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The Black Prophet: A Tale Of Irish Famine, a novel by William Carleton |
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Chapter 13. Sarah's Defence Of A Murderer |
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_ CHAPTER XIII. Sarah's Defence of a Murderer Our readers are not, perhaps, in general, aware that a most iniquitous usage prevailed among Middlemen Landlords, whenever the leases under which their property was held were near being expired. Indeed, as a landed proprietor, the middleman's position differed most essentially from that of the man who held his estate in fee. The interest of the latter is one that extends beyond himself and his wants, and is consequently transmitted to his children, and more remote descendants; and on his account he is, or ought to be, bound by the ties of a different and higher character, to see that it shall not pass down to them in an impoverished or mutilated condition. The middleman, on the contrary, feels little or none of this, and very naturally endeavors to sweep from off the property he holds, whilst he holds it, by every means possible, as much as it can yield, knowing that his tenure of it is but temporary and precarious. For this reason, then, it too frequently happened that on finding his tenant's leases near expiring, he resorted to the most unscrupulous and oppressive means to remove from his land those who may have made improvements upon it, in order to let it to other claimants at a rent high in proportion to these very improvements. Our readers know that this is not an extreme case, but a plain, indisputable fact, which has, unfortunately, been one of the standing grievances of our unhappy country, and one of the great curses attending the vicious and unsettled state of property in Ireland. Dick-o'-the-Grange's ejectment of Condy Dalton and his family, therefore, had, in the eyes of many of the people, nothing in it so startlingly oppressive as might be supposed. On the contrary, the act was looked upon as much in the character of a matter of right on his part, as one of oppression to them. Long usage had reconciled the peasantry to it, and up to the period of our tale, there had been no one to awaken and direct public feeling against it. A fortnight had now elapsed since the scene in which young Dalton had poured out his despair and misery over the dead body of Peggy Murtagh, and during that period an incident occurred, which, although by no means akin to the romantic, had produced, nevertheless, a change in the position of Dick-o'-the-Grange himself, without effecting any either in his designs or inclinations. His own leases had expired, so that, in one sense, he stood exactly in the same relation to the head landlord, in which his own tenants did to him. Their leases had dropped about a twelvemonth or more before his, and he now waited until he should take out new ones himself, previous to his proceeding any further in the disposition and readjustment of his property. Such was his position and theirs, with reference to each other, when one morning, about a fortnight or better subsequent to his last appearance, young Dick, accompanied by the Black Prophet, was seen to proceed towards the garden--both in close conversation. The Prophet's face was now free from the consequences of young Dalton's violence, but it had actually gained in malignity more than it had lost by the discoloration and disfigurement resulting from the blow. There was a calm, dark grin visible when he smiled, that argued a black and satanic disposition; and whenever the lips of his hard, contracted, and unfeeling mouth expanded by his devilish sneer, a portion of one of his vile side fangs became visible, which gave to his features a most hateful and viper-like aspect. It was the cold, sneering, cowardly face of a man who took delight in evil for its own sake, and who could neither feel happiness himself, nor suffer others to enjoy it. As they were about to enter the garden Donnel Dhu saw approaching him at a rapid and energetic pace, his daughter Sarah, whose face, now lit up by exercise, as well as by the earnest expression of deep interest which might be read in it, never before appeared so strikingly animated and beautiful. "Who is this lovely girl approaching us?" asked the young man, whose eyes at once kindled with surprise and admiration. "That is my daughter," replied Donnel, coldly; "what can she want with me now, and what brought her here?" "Upon my honor, Donnel, that girl surpasses anything I have seen yet. Why she's perfection--her figure is--is--I haven't words for it--and her face--good heavens! what brilliancy and animation!" The Prophet's brow darkened at his daughter's unseasonable appearance in the presence of a handsome young fellow of property, whose character for gallantry was proverbial in the country. "Sarah, my good girl," said he, whilst his voice, which at once became low and significant, quivered with suppressed rage--"what brought you here, I ax? Did any one send for you? or is there a matther of life and death on hands, that you tramp afther me in this manner--eh?" "It may be life an' death for any thing I know to the contrary," she replied; "you are angry at something, I see," she proceeded--"but to save time, I want to spake to you." "You must wait till I go home, then, for I neither can nor will spake to you now." "Father, you will--you must," she replied--"and in some private place too. I won't detain you long, for I haven't much to say, and if I don't say it now, it may be too late." "What the deuce, M'Gowan!" said Dick, "speak, to the young woman--you don't know but she may have something of importance to say to you." She glanced at the speaker, but with a face of such indifference, as if she had scarcely taken cognizance of him, beyond the fact that she found some young man there in conversation with her father. Donnel, rather to take her from under the libertine gaze of his young friend, walked a couple of hundred yards to the right of the garden, where, under the shadow of some trees that over-hung a neglected fishpond, she opened the purport for her journey after him to the Grange. "Now, in the divil's name," he asked, "what brought you here?" "Father," she replied, "hear me, and do not be angry, for I know--at laste I think--that what I am goin' to say to you is right." "Well, madame, let us hear what you have to say." "I will--an' I must spake plain, too. You know me; that I cannot think one thing and say another." "Yes, I know you very well--go on--ay, and so does your unfortunate step-mother." "Oh--well!" she replied--"yes, I suppose so--ha! ha!" In a moment, however, her face became softened with deep feeling; "O, father," she proceeded, "maybe you don't know me, nor she either; it's only now I'm beginnin' to know myself. But listen--I have often observed your countenance, father--I have often marked it well. I can see by you when you are pleased or angry--but that's aisy; I can tell, too, when the bad spirit is up in you by the pale face but black look that scarcely any one could mistake. I have seen every thing bad, father, in your face--bad temper, hatred, revenge--an' but seldom any thing good. Father, I'm your daughter, an' don't be angry!" "What, in the devil's name, are you drivin' at, you brazen jade?" "Father, you said this mornin', before you came out, that you felt your conscience troublin' you for not discoverin' the murdher of Sullivan; that you felt sorry for keepin' it to yourself so long--sorry!--you said you were sorry, father!" "I did, and I was." "Father, I have been thinkin' of that since; no, father--your words were false; there was no sorrow in your face, nor in your eye,--no, father, nor in your heart. I know that--I feel it. Father, don't look so: you may bate me, but I'm not afraid." "Go home out o'this," he replied--"be off, and carry your cursed madness and nonsense somewhere else." "Father, here I stand--your own child--your only daughter; look me in the face--let your eye look into mine, if you can. I challenge you to it! Now mark my words--you are goin' to swear a murdher against the head of a poor and distressed family--to swear it--and, father, you know he never murdhered Sullivan!" The Prophet started and became pale, but he did not accept the challenge. He looked at her, however, after a struggle to recover his composure, and there she stood firm--erect; her beautiful face animated with earnestness, her eyes glowing with singular lustre, yet set, and sparkling in the increasing moisture which a word or thought would turn into tears. "What do you mane, Sarah?" said he, affecting coolness; "What do you mane? I know! Explain yourself." "Father, I will. There was a bad spirit in your face and in your heart when you said you were sorry; that you repented for consalin' the murdher so long; there was, father, a bad spirit in your heart, but no repentance there!" "An' did you come all the way from home to tell me this?" "No, father, not to tell you what I have said, but, father, dear, what I am goin' to say; only first answer me. If he did murdher Sullivan, was it in his own defence? was it a cool murdher? a cowardly murdher? because if it was, Condy Dalton is a bad man. But still listen: it's now near two-an'-twenty years since the deed was done. I know little about religion, father; you know that; but still I have heard that God is willin' to forgive all men their sins if they repent of them; if they're sorry for them. Now, father, it's well known that for many a long year Condy Dalton has been in great sorrow of heart for something or other; can man do more?" "Go home out o' this, I say; take yourself away." "Oh, who can tell, father, the inward agony and bitther repentance that that sorrowful man's heart, maybe, has suffered. Who can tell the tears he shed, the groans he groaned, the prayers for mercy he said, maybe, and the worlds he would give to have that man that he killed--only by a hasty blow, maybe--again alive and well! Father, don't prosecute him; leave the poor heartbroken ould man to God! Don't you see that God has already taken him an' his into His hands; hasn't He punished them a hundred ways for years? Haven't they been brought down, step by step, from wealth an' respectability, till they're now like poor beggars, in the very dust? Oh, think, father, dear father, think of his white hairs; think of his pious wife, that every one respects; think of his good-hearted, kind daughters; think of their poverty, and all they have suffered so long; an' above all, oh, think, father dear, of what they will suffer if you are the manes of takin' that sorrowful white-haired ould man out from the middle of his poor, but lovin' and dacent and respected family, and hangin' him for an act that he has repented for, maybe, and that we ought to hope the Almighty himself has forgiven him for. Father, I go on my knees to you to beg that you won't prosecute this ould man; but leave him to God!" As she uttered the last few sentences, the tears fell in torrents from her cheeks; but when she knelt--which she did--her tears ceased to flow, and she looked up into her father's face with eyes kindled into an intense expression, and her hands clasped as if her own life and everlasting salvation depended upon his reply. "Go home, I desire you," he replied, with a cold sneer, for he had now collected himself, and fell back into his habitual snarl; "Go home, I desire you, or maybe you'd wish to throw yourself in the way of that young profligate that I was spakin' to when you came up. Who knows, affcher all, but that's your real design, and neither pity nor compassion for ould Dalton." "Am I his daughter?" she replied, whilst she started to her feet, and her dark eyes flashed with disdain: "Can I be his daughter?" "I hope you don't mean to cast a slur upon your--." He paused a moment and started as if a serpent had bitten him; but left the word "mother" unuttered. Again she softened, and her eyes filled with tears. "Father, I never had a mother!" she said. "No," he replied; "or if you had, her name will never come through my lips." She looked at him with wonder for a few moments, after which she turned, and with a face of melancholy and sorrow, proceeded with slow and meditating steps in the direction of their humble cabin. Her father, who felt considerably startled by some portions of her appeal, though by no means softened, again directed his steps towards the garden gate, where he left young Dick standing. Here he found this worthy young gentleman awaiting his return, and evidently amazed at the interview between him and his daughter; for although he had been at too great a distance to hear their conversation, he could, and did see, by the daughter's attitudes, that the subject of their conversation was extraordinary, and consequently important. On approaching him, the Prophet now, with his usual coolness, pulled out the tress which he had, in some manner, got from Gra Gal Sullivan, and holding it for a time, placed it in Dick's hands. "There's one proof," said he, alluding to a previous part of their conversation, "that I wasn't unsuccessful, and, indeed, I seldom am, when I set about a thing in earnest." "But is it possible," asked the other, "that she actually gave this lovely tress willingly--you swear that?" "As Heaven's above me," replied the Prophet, "there never was a ringlet sent by woman to man with more love than she sent that. Why, the purty creature actually shed tears, and begged of me to lose no time in givin' it. You have it now, at all events--an' only for young Dalton's outrage, you'd have had it before now." "Then there's no truth in the report that she's fond of him?" "Why--ahem--n--no--oh, no--not now--fond of him she was, no doubt; an' you know it's never hard to light a half-burned turf, or a candle that was lit before. If they could be got out of the counthry, at all events--these Daltons--it would be so much out of your way, for between, you an' me, I can tell you that your life won't be safe when he comes to know that you have put his nose out of joint with the Gra Gal." "It is strange, however, that she should change so soon!" "Ah, Master Richard! how little you know of woman, when you say so. They're a vain, uncertain, selfish crew--women are--there's no honesty in them, nor I don't think there's a woman alive that could be trusted, if you only give her temptation and opportunity; none of them will stand that." "But how do you account for the change in her case, I ask?" "I'll tell you that. First and foremost, you're handsome--remarkably handsome." "Come, come, no nonsense, Donnel; get along, will you, ha! ha! ha!--handsome indeed! Never you mind what the world says--well!" "Why," replied the other, gravely, "there's no use in denyin' it, you know; it's a matther that tells for itself, an' that a poor girl with eyes in her head can judge of as a rich one--at any rate, if you're not handsome, you're greatly belied; an' every one knows that there's never smoke without fire." "Well, confound you!--since they'll have it so, I suppose I may as well admit it--I believe I am a handsome dog, and I have reason to know that, that----" here he shook his head and winked knowingly: "Oh, come Donnel, my boy, I can go no further on that subject--ha! ha! ha!" "There is no dispute about it," continued Donnel, gravely; "but still I think, that if it was not for the mention made of the dress, an' grandeur, and state that she was to come to, she'd hardly turn round as she did. Dalton, you know, is the handsomest young fellow, barring yourself, in the parish; an' troth on your account an' hers, I wish he was out of it. He'll be crossin' you--you may take my word for it--an' a dangerous enemy he'll prove--that I know." "Why? what do you mean?" Here the prophet, who was artfully trying to fill the heart of his companion with a spirit of jealousy against Dalton, paused for a moment, as if in deep reflection, after which he sighed heavily. "Mane!" he at length replied; "I am unhappy in my mind, an' I know I ought to do it, an' yet I'm loth now after sich a length of time. Mane, did you say, Masther Richard?" "Yes, I said so, and I say so; what do you mean by telling me that young Dalton will be a dangerous enemy to me?" "An' so he will; an' so he would to any one that he or his bore ill-will against. You know there's blood upon their hands." "No, I don't know any such thing; I believe he was charged with the murder of Mave Sullivan's uncle, but as the body could not be found, there were no grounds for a prosecution. I don't, therefore, know that there's blood upon his hand." "Well, then, if you don't--may God direct! me!" he added, "an' guide me to the best--if you don't, Masther Richard--Heaven direct me agin!--will I say it?--could you get that family quietly out of the counthry, Masther Richard? Bekaise if you could, it would be betther, maybe, for all parties." "You seem to know something about these Daltons, Mr. M'Gowan?" asked Dick, "and to speak mysteriously of them?" "Well, then, I do," he replied; "but! what I have to say, I ought to say it to your father, who is a magistrate." The other stared at him with surprise, but said nothing for a minute or two. "What is this mystery?" he added at length; "I cannot understand you; but it is clear that you mean something extraordinary." "God pardon me, Masther Richard, but you are right enough. No; I can't keep it any longer. Listen to me, sir, for I am goin' to make a strange and a fearful discovery; I know who it was that murdhered Sullivan; I'm in possession of it for near the last two-an'-twenty years; I have travelled every where; gone to England, to Wales, Scotland, an' America, but it was all of no use; the knowledge of the murdher! and the murdherer was here," he laid his! hand upon his heart as he spoke; "an' durin' all that time I had peace neither by night nor by day." His companion turned towards him with amazement, and truly his appearance was startling, if not frightful; he looked as it were into vacancy; his eyes had become hollow and full of terror; his complexion assumed the hue of ashes; his voice got weak and unsteady, and his limbs trembled excessively, whilst from every pore the perspiration came out, and ran down his ghastly visage in large drops. "M'Gowan," said his companion, "this is a dreadful business. As yet you have said nothing, and from what I see, I advise you to reflect before you proceed further in it. I think I can guess the nature of your secret; but even if you went to my father, he would tell you, that you are not bound to criminate yourself." The Prophet, in the mean time, had made an effort to recover himself, which, after a little time, was successful. "I believe you think," he added, with a gloomy and a bitter smile, "that it was I who committed the murdher; oh no! if it was, I wouldn't be apt to hang myself, I think. No! but I must see your father, as a magistrate; an' I must make the disclosure to him. The man that did murdher Sullivan is livin', and that man is Condy Dalton. I knew of this, an' for two-an'-twenty years let that murdherer escape, an' that is what made me so miserable an' unhappy. I can prove what I say; an' I know the very spot where he buried Sullivan's body, an' where it's lyin' to this very day." "In that case, then," replied the other, "you have only one course to pursue, and that is, to bring Dalton to justice." "I know it," returned the Prophet; "but still I feel that it's a hard case to be the means of hangin' a fellow-crature; but of the two choices, rather than bear any longer what I have suffered an' am still sufferin', I think it betther to prosecute him." "Then go in and see my father at once about it, and a devilish difficult card you'll have to play with him; for my part, I think he is mad ever since Jemmy Branigan left him. In fact, he knows neither what he is saying or doing without him, especially in some matters; for to tell you the truth," he added, laughing, "Jemmy, who was so well acquainted with the country and every one in it, took much more of the magistrate on him than ever my father did; and now the old fellow, when left to himself, is nearly helpless in every sense. He knows he has not Jemmy, and he can bear nobody else near him or about him." "I will see him, then, before I lave the place; an' now, Masther Richard, you know what steps you ought to take with regard to Gra Gal Sullivan. As she is willin' herself, of course there is but one way of it." "Of course I am aware of that," said Dick; "but still I feel that it's devilish queer she should change so soon from Dalton to me." "That's bekaise you know nothing about women," replied the Prophet. "Why, Masther Richard, I tell you that a weathercock is constancy itself compared with them. The notion of you an' your wealth, an' grandeur, an' the great state you're to keep her in--all turned her brain; an' as a proof of it, there you have a lock of her beautiful hair that she gave me with her own hands. If that won't satisfy you it's hard to say what can; but indeed I think you ought to know by this time o' day how far a handsome face goes with them. Give the divil himself but that, and they'll take his horns, hooves, and tail into the bargain--ay, will they." This observation was accompanied by a grin so sneering and bitter, that his companion, on looking at him, knew not how to account for it, unless by supposing that he must during the course of his life have sustained some serious or irreparable injury at their hands. "You appear not to like the women, Donnel; how is that?" "Like them!" he replied, and as he spoke his face, which had been, a little before, ghastly with horror, now became black and venomous; "ha! ha! how is that, you say? oh, no matther now; they're angels; angels of perdition; their truth is treachery, an' their--but no matther. I'll now go in an' spake to your father on this business; but I forgot to say that I must see Gra Gal soon, to let her know our plans; so do you make your mind aisy, and lave the management of the whole thing in my hands." _ |
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