If you had better observed the precepts of your religion, and the
injunctions of your clergy, wretched woman, you would not be the vile
creature you are to-day,” he replied, as he hooked his horse's bridle
upon a staple in the door-post, and entered the cabin.
“Oh, merciful father, support me!” he exclaimed, “what a sight is here!
Come in at once,” he added, addressing himself to Nelly; “and if you
have a woman's heart within you, aid me in trying what can be done.”
Awed by his words, but with timidity and reluctance, she approached the
scene of appalling misery which there lay before them. But how shall we
describe it? The cabin in which they stood had been evidently for some
time deserted, a proof that its former humble inmates had been all swept
off by typhus; for in these peculiar and not uncommon cases, no other
family would occupy the house thus left desolate, so that the cause
of its desertion was easily understood. The floor was strewed in some
places with little stopples of rotten thatch, evidently blown in by the
wind of the previous night; the cheerless fire-place was covered with
clots of soot, and the floor was all spattered over with the black
shining moisture called soot-drops, which want of heat and habitation
caused to fall from the roof. The cold, strong blast, too, from time
to time, rushed in with wild moans of desolation, that rose and fell in
almost supernatural tones, and swept the dead ashes and soot from the
fireplace, and the rotten thatch from the floor, in little eddies that
spun about until they had got into some nook or corner where the fiercer
strength of the blast could not reach them. Stretched out in this
wretched and abandoned hut, lay before the good priest and his
companion, a group of misery, consisting of both the dying and the
dead--to wit, a mother and her three children. Over in the corner,
on the right hand side of the fire-place, the unhappy and perishing
creature lay, divided, or rather torn asunder, as it were, by the rival
claims of affection. Lying close to her cold and shivering breast was an
infant of about six months old, striving feebly, from time to time, to
draw from that natural source of affection the sustenance which had been
dried up by chilling misery and want. Beside her, on the left, lay
a boy--a pale, emaciated boy--about eight years old, silent and
motionless, with the exception that, ever and anon, he turned round his
heavy blue eyes as if to ask some comfort or aid, or even some notice
from his unfortunate mother, who, as if conscious of these affectionate
supplications, pressed his wan cheek tenderly with her fingers, to
intimate to him, that as far as she could, she responded to, and
acknowledged these last entreaties of the heart; whilst, again, she
felt her affections called upon by the apparently dying struggles of
the infant that was, in reality, fast perishing at the now-exhausted
fountain of its life. Between these two claimants was the breaking heart
of the woeful mother divided, but the alternations of her love seemed
now almost wrought up to the last terrible agonies of mere animal
instinct, when the sufferings are strong in proportion to that debility
of reason which supervenes in such deaths as arise from famine, or under
those feelings of indescribable torture which tore her affection, as
it were, to pieces, and paralyzed her higher powers of moral suffering.
Beyond the infant again, and next the wall, lay a girl, it might be
about eleven, stretched, as if in sleep, and apparently in a state of
composure that struck one forcibly, when contrasted, from its utter
stillness, with the yet living agonies by which she was surrounded. It
was evident, from the decency with which the girl's thin scanty covering
was arranged, and the emaciated arms placed by her side, that the poor
parent had endeavored, as well as she could, to lay her out; and, oh,
great God! what a task for a mother, and under what circumstances must
it have been performed! There, however, did the corpse of this fair and
unhappy child lie; her light and silken locks blown upon her still and
death-like features by the ruffian blast, and the complacency which had
evidently characterized her countenance when in life, now stamped by
death, with the sharp and wan expression of misery and the grave. Thus
surrounded lay the dying mother, and it was not until the priest had
taken in, at more than one view, the whole terrors of this awful scene,
that he had time to let his eyes rest upon her countenance and person.
When he did, however, the history, though a fearful one, was, in her
case, as indeed in too many, legible at a glance, and may be comprised
in one word--starvation.
Father Hanratty was a firm minded man, with a somewhat rough manner, but
a heart natural and warm. After looking upon her face for a few moments,
he clasped, his hands closely together, and turning up his eyes to
Heaven, he exclaimed:
“Great God, guide and support me in this trying scene!”
And, indeed, it is not to be wondered at that he uttered such an
exclamation. There lay in the woman's eyes--between her knit and painful
eye-brows, over her shrunk upper forehead, upon her sharp cheek-bones,
and along the ridge of her thin, wasted nose--there lay upon her
skeleton arms, pointed elbows, and long-jointed fingers, a frightful
expression, at once uniform and varied, that spoke of gaunt and yellow
famine in all its most hideous horrors. Her eyeballs protruded even
to sharpness, and as she glared about her with a half conscious and
half-instinctive look, there seemed a fierce demand in her eye that
would have been painful, were it not that it was occasionally tamed down
into something mournful and imploring, by a recollection of the helpless
beings that were about her. Stripped, as she then was, of all that
civilized society presents to a human being on the bed of death--without
friends, aid of any kind, comfort, sympathy, or the consolations of
religion--she might be truly said to have sunk to the mere condition of
animal life--whose uncontrollable impulses had thus left their startling
and savage impress upon her countenance, unless, as we have said, when
the faint dawn of consciousness threw a softer and more human light into
her wild features.
“In the name and in the spirit of God's mercy,” asked the priest, “if
you have the use of your tongue or voice, tell me what the matter is
with you or your children? Is it sickness or starvation?”
The sound of a human voice appeared to arrest her attention, and rouse
her a little. She paused, as it were, from her sufferings, and looked
first at the priest, and then at his companion--but she spoke not. He
then repeated the question, and after a little delay he saw that her
lips moved.
“She is striving to speak,” said he, “but cannot. I will stoop to her.”
He repeated the question a third time, and, stooping, so as to bring
his ear near her mouth, he could catch, expressed very feebly and
indistinctly, the word--hunger. She then made an effort, and bent down
her mouth to the infant which now lay still at her breast. She felt for
its little heart, she felt its little lips--but they were now chill
and motionless; its little hands ceased to gather any longer around her
breast; it was cold--it was breathless--it was dead! Her countenance
now underwent a singular and touching change--a kind of solemn joy--a
sorrowful serenity was diffused over it. She seemed to remember their
position, and was in the act, after having raised her eyes to heaven,
of putting round her hand to feel for the boy who lay on the other side,
when she was seized with a short and rather feeble spasm, and laying
down her head in its original position between her children, she was
at last freed from life and all the sufferings which its gloomy lot had
inflicted upon her and those whom she loved.
The priest, seeing that she was dead, offered up a short but earnest
prayer for the repose of her soul, after which he turned his attention
to the boy.
“The question now is,” he observed to his companion, “can we save this
poor, but interesting child?”
“I hardly think it possible,” she replied; “doesn't your reverence see
that death's workin' at him--and an' aisey job he'll have of the poor
thing now.”
“Hunger and cold have here done awful work,” said Father Hanratty, “as
they have and will in many other conditions similar to this. I shall
mount my horse, and if you lift the poor child up, I will wrap him as
well as I can in my great coat,”--which, by the way, he stripped off
him as he spoke. He then folded it round the boy, and putting him into
Nelly's arms, was about to leave the cabin, when the child, looking
round him for a moment, and then upon his mother, made a faint struggle
to get back.
“What is it, asthore?” asked the woman; “what is it you want?”
“Lave me wid my mother,” he said; “let me go to her; my poor father's
dead, an' left us--oh! let me stay with her.”
The poor boy's voice was so low and feeble, that it was with difficulty
she heard the words, which she repeated to the priest.
“Dear child,” said the latter, “we are bringing you to where you will
get food and drink, and a warm bed to go to, and you will get better, I
hope.”
And as he took the helpless and innocent sufferer into his arms, after
having fixed himself in the saddle, the tears of strong compassion ran
down his cheeks.
“He is as light as a feather, poor thing,” exclaimed the kind-hearted
man; “but I trust in heaven we may save him yet.”
And they immediately hurried onward to the next house, which happened to
be that of our friend Jerry Sullivan, to the care of whose humane and.
affectionate family they consigned him.
We cannot dwell here upon that which every reader can anticipate; it is
enough to say that the boy with care recovered, and that his unfortunate
mother with her two children received an humble grave in the nearest
churchyard, beyond the reach of the storms and miseries of life forever.
On reaching the Grange, or rather the house now occupied by widow
Hanlon, the priest having sent for Charley, into whose confidence he had
for some time been admitted, had a private conference, of considerable
length, with him and the pedlar; after which, Nelly was called in, as it
would seem, to make some disclosure connected with the subject they
were discussing. A deep gloom, however, rested upon both Hanlon and
the pedlar; and it was sufficiently evident that whatever the import of
Nelly M'Gowan's communication may have been, it was not of so cheering
a nature as to compensate for the absence of widow Hanlon, and the party
for which she had been sent. Father Hanratty having left them, they took
an early breakfast, and proceeded to Ballynafail--which we choose to
designate as the assize town--in order to watch, with disappointed
and heavy hearts, the trial of Condy Dalton, in whose fate they felt a
deeper interest than the reader might suppose.
All the parties attended, the Prophet among the rest; and it might
have been observed, that his countenance was marked by an expression of
peculiar determination. His brow was, if possible, darker than
usual; his eye was quicker and more circumspect, but his complexion,
notwithstanding this, was not merely pale, but absolutely white as
ashes. The morning came, however, and the assies were opened with the
usual formalities. The judge's charge to the grand jury, in consequence
of the famine outrages which had taken place to such an extent, was
unusually long; nor was the “King against Dalton,” for the murder
of Sullivan, left without due advice and comment. In this way
a considerable portion of the day passed. At length a trial for
horse-stealing came on, but closed too late to allow them to think
of commencing any other case during that day; and, as a natural
consequence, that of Condy Dalton was postponed until the next morning.
It is an impressive thing; and fills the mind with a reverend sense of
the wisdom manifested by an over-ruling Providence, to reflect upon the
wondrous manner in which the influence of slight incidents is made to
frustrate the subtlest designs of human ingenuity, and vindicate the
justice of the Almighty in the eyes of his creatures, sometimes for the
reward of the just, and as often for the punishment of the guilty. Had
the trial of Dalton, for instance, gone on, as had been anticipated,
during the first day, it is impossible to say how many of the characters
in our humble drama might have grievously suffered or escaped in
consequence. At all events it is not likely that the following dialogue
would have ever taken place, or been made instrumental in working out
purposes, and defeating plans, with which the reader, if he is not
already, will very soon be made acquainted.
Donnel Dhu had returned from the assizes, and was sitting, as usual,
poring over the fire, when he asked the old woman who nursed Sarahif
there had been any persons inquiring for him since nightfall.
“Three or four,” she replied; “but I said you hadn't come home yet; an'
divil a one o' them but was all on the same tune, an' bid me to tell you
that it was a safe night.”
“Well, I hope it is, Biddy,” he replied, “but not so safe,” he added to
himself, “as I could wish it to be. How is Sarah?”
“She's better,” replied the woman, “an' was up to-day for an hour or
two; but still she's poorly, and I think her brain isn't right yet.”
“Very likely it isn't,” said the Prophet. “But, Biddy, when were you at
Shanco?”
“Not this week past.”
“Well, then, if you like to slip over for an hour or so now, you may,
an' I'll take care of Sarah till you come back; only don't be longer.”
“Long life to you, Donnel; throth an' I want to go, if it was only to
set the little matthers right for them poor orphans, my grandchildre.”
“Well, then, go,” he replied; “but don't be more than an hour away,
mind. I'll take care of Sarah for you till you come back.”
At this moment a tap came to the door, and Donnel, on hearing it, went
out, and in a minute or two returned again, saying--
“Hurry, Biddy; make haste, if you wish to go at all; but remember not to
be more than an hour away.”
The old creature accordingly threw her cloak about her, and made the
best of her way to see her grandchildren, both of whose parents had been
swept away by the first deadly ravages of the typhus fever.
She had not been long gone, when another tap was given, and Donnel, on
opening the door, said--
“You may come in now; she's off to Shanco. I didn't think it safe that
she should see us together on this night, at all events. Sit down. This
girl's illness has nearly spoiled all; however, we must only do the best
we can. Thank God the night's dark, that's one comfort.”
“If we could a' had Dalton found guilty,” replied Body, “all would be
well over this night, an' we might be on our way out o' this to America;
but what 'ud you do wid Sarah if we had? Sure she wouldn't be able to
travel, nor she won't, I doubt, as it is.”
“Sarah,” replied the Prophet, who suspected the object of the question,
“is well fit to take care of herself. We must only go without her, if
she's not able to come the day afther to-morrow. Where are the boys _for
the Grange?_”
“Undher shelter of the Grey Stone, waitin' to start.”
“Well, then, as it it,” said Donnel, “they know their business, at any
rate. The Grange folk don't expect them this week to come, you think?”
Rody looked at the Prophet very keenly, as he thought of the
conversation that took place between himself and Charley Hanlon, and
which, upon an explanation with Donnel, he had detailed. The fellow,
however, as we said, was both cowardly and suspicious, and took it into
his head that his friend might feel disposed to play him a trick, by
sending him to conduct the burglary, of which Hanlon had spoken with
such startling confidence--a piece of cowardice which, indeed, was
completely gratuitous and unfounded on his part; the truth being, that
it was the Prophet's interest, above all things, to keep Rody out of
danger, both for that worthy individual's sake and his own. Rody, We
say, looked at him; and of a certainty it must be admitted, that the
physiognomy of our friend, the Seer, during that whole day, was one
from which no very high opinion of his integrity or good faith could be
drawn.
“It's a very sthrange thing,” replied Rody, in a tone of thought and
reflection, “how Charley Hanlon came to know of this matther at all.”
“He never heard a word of it,” replied Donnel, “barrin' from yourself.”
“From me!” replied Rody, indignantly; “what do you mane by that?”
“Why, when you went to sound him,” said Donnel, “you let too much out;
and Charley was too cute not to see what you wor at.”
“All _feathalagh_ an' nonsense,” replied Eody, who, by the way,
entertained a very high opinion of his own sagacity; “no mortal could
suspect that there was a plot to rob the house from what I said; but
hould,” he added, slapping his knee, as if he had made a discovery, “_ma
chorp an' dioul_, but I have it all.”
“What is it?” said the Prophet, calmly.
“You tould the matther to Sarah, an' she, by coorse, tould it to Charley
Hanlon, that she tells everything to.”
“No such thing,” replied the other. “Sarah knows nothing about the
robbery that's to go on to-night at the Grange, but she did about the
plan upon Mave Sullivan, and promised to help us in it, as I tould you
before.”
[Illustration: PAGE 913-- I'll have nothing to do with this robbery]
“Well, at any rate,” replied Duncan, “I'll have nothing to do with this
robbery--devil a thing; but I'll make a bargain wid you--if you manage
the Grange business, I'll lend a hand in Mave Sullivan's affair.”
The Prophet looked at him, fastening his dark piercing eyes-upon his
face--
“I see,” he proceeded, “you're suspicious or you're cowardly, or maybe
both; but to make you feel that I'm neither the one nor the other, and
that you have no raison to be so either, I say I'll take you at your
word. Do you manage Mave Sullivan's business, and I'll see what can be
done with the other. An' listen to me now, it's our business, in case
of a discovery of the robbery, to have Masther Dick's neck as far in the
noose for Mave's affair as ours may be for the other thing; an' for the
same raison you needn't care how far you drive him. He doesn't wish to
have violence; but do you take care that there will be violence,
an' then maybe we may manage him if there's a discovery in the other
affair.”
“Donnel, you're a great headpiece--the divil's not so deep as you are;
but as the most of them all is strangers, an' they say there's two girls
in Sullivan's instead o' one, how will the strange boys know the right
one?”
“If it goes to that,” said the Prophet, “you'll know her by the clipped
head. The minute they seize upon the girl with the clipped head, let
them make sure of her. Poor foolish Tom Dalton, who knows nothing about
our scheme, thinks the visit is merely to frighten the Sullivans;
but when you get the girl, let her be brought to the crossroads of
Tulnavert, where Masther Dick will have a chaise waitin' for her, an'
wanst she's with him your care's over. In the meantime, while he's
waitin' there, I an' the others will see what can be done at the
Grange.”
“But tell me, Donnel; you don't intend, surely, to leave poor Sarah
behind us?”
“Eh? Sarah?” returned the Prophet.
“Ay; bekaise you said so awhile a-gone.”
“I know I said so awhile ago; but regardin' Sarah, Rody, she's the only
livin' thing on this earth that I care about. I have hardened my heart,
thank God, against all the world but herself; an' although I have never
much showed it to her, an' although I have neglected her, an' sometimes
thought I hated her for her mother's sake--well, no matther--she's
the only thing I love or care about for all that. Oh! no--go wid-out
Sarah--come weal come woe--we must not.”
“Bekaise,” continued Rody, “when we're all safe, an' out o' the raich o'
danger, I have a thing to say to you about Sarah.”
“Very well, Rody,” said the Prophet, with a grim but bitter smile,
“it'll be time enough then. Now, go and manage these fellows, an' see
you do things as they ought to be done.”
“She's fond o' Charley Hanlon, to my own knowledge.”
“Who is?”
“Sarah, an' between you an' me, it's not a Brinoge like him that's fit
for her. She's a, hasty and an uncertain kind of a girl--:a good dale
wild or so--an' it isn't, as I said, the! likes o' that chap that 'id
answer her, but a steady, experienced, sober--”
“Honest man, Rody. Well, I'm not in a laughin' humor, now; be off, an'
see that you do yourself an' us all credit.”
When he was gone, the Prophet drew a long breath--one, however, from its
depth, evidently indicative of anything but ease of mind. He then rose,
and was preparing to go out, when Sarah, who had only laid herself on
the bed, without undressing, got up, and approaching him, said, in a
voice tremulous with weakness:
“Father, I have heard every word you and Rody said.”
“Well,” replied her father, looking at her, “I supposed as much. I made
no secret of anything; however, keep to your bed--you're--”
“Father, I have changed my mind; you have neither my heart nor wish in
anything you're bent on this night.”
“Changed your mind!” replied the Prophet, bitterly. “Oh! you're a real
woman, I suppose, like your mother; you'll drive some unfortunate man
to hate the world an all that's in it yet?”
“Father, I care as little about the world as you do; but still never
will I lay myself out to do anything that's wrong.”
“You promised to assist us then in Mave Sullivan's business, for all
that,” he replied. “You can break your word, too. Ah! real woman again.”
“Sooner than keep that promise, father, now, I would willingly let the
last dhrop of blood out o' my heart--my unhappy heart--Father, you're
provin' yourself to be what I can't name. Listen to me--you're on the
brink o' destruction. Stop in time, an' fly, for there's a fate over
you. I dremt since I lay down--not more than a couple of hours ago--that
I saw the Tobacco Box you were lookin' for, in the hands of--”
“Don't bother or vex me with your d--d nonsense about dhrames,” he
replied, in a loud and excited voice. “The curse o' Heaven on all
dhrames, an' every stuff o' the kind. Go to bed.”
He slapped the door violently after him as he spoke, and left her to her
own meditations.