Time passes now as it did on the night recorded in the preceding
chapter. About the hour of two o'clock, on the same night, a chaise was
standing at the cross roads of Tulnavert, in which a gentleman, a little
but not much the worse of liquor, sat in a mood redolent of anything but
patience. Many ejaculations did he utter, and some oaths, in consequence
of the delay of certain parties whom he expected to meet there. At
length the noise of many feet was heard, and in the course of a few
minutes a body of men advanced in the darkness, one of whom approached
the chaise, and asked--“Is that Masther Dick?”
“Master Dick, sirrah: no, it's not.”
“Then there must be some mistake,” replied the fellow, who was a
stranger; “and as it's a runaway match, by gorra, it would never do to
give the girl to the wrong person. It was Masther Dick that the Prophet
desired us to inquire for.”
“There is a mistake, my friend; there is--my name, my good fellow,
happens to be Master Richard, or rather Mister Richard. In all other
respects, everything is right. I expect a lady; and I am the gentleman,
but not Master Dick, though--Richard is the correct reading.”
“Then, sir,” replied the fellow, “here she is;” and whilst speaking,
a horseman, bearing a female before him, came forward, and in a few
minutes she was transferred without any apparent resistance, to the
inside of the vehicle which awaited her. This vehicle we shall now
follow.
The night, as we said, was dark, but it was also cold and stormy. The
driver, who had received his instructions, proceeded in the direction of
the Grange; and we only I say so generally, because so many cross roads
branched off from that which they took, that it was impossible to say
when or where; Master or Mister Richard may have intended to stop. In
the meantime, that enterprising and gallant young gentleman commenced a
dialogue, somewhat as follows:--
“My dear Miss Sullivan, I must be satisfied that these fellows have
conducted this business with all due respect to your feelings, I hope
they have not done anything to insult you.”
“I am very weak,” replied the lady; “you needn't expect me to spake
much, for I'm not able. I only wish I was in Heaven, or anywhere out of
this world.”
“You speak as if you had been agitated or frightened; but compose
yourself, you are now under my protection at last, and you shall want
for nothing that can contribute to your ease and comfort. Upon my
honor--upon my sacred honor, I say--I would not have caused you
even this annoyance, were it not that you yourself expressed a
willingness--very natural, indeed, considering our affection--to meet me
here to-night.”
“Who tould you that I was willin' to meet you?”
“Who? why who but our mutual friend, the Black Prophet; and by the way,
he is to meet us at the Grey Stone, by and by.”
“He tould you false, then,” replied his companion, feebly.
“Why,” asked Henderson, “are you not here with your own consent?”
“I am--oh, indeed, I am,--it's altogether my own act that brings me
here--my own act--an' I thank God, that I had strength for it.”
“Admirable girl!--that is just what I have been led to expect from you,
and you shall not regret it; I have, as I said, everything provided that
can make you happy.”
“Happy!--I can't bear this, sir; I'm desavin' you. I'm not what you
think me.”
“You are ill, I fear, my dear Miss Sullivan; the bustle and disturbance
have agitated you too much, and you are ill.”
“You are speaking truth. I am very ill; but I'll soon be better--I'll
soon be better. She feared nothing from me,” added she, in a low
soliloquy; “an' could I let her outdo mo in generosity and kindness. Is
this fire? Is there fire in the coach?” she asked, in a loud voice; “or
is it lighthnin'? Oh, my head, my head; but it will soon be over.”
“Compose yourself, I entreat of you, my dearest girl. What! good
Heavens, how is this? You have not been ill for any time? Your
hand--pardon me; you need not withdraw it so hastily--is quite burning
and fleshless. What is wrong?”
“Everything, sir, is wrong, unless that I am here, an' that is as it
ought to be. Ha, ha!”
“Good, my dearest girl--that consoles me again. Upon my honor, the old
Prophet shall not lose by this; on the contrary, I shall keep my word
like a prince, and at the Grey Stone shall he pocket, ere half an hour,
the reward of his allegiance to his liege lord. I have, for a long time,
had my eye on you, Miss Sullivan, an' when the Prophet assured me that
you had discarded Dalton for my sake, I could scarcely credit him, until
you confirmed the delightful fact, by transmitting me a tress of your
beautiful hair.”
His companion made no reply to this, and the chaise went on for some
minutes without any further discourse. Henderson, at length, ventured to
put over his hand towards the corner in which his companion sat; but it
no sooner came in contact with her person, than he felt her shrinking,
as it were, from his very touch. With his usual complacent confidence,
however, in his own powers of attraction and strongly impressed,
besides, with a belief in his knowledge of the sex, he at once imputed
all this to caprice on the behalf of Mave, or rather to that assumption
of extreme delicacy, which is often resorted to, and overacted, when the
truthful and modest principle from which it should originate has ceased
to exist.
“Well, my dear girl,” he proceeded, “I grant that all this is natural
enough--quite so--I know the step you have taken shows great strength
of character; for indeed it requires a very high degree of moral
courage and virtue in you, to set society and the whole world at perfect
defiance, for my sake; but, my dearest girl, don't be cast down--you are
not alone in this heroic sacrifice; not at all, believe me. You are not
the first who has made it for me; neither, I trust, shall you be the
last. This I say, of course, to encourage you, because I see that
the step you have taken has affected you very much, as is natural it
should.”
A low moan, apparently of great pain, was the only reply Henderson
received to this eloquent effort at consolation. The carriage again
rolled onward in silence, and nothing could be heard but the sweep
of the storm without--for it blew violently--and deep breathings, or
occasional moanings, from his companion within. They drove, it might be,
for a quarter of an hour, in this way, when Henderson felt his companion
start, and the next moment her hand was placed upon his arm.
“Ha! ha! my dearest,” thought he, “I knew, notwithstanding all your
beautiful startings and fencings, that matters would come to this. There
is nothing, after all, like leaving you to yourselves a little, and you
are sure to come round. My dear Miss Sullivan,” he added, aloud, “be
composed--say but what it is you wish, and if a man can accomplish it,
it must be complied with, or procured for you.”
“Then,” said she, “if you are a human being, let me know when we come to
the Grey Stone.”
“Undoubtedly, I shall. The grim old Prophet promised to meet us
there--and, for a reason I have, I know he will keep his word. We shall
be there in less than a quarter of an hour. But, my precious creature,
now that you understand how we are placed with relation to each other, I
think you might not, and ought not, object to allowing me to support you
after the fatigue and agitation of the night--hem! Do repose your head
upon my bosom, like a pretty, trembling, agitated dear, as you are.”
“Hould away!” exclaimed his companion; “don't dare to lay a hand upon
me. If your life is worth anything--an' it's not worth much--keep your
distance. You'll find your mistake soon. I didn't put myself in your
power without the manes of defendin' myself an' punishin' you, if you
should desarve it.”
“Beautiful caprice! But, my dearest girl, I can understand it all--it
is well done; and I know, besides, that a little hysterics will be
necessary in their proper place; but for that you must wait till we get
to our destination; and then you will be most charmingly affected with
a fit--a delightful, sweet, soft, sobbing fit--which will render it
necessary for me to soothe and console you; to wipe your lovely eyes;
and then, you know, to kiss your delicious lips. All this, my darling
girl, will happen as a natural consequence, and in due time every thing
will be well.”
There was no reply given to this; but the moaning was deeper, and
apparently more indicative of pain and distress than before. A third
silence ensued, during which they arrived at the Grey Stone, of whose
proximity the driver had received orders to give them intimation.
“Hallo!” exclaimed Henderson, “what's the matter? Why do you stop, my
good fellow?”
“We are at the Grey Stone, your honor,” replied the man.
“Oh, very well; pull up a moment,” he added. “My dear Miss Sullivan, we
are at the Grey Stone now,” said he, addressing her.
She moaned again, and started. “Whist,” said she; “I don't hear his
voice.”
At this moment a man approached the driver, and desired him to let him
know that a person wished to speak with him.
The female in the carriage no sooner heard the voice, even although the
words were uttered in whispers, than she called out--
“Father, come to me--help me home--I'm dyin'! You've been desaved, Mr.
Henderson,” she added. “It wasn't Mave Sullivan, but the Prophet's own
daughter, you took away. Blessed be God, I've saved her that disgrace.
Father, help me home. I won't be long a throuble to you now.”
“What's this!” exclaimed Henderson. “Are you not Miss Sullivan?”
“Am I in a dhrame?” said the Prophet, approaching the door of the
chaise. “Surely--now--what is it? It's my daughter's voice! Is that
Sarah that I left in her bed of typhus faver this night? Or, am I in a
dhrame still, I say? Sarah, is it you? Spake.”
“It is me, father; help me home. It will be your last throuble with me,
I think--at laste, I hope so--oh, I hope so!”
“Who talks about typhus fever?” asked Henderson, starting out of the
chaise with alarm. “What means this? Explain yourself.”
“I can no more explain it,” replied the Prophet, “than you can. I left
my daughter lyin' in bed of typhus faver, not more than three or four
hours ago; an' if I'm to believe my ears, I find her in the carriage
with you now!”
“I'm here,” she replied; “help me out.”
“Oh, I see it all now,” observed Henderson, in a fit of passion,
aggravated by the bitterness of his disappointment--“I see your trick;
an' so, you old scoundrel, you thought to impose your termagant daughter
upon me instead of Miss Sullivan, and she reeking with typhus fever,
too, by your own account. For this piece of villany I shall settle with
you, however, never fear. Typhus fever! Good God!--and I so dreadfully
afraid of it all along, that I couldn't bear to look near a house in
which it was, nor approach any person even recovering out of it. Driver,
you may leave the girl at home. As for me, I shall not enter your chaise
again, contaminated, as it probably is, with that dreadful complaint,
that is carrying off half the country. Call to the Grange in the
morning, an' you shall be paid. Good-night, you prophetical old
impostor. I shall mark you for this piece of villany; you may rest
assured of that. A pretty trudge I shall have to the Grange, such a vile
and tempestuous night; but you shall suffer for it, I say again.”
Donnel Dhu was not merely disappointed at finding Sarah in such a
situation; he was literally stupefied with amazement, and could scarcely
believe the circumstances to be real. It had been agreed between him and
Henderson, that should the latter succeed in fetching Mave Sullivan as
far as the Grey Stone, he (the Prophet) should be considered to have
fulfilled the conditions of the compact entered into between them, and
the wages of his iniquity were to have been paid to him on that spot. It
is unnecessary to say, therefore, that his disappointment and indignation
were fully equal to those of Henderson himself.
“Where am I to go now?” asked the driver.
“To hell!” replied the Prophet, “an you may bring your fare with you.”
“You must take the reins yourself, then,” replied the man, “for I don't
know the way.”
“Drive across the river, here then,” continued the other, “and up the
little road to the cottage on the right; yes, to the right--till we get
that--that--I can't find words to name her--in the house.”
A few minutes brought them to the door, and poor Sarah found herself
once more in her own cabin, but in such a state as neutralized most of
her father's resentment. When the driver had gone, Donnel came in again,
and was about to wreak upon her one of those fits of impetuous fury,
in which, it was true, he seldom indulged, but which, when wrought to a
high state of passion, were indeed frightful.
“Now,” he began, “in the name of all that's”--he paused, however, for
on looking closely at her, there appeared something in her aspect so
utterly subversive of resentment, that he felt himself disarmed at once.
Her face was as pale as his own, but the expression of it was so chaste,
so mournful, and yet so beautiful, that his tongue refused its office.
“Sarah,” said he, “what is the matter with, you?--account for all
this--I don't understand it.”
She rose with great difficulty, and, tottering over towards him, laid
her head upon his bosom, and looking up with a smile of melancholy
tenderness into his face, burst into tears.
“Father,” said she, “it is not worth your while to be angry with Sarah
now. I heard words from your lips this night that would make me forgive
you a thousand crimes. I heard you say that you loved me--loved me
better than anything else in this world. I'm glad I know it, for that
will be all the consolation I will have on my bed of death--an' there it
is, father,” she said, pointing to that which she always occupied; “help
me over to it now, for I feel that I will never rise from it more.”
Her father spoke not, but assisted her to the bed from which the old
nurse, who had fallen asleep in it, now rose. He then went into the open
air for a few minutes, but soon returned, and going over to the bedside
where she lay, he looked upon her long and earnestly.
“Father,” said she, “I only did my duty this night. I knew, indeed, I
would never recover it--but then she risked her life for me, an' why
shouldn't I do as much for her?”
The Prophet still looked upon her, but spoke not a word; his lips were
closely compressed, his hands tightly clasped, and his piercing eyes
almost immovable. Minute after minute thus passed, until nearly half
an hour had elapsed, and Sarah dreadfully exhausted by what she had
undergone, found her eyes beginning to close in an unsettled and
feverish slumber. At length he said, in a tone of voice which breathed
of tenderness itself--
“Sleep, dear Sarah--dear Sarah, sleep.”
She apparently was asleep, but not so as to be altogether unconscious
of his words, for, in spite of illness and fatigue, a sweet and serene
smile stole gently over her pale face, rested on it for a little, and
again, gradually, and with a mournful placidity died away. Her father
sighed deeply, and turning to the bedside, said--
“It is useless to ask her anything this night, Biddy. Can you tell me
what became of her, or how she got out?”
“Oh, the sorra word,” replied the old woman; “I'm sure such a start was
never taken out o' mortal as I got when I came here, and found her gone.
I searched all the neighborhood, but no use--divil a sowl seen her--so
afther trottin' here an' there, an' up and down, I came in not able to
mark the ground, and laid myself down on the bed, where I fell asleep
till you came back; but where, in the name of all that's wonderful, was
she?”
Donnel sat down in silence, and the crone saw that he was in no mood
for answering questions, or entering into conversation; she accordingly
clapped herself on her hunkers, and commenced sucking her dudeen,
without at all seeming to expect a reply.
We, however, shall avail ourselves of the historian's privilege, in
order to acquaint our readers, very briefly, with that, of which
we presume, so far as Sarah is concerned, they can scarcely plead
ignorance. Having heard the conversation between Rody Duncan and her
father, which satisfied her that the plot for taking away Mave Sullivan
was to be executed that very night, Sarah, with her usual energy and
disregard for herself, resolved to make an effort to save her generous
rival, for we must here acquaint our readers, that during the progress
of her convalescence, she had been able to bring to her recollection the
presence of Mave Sullivan in the shed on more than one occasion. She did
not, however, depend upon her own memory or impressions for this,
but made inquiries from her nurse, who, in common with the whole
neighborhood, had heard of Mave's humanity and attention towards her,
to which it was well known, she owed her life. The generous girl,
therefore, filled with remorse at having, for one moment, contemplated
any act of injury towards Mave, now determined to save her from the
impending danger, or lose her life in the attempt. How she won her way
in such an enfeebled state of health, and on such a night, cannot now be
known; it is sufficient here to say, that she arrived only a few minutes
before the attack was made upon Sullivan's house, and just in time to
have Mave and her cousin each concealed under a bed. Knowing, however,
that a strict search would have rendered light of some kind necessary,
and enable the ruffians to discover Mave besides, she, at once, threw
herself in their way, under a feigned attempt to escape, and the next
moment three or four voices exclaimed, exultingly, “we have her--the
cropped head--here she is--all's right--come away; you darlin', you'll
be a happy girl before this day week!”
“I hope so,” she replied; “oh, I hope so--bring me away!”
The Prophet's own adventure was not less disastrous. Rody Duncan's
sudden withdrawal from the robbery surprised him very much. On seriously
and closely reconsidering the circumstances, it looked suspicious, and
ere a single hour had passed, Donnel felt and impression that, on
that business at least, Rody had betrayed him. Acting upon this
conviction.--for it amounted to that--he soon satisfied himself that the
house was secured against, the possibility of any successful attack upon
it. This he discovered in the village of Grange, when, on inquiring, he
found that most of the young men were gone to sit up all night in the
“big house”. So much being known, any additional information to Donnel
was unnecessary. He accordingly relinquished the enterprise; and
remembering the engagement with young Henderson at the Grey Stone, met
him there, to receive the wages of his iniquity; but with what success,
the reader is already acquainted.
This double failure of his projects, threw the mind of the Prophet into
a train of deep and painful reflection. He began to reflect that his
views of life and society might not, after all, be either the safest
or the best. He looked back over his own past life, and forward to the
future, and he felt as if the shadow of some approaching evil was over
him. He then thought of his daughter, and pictured to himself what she
might have been, had he discharged, as he ought to have done, the
duties of a Christian parent towards her. This, and other recollections,
pressed upon Mm, and his heart was once or twice upon the point of
falling back into the fresh impulses of its early humanity, when the
trial of tomorrow threw him once more into a gloom, that settled him
down into a resentful but unsatisfactory determination to discharge the
duty he had imposed upon himself.