CHAPTER XXVIII. — Double Treachery.
The state of the country at this period of our narrative was, indeed, singularly gloomy and miserable. Some improvement, however, had taken place in the statistics of disease; but the destitution was still so sharp and terrible, that there was very little diminution of the tumults which still prevailed. Indeed the rioting, in some districts, had risen to a frightful extent. The cry of the people was, for either bread or work; and to still, if possible, this woeful clamor, local committees, by large subscriptions, aided, in some cases, by loans from government, contrived to find them employment on useful public works. Previous to this, nothing could surpass the prostration and abject subserviency with which the miserable crowds solicited food or labor. Only give them labor at any rate—say sixpence a day—and they did not wish to beg or violate the laws. No, no; only give them peaceable employment, and they would rest not only perfectly contented, but deeply grateful. In the meantime, the employment they sought for was provided, not at sixpence, but at one-and-sixpence a day; so that for a time they appeared to feel satisfied, and matters went on peaceably enough. This, however, was too good to last. There are ever, among such masses of people, unprincipled knaves, known as “politicians”—idle vagabonds, who hate all honest employment themselves, and ask no better than to mislead and fleece the ignorant unreflecting people, however or wherever they can. These fellows read and expound the papers on Sundays and holidays; rail not only against every government, no matter what its principles are, but, in general, attack all constituted authority, without feeling one single spark of true national principle, or independent love of liberty. It is such corrupt scoundrels that always assail the executive of the country, and at the same time supply the official staff of spies and informers with their blackest perjurers and traitors. In truth, they are always the first to corrupt, and the first to betray. You may hear these men denouncing government this week, and see them strutting about the Castle, its pampered instruments, and insolent with its patronage, the next. If there be a strike, conspiracy, or cabal of any kind, these “patriots” are at the bottom of it; and wherever ribbonism and other secret societies do not exist, there they are certain to set them agoing.
For only a short time were these who had procured industrial employment permitted to rest satisfied with the efforts which had been made on their behalf. The “patriots” soon commenced operations.
“Eighteen pence a day was nothing; the government had plenty of money, and if the people wished to hear a truth, it could be tould them by those who knew—listen hether”—as the Munster men say—“the country gentlemen and the committees are putting half the money into their own pockets”—this being precisely what the knaves would do themselves if they were in their places—“and for that reason we'll strike for higher wages.”
In this manner were the people led first into folly, and ultimately into rioting and crime; for it is not, in point of fact, those who are suffering most severely that take a prominent part in these senseless tumults, or who are the first to trample upon law and order. The evil example is set to those who do suffer by these factious vagabonds; and, under such circumstances, and betrayed by such delusions, the poor people join the crowd, and find themselves engaged in the outrage, before they have time to reflect upon their conduct.
At the time of which we write, however, the government did not consider it any part of its duty to take a deep interest in the domestic or social improvement of the people. The laws of the country, at that period, had but one aspect—that of terror; for it was evident that the legislature of the day had forgotten that neither an individual nor a people can both love and fear the same object at the same time. The laws checked insubordination and punished crime; and having done this, the great end and object of all law was considered to have been attained. We hope, however, the day has come when education, progress, improvement and reward, will shed their mild and peaceful lustre upon our statute-books, and banish from them those Draconian enactments, that engender only fear and hatred, breathe of cruelty, and have their origin in a tyrannical love of blood.
We have said that the aspect of the country was depressing and gloomy; but we may add here, that these words convey but a vague and feeble idea of the state to which the people at large were reduced. The general destitution, the famine, sickness and death, which had poured such misery and desolation over the land, left, as might be expected, their terrible traces behind them. Indeed the sufferings which a year of famine and disease—and they usually either accompany or succeed each other—inflicts upon the multitudes of poor, are such as no human pen could at all describe, so as to portray a picture sufficiently faithful to the dreary and death-like spirit which should breath in it. Upon the occasion we write of, nothing met you, go where you might, but suffering, and sorrow, and death, to which we may add, tumult, and crime, and bloodshed. Scarcely a family but had lost one or more. Every face you met was an index of calamity, and bore upon it the unquestionable impressions of struggle and hardship. Cheerfulness and mirth had gone, and were forgotten. All the customary amusements of the people had died away. Almost every house had a lonely and deserted look; for it was known that one or more beloved beings had gone out of it to the grave. A dark, heartless spirit was abroad. The whole land, in fact, mourned, and nothing on which the eye could rest, bore a green or a thriving look, or any symptom of activity, but the churchyards, and here the digging and delving were incessant—at the early twilight, during the gloomy noon, the dreary dusk, and the still more funeral looking light of the midnight taper.
The first days of the assizes were now near, and among all those who awaited them, there was none whose fate excited so profound an interest as that of old Condy Dalton. His family had now recovered from their terrible sufferings, and were able to visit him in his prison—a privilege which was awarded to them as a mark of respect for their many virtues, and of sympathy for their extraordinary calamities and trials. They found him resigned to his fate, but stunned with wonder at the testimony on which he was likely to be convicted. The pedlar, who appeared to take so singular an interest in the fortunes of his family, sought and obtained a short interview with him, in which he requested him to state, as accurately as he could remember, the circumstances on which the prosecution was founded, precisely as they occurred. This he did, closing his account by the usual burthen of all his conversation ever since he went to gaol:
“I know I must suffer; but I think nothing of myself, only for the shame it will bring upon my family.”
Sarah's unexpected illness disconcerted at least one of the projects of Donnel Dhu. There were now only two days until the assizes, and she was as yet incapable of leaving her bed, although in a state of convalescence. This mortified the Prophet very much, but his subtlety and invention never abandoned him. It struck him that the most effectual plan now would be—as Sarah's part in aiding to take away Mave was out of the question—to merge the violence to which he felt they must resort, into that of the famine riots; and under the character of one of these tumults, to succeed, if possible, in removing Mave from her father's house, ere her family could understand the true cause of her removal. Those who were to be engaged in this were, besides, principally strangers, to whom neither Mave nor her family were personally known; and as a female cousin of hers—an orphan—had come to reside with them until better times should arrive, it would be necessary to have some one among the party who knew Mave sufficiently to make no mistake as to her person. For this purpose he judiciously fixed upon Thomas Dalton, as the most appropriate individual to execute this act of violence against the very family who were likely to be the means of bringing his father to a shameful death. This young man had not yet recovered the use of his reason, so as to be considered sane. He still roved about as before, sometimes joining the mobs, and leading them on to the outrage, and sometimes sauntering in a solitary mood, without seeming altogether conscious of what he did or said. To secure his co-operation was a matter of little or difficulty, and the less so as he heard, with infinite satisfaction, that Dalton was perpetually threatening every description of vengeance against the Sullivans, about to be tried, and very likely to suffer for the murder.
It was now the day but one previous to the commencement of the assizes, and our readers will be kind enough to accompany us to the Grange, or rather to the garden of the Grange, at the gate of which our acquaintance Red Rody is knocking. He has knocked two or three times, and sent, on each occasion, Hanlon, old Dick, young Dick, together with all the component parts of the establishment, to a certain territory, where, so far as its legitimate historians assure us, the coldness of the climate has never been known to give any particular offence.
“I know he's inside, for didn't I see him goin' in—well, may all the devils—hem—oh, good morrow, Charley—troth you'd make a good messenger for death. I'm knocking here till I have lost the use of my arm wid downright fatigue.”
“Never mind, Rody, you'll recover it before you're twice married—come in.” They then entered. “Well, Rody, what's the news?”
“What the news, is it? Why then is anything in the shape of news—of good news I mean—to be had in such a counthry as this? Troth it's a shame for any one that has health an' limbs to remain in it. An' now that you're answered, what's the news yourself, Charley? I hope that the Drivership's safe at last, I thought I was to sleep at home in my comfortable berth last—”
“Not now till afther the 'sizes, Rody.”
“The master's goin' to them? bekaise I heard he wasn't able.”
“He's goin', he says, happen what may; he thinks it's his last visit to them, and I agree wid him—he'll soon have a greater 'sizes and a different judge to meet.”
“Ay, Charley, think of that now; an' tell me, he sleeps in Ballynafail, as usual; eh, now?”
“He does of course.”
“An' Jemmy Branigan goes along wid him?”
“Are you foolish, Kody? Do you think he could live widout him?”
“Well, I b'lieve not. Throth, whenever the ould fellow goes in the next world, there'll be no keepin' Jemmy from him. Howandiver, to dhrop that. Isn't these poor times, Charley, an' isn't this a poor counthry to live in—or it would be nearer the truth to say starve in?”
“No, but it would be the truth itself,” replied the other. “What is there over the whole counthry but starvation and misery?”
“Any dhrames about America since, Charley? eh, now?”
“Maybe ay, and maybe no, Rody. Is it true that Tom Dalton threatens all kinds of vengeance on the Sullivans?”
“Ay, is it, an' the whole counthry says that he's as ready to knock one o' them on the head as ever the father before him was. They don't think the betther of the ould man for it; but what do you mane by 'maybe ay, an' maybe no,' Charley?”
“What do you mane by axin' me?”
Each looked keenly for some time at the other as he spoke, and after this there was a pause. At length, Hanlon, placing his hand upon Rody's shoulder, replied:
“Rody, it won't do. I know the design—and I tell you now that one word from my lips could have you brought up at the assizes—tried—and I won't say the rest. You're betrayed!”
The ruffian's lip fell—his voice faltered, and he became pale.
“Ay!” proceeded the other, “you may well look astonished—but listen, you talk about goin' to America—do you wish to go?”
“Of coorse I do,” replied Body, “of coorse—not a doubt of it.”
“Well,” proceeded Hanlon again, “listen still! your plan's discovered, you're betrayed; but I can't tell you who betrayed you, I'm not at liberty. Now listen, I say, come this way. Couldn't you an' I ourselves do the thing—couldn't we make the haul, and couldn't we cut off to America without any danger to signify, that is, if you can be faithful?”
“Faithful!” he exclaimed. “By all the books that was ever opened an' shut, I'm thruth and honesty itself, so I am—howandiver, you said I was betrayed?”
“But I can't tell you the man that toald me. Whether you're able to guess at him or not, I don't know; but the thruth is, Rody, I've taken a likin' to you—an' if you'll just stand the trial I'm goin' to put you to, I'll be a friend to you—the best you ever had too.”
“Well, Charley,” said the other, plucking up courage a little, for the fellow was a thorough coward, “what is the thrial?”
“The man,” continued Hanlon, “that betrayed you gave me one account of what you're about; but whether he tould me thruth or not I don't know till I hear another, an' that's yours. Now, you see clearly, Rody, that I'm up to all as it is, so you need not be a bit backward in tellin' the whole thruth. I say you're in danger, an' it's only trustin' to me—mark that—by trustin' faithfully to me that you'll get out of it; an', plaise the fates, I hope that, before three mouths is over, we'll be both safe an' comfortable in America. Do you undherstand that? I had my dhrames, Rody; but if I had, there must be nobody but yourself and me to know them.”
“It wasn't I that first thought of it, but Donnel Dhu,” replied Kody; “I never dreamt that he'd turn thraitor though.”
“Don't be sayin' to-morrow or next day that I said he did,” replied Hanlon. “Do you mind me now? A nod's as good as a wink to a blind horse.”
Rody, though cowardly and treacherous, was extremely cunning, and upon turning the matter over in his mind, he began to dread, or rather to feel that Hanlon had so far over-reached him. Still it might be possible, he thought, that the prophet had betrayed him, and he resolved to put a query to his companion that would test his veracity; after which he would leave himself at liberty to play a double game, if matters should so fall out as to render it necessary.
“Did the man that tould you everything,” he asked, “tell you the night that was appointed for this business?”
Hanlon felt this was a puzzler, and that he might possibly commit himself by replying in the affirmative.
“No,” he replied, “he didn't tell me that.”
“Ah, ha!” thought his companion, “I see whereabouts you are.”
He disclosed, however, the whole plot, with the single exception of the night appointed for the robbery, which, in point of date, he placed in his narrative exactly a week after the real time.
“Now,” he said to himself, “so far I'm on the safe side; still, if he has humbugged me, I've paid him in his own coin. Maybe the whole haul, as he calls it, may be secured before they begin to prepare for it.”
Hanlon, however, had other designs. After musing a little, they sauntered along the garden walks, during which he proposed a plan of their own for the robbery of Henderson; and so admirably was it concocted, and so tempting to the villainous cupidity of Duncan, that he expressed himself delighted from the commencement of its fancied execution until their ultimate settlement in America.
“It was a treacherous thing, I grant, to betray you, Rody,” said Hanlon; “an' if I was in your place, I'd give him tit for tat. An', by the way, talkin' of the Prophet—not that I say it was he betrayed you—for indeed now it wasn't—bad cess to me if it was—I think you wanst said you knew more about him than I thought.”
“Ah, ha,” again thought Rody, “I think I see what you're afther at last; but no matther, I'll keep my eye on you. Hut, ay did I,” he replied; “but I forget now what's this it was. However, I'll try if I can remember it; if I do, I'll tell you.”
“You an' he will hang that murdherin' villain, Dalton—”
“I'm afeard o' that,” replied the other; “an' for my part, I'd as soon be out of the thing altogether; however, it can't be helped now.'”
“Isn't it sthrange, Rody, how murdher comes out at last?” observed Hanlon; “now there's that ould man, an' see, after twenty years or more, how it comes against him. However, it's not a very pleasant subject, so let it dhrop. Here's Masther Richard comin' through the private gate,” he added; “but if you slip down to my aunt's to-night, we'll have a glass of something that'll do us no harm at any rate, and we can talk more about the other business.”
“Very well,” replied Rody, “I'll be down, so goodbye; an' whisper, Charley,” he added, putting on a broad grin; “don't be too sure that I tould you a single word o' thruth about the rob—hem—ha, ha! take care of yourself—good people is scarce you know—ha, ha, ha!”
He then left Hanlon in a state of considerable doubt as to the discovery he had made touching the apprehended burglary; and his uncertainty was the greater, inasmuch as he had frequently heard the highest possible encomiums lavished upon Duncan's extraordinary powers of invention and humbug.
Young Henderson, on hearing these circumstances, did not seriously question their truth; neither did they in the slightest degree shake his confidence in the intentions of the Prophet with respect to Mave Sullivan. Indeed, he argued very reasonably and correctly, that the man who was capable of the one act, would have little hesitation to commit the other. This train of reflection, however, he kept to himself, for it is necessary to state here, that Hanlon was not at all in the secret of the plot against Mave. Henderson had, on an earlier occasion sounded him upon it, but perceived at once that his scruples could not be overcome, and that of course it would be dangerous to repose confidence in him.
The next evening was that immediately preceding the assizes, and it was known that Dalton's trial was either the second or third on the list, and must consequently come on, on the following day. The pedlar and Hanlon sat in a depressed and melancholy mood at the fire; an old crone belonging to the village, who had been engaged to take care of the house during the absence of Hanlon's aunt, sat at the other side, occasionally putting an empty dudeen into her mouth, drawing it hopelessly, and immediately knocking the bowl of it in a fretful manner, against the nail of her left thumb.
“What's the matther, Ailey?” asked the pedlar; “are you out o' tobaccy?”
“Throth it's time for you to ax—ay am I; since I ate my dinner, sorra puff I had.”
“Here then,” he replied, suiting the action to the word, and throwing a few halfpence into her lap; “go to Peggy Finigan's an' buy yourself a couple of ounces, an' smoke rings round you; and listen to me, go down before you come back to Bamy Keeran's an' see whether he has my shoes done or not, an' tell him from me, that if they're not ready for me tomorrow mornin', I'll get him exkummunicated.”
When the crone had gone out, the pedlar proceeded:
“Don't be cast down yet, I tell you; there's still time enough, an' they may be here still.”
“Be here still! why, good God! isn't the thrial to come on to-morrow, they say?”
“So itself; you may take my word for it, that even if he's found guilty, they won't hang him, or any man of his years.”
“Don't be too sure o' that,” replied Hanlon; “but indeed what could I expect afther dependin' upon a foolish dhrame?”
“Never mind; I'm still of the opinion that everything may come about yet. The Prophet's wife was with Father Hanratty, tellin' him something, an' he is to call here early in the mornin'; he bid me tell you so.”
“When did you see him?”
“To day at the cross roads, as he was goin' to a sick call.
“But where's the use o' that, when they're not here? My own opinion is, that she's either sick, or if God hasn't said it, maybe dead. How can we tell if ever she has seen or found the man you sent her for? Sure, if she didn't, all's lost.”
“Throth, I allow,” replied the pedlar, “that things is in a distressin' state with us; however, while there's life there's hope, as the Doctor says. There must be something extraordinary wrong to keep them away so long, I grant—or herself, at any rate; still, I say again, trust in God. You have secured Duncan, you say; but can you depend on the ruffian?”
“If it was on his honesty, I could not, one second, but I do upon his villainy and love of money. I have promised him enough, and it all depends on whether he'll believe me or not.”
“Well, well,” observed the other, “I wish things had a brighter look up. If we fail, I won't know what to say. We must only thry an' do the best we can, ourselves.”
“Have you seen the agint since you gave him the petition?” asked Hanlon.
“I did, but he had no discoorse with the Hendherson's; and he bid me call on him again.”
“I dunna what does he intend to do?”
“Hut, nothing. What 'id he do? I'll go bail, he'll never trouble his head about it more; at any rate I tould him a thing.”
“Very likely he won't,” replied Hanlon; “but what I'm thinkin' of now, is the poor Daltons. May God in his mercy pity an' support them this night!”
The pedlar clasped his hands tightly as he looked up, and said “Amen!”
“Ay,” said he, “it's now, Charley, whin I think of them, that I get frightened about our disappointment, and the way that everything has failed with us. God pity them, I say, too!”
The situation of this much tried family, was, indeed, on the night in question, pitiable in the extreme. It is true, they had now recovered, or nearly so, the full enjoyment of their health, and were—owing, as we have already said, to the bounty of some unknown friend—in circumstances of considerable comfort. Dalton's confession of the murder had taken away from them every principle upon which they could rely, with one only exception. Until the moment of that confession, they had never absolutely been in possession of the secret cause of his remorse—although, it must be admitted, that, on some occasions, the strength of his language and the melancholy depth of his sorrow, filled them with something like suspicion. Still such they knew to be the natural affection and tenderness of his heart, his benevolence and generosity, in spite of his occasional bursts of passion, that they could not reconcile to themselves the notion that he had ever murdered a fellow creature. Every one knows how slow the heart of wife or child is to entertain such a terrible suspicion against a husband or a parent, and that the discovery of their guilt comes upon the spirit with a weight of distress and agony that is great in proportion to the confidence felt in them.
The affectionate family in question had just concluded their simple act of evening worship, and were seated around a dull fire, looking forward in deep dejection to the awful event of the following day. The silence that prevailed was only broken by an occasional sob from the girls, or a deep sigh from young Con, who, with his mother, had not long been returned from Ballynafail, where they had gone to make preparations for the old man's defence. His chair stood by the fire, in its usual place, and as they looked upon it from time to time, they could not prevent their grief from bursting out afresh. The mother, on this occasion, found the usual grounds for comfort taken away from both herself and them—we mean, the husband's innocence. She consequently had but one principle to rely on—that of single dependence upon God, and obedience to His sovereign will, however bitter the task might be, and so she told them.
“It's a great thrial to us, children,” she observed; “an' it's only natural we should feel it. I do not bid you to stop cryin', my poor girls, because it would be very strange if you didn't cry. Still, let us not forget that it's our duty to bow down humbly before whatever misfortune—an' this is indeed a woeful one—that it pleases God in His wisdom (or, may be, in His mercy), to lay in our way. That's all we can do now, God help us—an' a hard thrial it is—for when we think of what he was to us—of his kindness—his affection!——”
Her own voice became infirm, and, instead of proceeding, she paused a moment, and then giving one long, convulsive sob, that rushed up from her very heart, she wept out long and bitterly. The grief now became a wail; and were it not for the presence of Con, who, however, could scarcely maintain a firm voice himself, the sorrow-worn mother and her unhappy daughters would have scarcely known when to cease.
“Mother dear!” he exclaimed—“what use is in this? You began with givin' us a good advice, an' you ended with settin' us a bad example! Oh, mother, darlin', forgive me the word—never, never since we remember anything, did you ever set us a bad example.”
“Con dear, I bore up as long as I could,” she replied, wiping her eye; “but you know, after all, nature's nature, an' will have its way. You know, too, that this is the first tear I shed, since he left us.”
“I know,” replied her son, laying her careworn cheek over upon his bosom, “that you are the best mother that ever breathed, an' that I would lay down my life to save your heart from bein' crushed, as it is, an' as it has been.”
She felt a few warm tears fall upon her face as he spoke; and the only reply she made was, to press him affectionately to her heart.
“God's merciful, if we're obedient,” she added, in a few moments; “don't you remember, that when Abraham was commanded to kill his only son, he was ready to obey God, and do it; and don't you remember that it wasn't until his very hand was raised, with the knife in it, that God interfered. Whisht,” she continued, “I hear a step—who is it? Oh, poor Tom!”
The poor young man entered as she spoke; and after looking about him for some time, placed himself in the arm chair.
“Tom, darlin',” said his sister Peggy, “don't sit in that—that's our poor father's chair; an' until he sits in it again, none of us ever will.”
“Nobody has sich a right to sit in it as I have,” he replied, “I'm a murdherer.”
His words, his wild figure, and the manner in which he uttered them, filled them with alarm and horror.
“Tom, dear,” said his brother, approaching him, “why do you speak that way?—you're not a murdherer!”
“I am!” he replied; “but I haven't done wid the Sullivans yet, for what they're goin' to do—ha, ha, ha!—oh, no. It's all planned; an' they'll suffer, never doubt it.”
“Tom,” said Mary, who began to fear that he might, in some wild paroxysm, have taken the life of the unfortunate miser, or of some one else; “if you murdhered any one, who was it?”
“Who was it?” he replied; “if you go up to Curraghbeg churchyard, you'll find her there; the child's wid her—but I didn't murdher the child, did I?”
On finding that he alluded only to the unfortunate Peggy Murtagh, they recovered from the shock into which his words had thrown them. Tom, however, appeared exceedingly exhausted and feeble, as was evident from his inability to keep himself awake. His head gradually sank upon his breast, and in a few minutes he fell into a slumber. “I'll put him to bed,” said Con; “help me to raise him.”
They lifted him up, and a melancholy sight it was to see that face, which had once been such a noble specimen of manly beauty, now shrunk away into an expression of gaunt and haggard wildness, that was painful to contemplate. His sisters could not restrain their tears, on looking at the wreck that was before them; and his mother, with a voice of deep anguish, exclaimed—
“My brave, my beautiful boy, what, oh, what has become of you? Oh, Tom, Tom,” she added—“maybe it's well for you that you don't know the breakin' hearts that's about you this night—or the bitter fate that's over him that loved you so well.”
As they turned him about, to take off his cravat, he suddenly raised his head, and looking about him, asked—
“Where's my father gone?—I see you all about me but him—where's my fath—”
Ere the words were pronounced, however, he was once more asleep, and free for a time from the wild and moody malady which oppressed him.
Such was the night, and such were the circumstances and feelings that ushered in the fearful day of Condy Dalton's trial.
CHAPTER XXIX. — A Picture of the Present—Sarah Breaks her Word.
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.”
“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.