“Compose yourself, dear Sarah; calm yourself,” said Dalton.
“Don't call me dear Sarah,” she replied; “you were wrong ever to do so. Oh, why was I born! an' what has this world an' this life been to me but hardship an' sorrow? But still,” she added, drawing herself up, “I will let you all see what pride can do. I now know my fate, an' what I must suffer: an' if one tear would gain your love, I wouldn't shed it—never, never.”
“Sarah,” said Mary, in a soothing voice, “I hope you won't blame poor Con. You don't know maybe that himself an' Mave Sullivan has loved one another ever since they were—”
“No more about Mave Sullivan,” she replied, almost fiercely; “lave her to me. As for me, I'll not brake my word, either for good or evil; I was never the one to do an ungenerous—an ungenerous—no—” She paused, however, as if struck by some latent conviction, and, in a panting voice, she added, “I must lave you for a while, but I will be back in an hour or two; oh, yes I will; an' in the mane time, Mary, anything that is to be done, you can do it for me till I come agin. Mave Sullivan! Mave Sullivan! lave Mave Sullivan to me!”
She then threw an humble garment about her, and in a few minutes was on her way to have an interview with her father. On reaching home, she found that he had arrived only a few minutes before her; and to her surprise he expressed something like; good humor, or, perhaps, gratification at her presence there. On looking into her face more closely, however, he had little trouble in perceiving that something extraordinary had disturbed her. He then glanced at Nelly, who, as usual, sat gloomily by the fire, knitting her brows and groaning with suppressed ill-temper as she had been in the habit of doing, ever since she suspected that Donnel had made a certain disclosure, connecting with her, to Sarah.
“Well,” said he, “has there been another battle? have you been ding dust at it as usual? What's wrong, Sally? eh? Did it go to blows wid you, for you looked raised?”
“You're all out of it,” replied Nelly; “her blood's up, now, an' I'm not prepared for a sudden death. She's dangerous this minute, an' I'll take care of her. Blessed man, look at her eyes.”
She repeated these words with that kind of low, dogged ridicule and scorn which so frequently accompany stupid and wanton brutality; and which are, besides, provoking, almost beyond endurance, when the mind is chafed by a consideration of an exciting nature.
Sarah flew like lightning to the old knife, which we have already mentioned, and, snatching it from the shelf of the dresser, on which it lay, exclaimed:
“I have now no earthly thought, nor any hope of good in this world, to keep my hand from evil; an' for all ever you made me suffer, take this—”