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The Black Prophet: A Tale Of Irish Famine, a novel by William Carleton |
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Chapter 27. Sarah Ill--Mave Again, Heroic |
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_ CHAPTER XXVII. Sarah Ill--Mave Again, Heroic Young Henderson, whose passion for Mave Sullivan was neither virtuous nor honorable, would not have lent himself, notwithstanding, to the unprincipled projects of the Prophet, had not that worthy personage gradually and dishonestly drawn him into a false position. In other words, he led the vain and credulous young man to believe that Mave had been seized with a secret affection for him, and was willing, provided everything was properly managed, to consent to an elopement. For this purpose, it was necessary that the plan should be executed without violence, as the Prophet well knew, because, on sounding young Dick upon that subject, in an early stage of the business, he had ascertained that the proposal of anything bordering upon outrage or force, would instantly cause him to withdraw from the project altogether. For this reason, then, he found it necessary, if possible to embark Sarah as an accomplice, otherwise, he could not effect his design without violence, and he felt that her co-operation was required to sustain the falsehood of his assertions to Henderson with regard to Mave's consent to: place herself under his protection. This was to be brought about so as to hoodwink Henderson, in the following manner: The Prophet proposed that Sarah should, by his own or her ingenuity, contrive to domicile herself in Jerry Sullivan's house for a few days previous to the execution of their design; not only for the purpose of using her influence, such as it was, to sway the young creature's mind and principles from the path of rectitude and virtue, by dwelling upon the luxury and grandeur of her future life with Henderson, whose intentions were to be represented as honorable, but, if necessary, to leave a free ingress to the house, so as that under any circumstances, and even with a little violence, Mave should be placed in Henderson's hands. Should the Prophet, by his management, effect this, he was to receive a certain sum of money from his employer the moment he or his party had her in their possession--for such were the terms of the agreement--otherwise Donnel Dhu reserved to himself the alternative of disclosing the matter to her friends, and acquainting them with her situation. This, at all events, was readily consented to by Henderson, whose natural vanity and extraordinary opinion of his own merits in the eyes of the sex, prevented him from apprehending any want of success with Mave, provided he had an opportunity of bringing the influence of his person, and his wonderful powers of persuasion, to bear upon such a simple country girl as he considered her to be. So far, then, he had taken certain steps to secure himself, whilst he left Henderson to run the risk of such contingencies as might in all probability arise from the transaction. This, however, was but an under-plot of the Prophet, whose object was indeed far beyond that of becoming the paltry instrument of a rusty intrigue. It was a custom with Dick o' the Grange, for a few years previous to the date of our story, to sleep during the assizes, in the head inn of the town, attended by Jemmy Branigan. This was rendered in some degree necessary, by the condition of his bad leg, and his extraordinary devotion to convivial indulgence--a propensity to which he gave full stretch during the social license of the grand jury dinners. Now, the general opinion was, that Henderson always kept large sums of money in the house--an opinion which we believe to have been correct, and which seemed to have been confirmed by the fact, that on no occasion were both father and son ever known to sleep out of the house at the same time, to which we may also add another--viz., that the whole family were well provided with fire arms, which were freshly primed and loaded every night. The Prophet, therefore, had so contrived it, that young Dick's design upon Mave Sullivan, or in other words, the Prophet's own design upon the money coffers of the Grange, should render his absence from home necessary whilst his father was swilling at the assizes, by which arrangement, added to others that will soon appear, the house must, to a certain degree, be left unprotected, or altogether under the care of dissolute servants, whose habits, caught from those of the establishment, were remarkable for dissipation and neglect. The Prophet, indeed, was naturally a plotter. It is not likely, however, that he would ever have thought of projecting the robbery of the Grange, had he not found himself, as he imagined, foiled in his designs upon Mave Sullivan, by the instinctive honor and love of truth which shone so brilliantly in the neglected character of his extraordinary daughter. Having first entrapped her into a promise of secrecy--a promise which he knew death itself would scarcely induce her to violate, he disclosed to her the whole plan in the most plausible and mitigated language. Effort after effort was made to work upon her principles, but in vain. Once or twice, it is true, she entertained the matter for a time--but a momentary deliberation soon raised her naturally noble and generous spirit above the turpitude of so vile a project. It was, then, in this state of things that the failure of the one, and the lesser plan, through the incorruptible honor of his daughter, drove him upon the larger and more tempting one of the burglary. In this latter, he took unto himself as his principal accomplice, Red Rody Duncan, whose anxiety to procure the driver's situation arose from the necessity that existed, to have a friend in the house, who might aid them in effecting a quiet entrance, and by unloading or wetting the fire-arms, neutralize the resistance which they might otherwise expect. Sarah's excitement and distraction, however, resulting from her last interview with young Dalton, giving as it did, a fatal blow to her passion and her hopes, vehement and extraordinary as they were, threw her across her father's path at the precise moment when her great but unregulated spirit, inflamed by jealousy and reckless from despair, rendered her most accessible to the wily and aggravating arguments with which he tempted and overcame her. Thus did he, so far as human means could devise, or foresight calculate, provide for the completion of two plots instead of one. It is true, Mave Sullivan was not left altogether without being forewarned. Nobody, however, had made her acquainted with the peculiar nature of the danger that was before her. Nelly M'Gowan, as she was called, had strongly cautioned her against both Donnel and Sarah, but then Nelly herself was completely in the dark as to the character of the injury against which she warned her, so that her friendly precautions were founded more upon the general and unscrupulous profligacy of Donnel's principles, and his daughter's violence, than upon any particular knowledge she possessed of her intentions towards her. Mave's own serene and innocent disposition was such in fact as to render her not easily impressed by suspicion; and our readers may have perceived, by the interview which took place between her and Sarah, that from the latter, she apprehended no injury. It was on the following day after that interview, about two o'clock, that while she was spreading some clothes upon the garden hedge, during a sickly gleam of sunshine, our friend the pedlar made his appearance, and entered her father's house. Mave having laid her washing before the sun, went in and found him busily engaged in showing his wares, which consisted principally of cutlery and trinkets. The pedlar, as she entered, threw a hasty glance at her, perceived that she shook down her luxuriant hair, which had been disarranged by a branch of thorn that was caught in it while stretching over the hedge. She at once recognized him, and blushed deeply; but he seemed altogether to have forgotten her. "Ha!" he exclaimed, "well, that I may be blest, but it's many a long day since I seen such a head o' hair as that! Holy St. Countryman, but it's a beauty. Musha, a Ora Gal, maybe you'll dispose of it, for, in troth, if ever a face livin' could afford to part with its best ornament, your's is that one." Mave smiled and blushed at the compliment, and the pedlar eyed her apparently with a mixed feeling of admiration and compassion. "No," she replied, "I haven't any desire to part with it." "You had the sickness, maybe?" "Thanks be to the mercy of God," she fervently exclaimed, "no one in this family has had it yet." "Well, achora," he continued, "if you take my advice you'll dispose of it, in regard that if the sickness--which may God prevent--should come, it will be well for you to have it off you. If you sell it, I'll give you either money or value for it; for indeed, an' truth it flogs all I've seen this many a day." "They say," observed her mother, "that it's not lucky to sell one's hair, and whether it's true or not I don't know; but I'm tould for a sartinty, that there's not a girl that ever sould it but was sure to catch the sickness." "I know that there's truth in that," said Jerry himself. "There's Sally Hacket, and Mary Geoghegan, and Katy Dowdall, all sould it, and not one of them escaped the sickness. And, moreover, didn't I hear Misther Cooper, the bleedin' doctor, say, myself, in the market, on Sathurday, that the people couldn't do a worse thing than cut their hair close, as it lets the sickness in by the head, and makes it tin times as hard upon them, when it comes." "Well, well, there's no arguin' wid you," said the pedlar, "all I say is, that you ought to part wid it, acushla--by all means you ought." "Never mind him, Mave darlin'," said her mother, whose motive in saying so was altogether dictated by affectionate apprehensions for her health. "No," replied her daughter, "it is not my intention, mother, to part with what God has given me. I have no notion of it." At this stage of the dialogue, her eldest brother, who had been getting a horse shod at the next forge, entered the house, and threw himself carelessly on a chair. His appearance occasioned a alight pause in the conversation. "Well, Denny," said the father, "what's the news?" "Bad news with the Daltons," replied the boy. "With the Daltons!" exclaimed Mave, trembling, and getting paler, if possible, than she was; "for God's mercy, Dennis, what has happened amongst them?" "I met Mrs. Dalton a while ago," he replied, "and she tould me that they had no one now to take care of them. Sarah M'Gowan, the Black Prophet's daughter, has catched the sickness, and is lyin' in a shed there beyant, that a poor thravellin' family was in about a week ago. Mrs. Dalton says her own family isn't worse wid the sickness, but betther, she thinks; but she was cryin', the daicent craythur, and she says they'll die wid neglect and starvation, for she must be out, and there's no one to attend to them, and they have nothing but the black wather, God help them!" While he spoke, Mave's eyes were fastened upon him, as if the sentence of her own life or death was about to issue from his lip. Gradually, however, she breathed more freely; a pale red tinged her cheek for a moment, after which, a greater paleness settled upon it again. The pedlar shook his head. "Ah," he exclaimed, "they are hard times, sure enough; may the Lord bring us all safe through them! Well, I see I'm not likely to make my fortune among you," he added, smiling, "so I must tramp on, but any way, I must thank you for house-room and your civility." "I'd offer something to ait," said Mrs. Sullivan, with evident pain, "but the truth is--" "Not a morsel," replied the other, "if the house was overflown.'. God bless you all--God bless you." Mave, almost immediately after her brother had concluded, passed to another room, and returned just as the old pedlar had gone out. She instantly followed him with a hasty step; while he, on hearing her foot, turned round. "You told me that you admired my hair," she said, on coming up to him. "Now, supposin' I'm willin' to sell it to you, what ought I to get for it?" "Don't be alarmed by what they say inside," replied the pedlar; "any regular doctor would tell that, in these times, it's safer to part wid it--that I may be happy but I'm tellin' you thruth. What is it worth? What are you axin?" "I don't know; but for God's sake cut it off, and give me the most you can afford for it. Oh! believe me, it's not on account of the mere value of it, but the money may save lives." "Why, achora, what do you intend doin' wid the money, if it's a fair question to ax?" "It's not a fair question for a stranger--it's enough for me to tell you that I'll do nothing with it without my father and mother's knowledge. Here, Denny," she said, addressing her brother, who was on his way to the stable, "slip a stool through the windy, an' stay wid me in the barn--I want to send you of a message in a few minutes." It is only necessary to say that the compensation was a more liberal one than Mave had at all expected, and the pedlar disencumbered her of as rich and abundant a mass of hair as ever ornamented a female head. This he did, however, in such a way as to render the absence of it as little perceptible as might be; the side locks he did not disturb, and Mave, when she put on a clean night cap, looked as if she had not undergone any such operation. As the pedlar was going away, he called her aside, so as that her brother might not hear. "Did you ever see me afore?" he asked. "I did," she replied, blushing. "Well, achora," he proceeded, "if ever you happen to be hard set, either for yourself or your friends, send for me, in Widow Hanlon's house at the Grange, an' maybe I may befriend either you or them; that is, as far as I can--which, dear knows, is not far; but, still an' all, send. I'm known as the Cannie Sugah, or Merry Pedlar, an' that'll do. God mark you, ahagur!" Her brother's intelligence respecting the situation of the Daltons, as well as of Sarah M'Gowan, saved Mave a long explanation to her parents for the act of having parted with her hair. "We are able to live--barely able to live," she exclaimed; "an' thanks be to God we have our health; but the Daltons--oh! they'll never get through what they're sufferin'; an' that girl--oh! mother, sich a girl as that is--how little does the world know of the heart that beautiful craythur has. May the mercy of God rest upon her! This money is for the poor Daltons an' her; we can do without it--an', mother dear, my hair will grow again. Oh! father dear, think of it--lyin' in a could shed by the road-side, an' no one to help or assist her--to hand her a drink--to ease her on her hard bed--bed!--no on the cold earth I suppose! Oh! think if I was in that desolate state. May God support me, but she's the first I'll see; an' while I have life an' strength, she musn't want attendance; an' thank God her shed's on my way to the Daltons!" She then hastily sent her brother into Ballynafail for such comforts as she deemed necessary for both parties; and in the mean time, putting a bonnet over her clean nightcap, she proceeded to the shed in which Sarah M'Gowan lay. On looking at it ere she entered, she could not help shuddering. It was such a place as the poorest pauper in the poorest cabin would not willingly place an animal in for shelter. It simply consisted of a few sticks laid up against the side of a ditch; over these sticks were thrown a few scraws--that is, the sward of the earth cut thin; in the inside was the remnant of some loose straw, the greater part having been taken away either for bedding or firing. When Mave entered, she started at the singular appearance of Sarah. From the first moment her person had been known to her until the present, she had never seen her look half so beautiful. She literally lay stretched upon a little straw, with no other pillow than a sod of earth under that rich and glowing cheek, while her raven hair had fallen down, and added to the milk-white purity of her shining neck and bosom. "Father of Mercy!" exclaimed Mave, mentally, "how will she live--how can she live here? An' what will become of her? Is she to die in this miserable way in a Christian land?" Sarah lay groaning with pain, and starting from time to time with the pangs of its feverish inflictions. Mave spoke not when she entered the shed, being ignorant whether Sarah was asleep or awake; but a very few moments soon satisfied her that the unhappy and deserted girl was under the influence of delirium. "I won't break my promise, father, but I'll break my heart; an' I can't even give her warnin'. Ah! but it's threacherous--an' I hate that. No, no--I'll have no hand in it--manage it your own way--it's threacherous. She has crossed my happiness,you say--ay, an' there you're right--so she has--only for her I might--amn't I as handsome, you say, an' as well shaped--haven't I as white a skin?--as beautiful hair, an' as good eyes?--people say betther--an' if I have, wouldn't he come to love me in time?--only for her--or if there wasn't that bar put between us. You're right, you're right. She's the cause of all my sufferin' an' sorrow. She is--I agree--I agree--down with her--out o' my way with her--I hate the thoughts of her--an' I'll join it--for mark me, father, wicked I may be, but more miserable I can't--so I'll join you in it. What need I care now?" Mave felt her heart sink, and her whole being disturbed with a heavy sense of terror, as Sarah uttered the incoherent rhapsody which we have just repeated. The vague, but strongly expressed warnings which she had previously heard from Nelly, and the earnest admonitions which that person had given her to beware of evil designs on the part of Donnel Dhu and his daughter, now rushed upon her mind; and she stood looking upon the desolate girl with feelings that it is difficult to describe. She also remembered that Sarah herself had told her in their very last interview, that she had other thoughts, and worse thoughts than the fair battle of rivalry between them would justify; and it was only now, too, that the unconscious allusion to the Prophet struck her with full force. Her sweet and gentle magnanimity, however, rose over every other consideration but the frightfully desolate state of her unhappy rival. Even in this case, also, her own fears of contagion yielded to the benevolent sense of duty by which she was actuated. "Come what will," she said to her own heart; "we ought to return good for evil; an' there's no use in knowing what is right, unless we strive to put it in practice. At any rate, poor girl--poor, generous Sarah, I'm afeard that you're never likely to do harm to me, or any one else, in this world. May God, in his mercy, pity and relieve you--and restore you wanst more to health!" Mave, unconsciously, repeated the last words aloud; and Sarah, who had been lying with her back to the unprotected opening of the shed, having had a slight mitigation, and but a slight one, of the paroxysm under which she had uttered the previous incoherencies, now turned round, and fixing her eyes upon Mave, kept sharply, but steadily, gazing at her for some time. It was quite evident, however, that consciousness had not returned, for after she had surveyed Mave for a minute or two, she proceeded-- "The devil was there a while ago, but I wasn't afeard of him, because I knew that God was stronger than him; and then there came an angel--another angel, not you--and put him away; but it wasn't my guardian angel for I never had a guardian angel--oh, never, never--no, nor any one to take care o' me, or make me love them." She uttered the last words in a tone of such deep and distressing sorrow, that Mave's eyes filled with tears, and she replied-- "Dear Sarah, let me be your guardian angel; I will do what I can for you; do you not know me?" "No, I don't; arn't you one o' the angels that come about me?--the place is full o' them." "Unhappy girl--or maybe happy girl," exclaimed Mave, with a fresh gush of tears, "who knows but the Almighty has your cold and deserted--bed I can't call it--surrounded with beings that may comfort you, an' take care that no evil thing will harm you. Oh no, dear Sarah, I am far from that--I'm a wake, sinful mortal." "Bekaise they're about me continually an'--let me see--who are you? I know you. One o' them said a while ago, 'May God relieve you and restore you wanst more to health;' I heard the voice." "Dear Sarah, don't you know me?" reiterated Mave; "look at me--don't you know Mave Sullivan--your friend, Mave Sullivan, that knows your value and loves you." "Who?" she asked, starting a little; "who--what name is that?--who is it?--say it again." "Don't you know Mave Sullivan, that loves you, an' feels for your miserable situation, my dear Sarah." "I never had a guardian angel, nor any one to take care o' me--nor a mother, many a time--often--often the whole world--jist to look at her face--an' to know--feel--love me. Oh, a dhrink, a dhrink--is there no one to get me a dhrink! I'm burnin', I'm burnin'--is there no one to get me a dhrink! Mave Sullivan, Mave Sullivan, have pity on me! I heard some one name her--I heard her voice--I'll die without a dhrink." Mave looked about the desolate shed, and to her delight spied a tin porringer, which Sarah's unhappy predecessors had left behind them; seizing this, she flew to a little stream that ran by the place, and filling the vessel, returned and placed it to Sarah's lips. She drank it eagerly, and looking piteously and painfully up into Mave's face, she laid back her head, and appeared to breathe more freely. Mave hoped that the drink of cold water would have cooled her fever and assuaged her thirst, so as to have brought her to a rational state--such a state as would have enabled the poor girl to give some account of the extraordinary situation in which she found herself, and of the circumstances which occasioned her to take shelter in such a place. In this, however, she was disappointed. Sarah having drank the cold water, once more shut her eyes, and fell into that broken and oppressive slumber which characterizes the terrible malady which had stricken her down. For some time she waited with this benign expectation, but seeing there was no likelihood of her restoration, to consciousness, she again filled the tin vessel, and placing it upon a stone by her bedside, composed the poor girl's dress about her, and turned her steps toward a scene in which she expected to find equal misery. It is not our intention, however, to dwell upon it. It is sufficient to say, that she found the Daltons--who, by the way, had a pretty long visit from the pedlar--as her brother had said, beginning to recover, and so far this was consolatory; but there was not within the walls of the house, earthly comfort, or food or nourishment of any kind. Poor Mary was literally gasping for want of sustenance, and a few hours more might have been fatal to them all. There was no fire--no gruel, milk or anything that could in the slightest possible degree afford them relief. Her brother Denny, however, who had been desired by her to fetch his purchases directly to their cabin, soon returned, and almost at a moment that might be called the crisis, not of their malady, for that had passed, but of their fate itself, his voice was heard, shouting from a distance that he had discharged his commission; for we may observe that no possible inducement could tempt him to enter that or any other house where fever was at work. Mave lost little time in administering to their wants and their weaknesses. With busy and affectionate hands she did all that could be done for them at that particular juncture. She prepared food for Mary, made whey and gruel, and left as much of her little purse as she thought could be spared from the wants of Sarah M'Gowan. In the course of two or three days afterwards, however, Sarah's situation was very much changed for the better; but until that change was effected, Mave devoted as much time to the poor girl as she could possibly spare. Nor was the force of her example without its beneficial effects in the neighborhood, especially as regarded Sarah herself. The courage she displayed, despite her constitutional timidity, communicated similar courage to others, in consequence of which Sarah was scarcely ever without some one in her bleak shed to watch and take care of her. Her father, however, on hearing of her situation, availed himself of what some of the neighbors considered a mitigation of her symptoms, and with as much care and caution as possible, she was conveyed home on a kind of litter, and nurse-tended by an old woman from the next village, Nelly having disappeared from the neighborhood. The attendance of this old woman, by the way, surprised the Prophet exceedingly. He had not engaged her to attend on Sarah, nor could he ascertain who had. Upon this subject she was perfectly inscrutable. All he could know or get out of her was, that she had been engaged; and he could perceive also, that she was able to procure her many general comforts, not usually to be had about the sick bed of a person in her condition of life. Mave, during all her attendance upon Sarah, was never able to ascertain whether, in the pauses of delirium, she had been able to recognize her. At one period, while giving her a drink of whey, she looked up into her eyes with something like a glance of consciousness, mingled with wonder, and appeared about to speak, but in a moment it was gone, and she relapsed into her former state. This, however, was not the only circumstance that astonished Mave. The course of a single week also made a very singular change in the condition of the Daltons. Their miserable cabin began to exhibit an abundance of wholesome food, such as fresh meat, soup, tea, sugar,white bread, and even to wine, to strengthen the invalids. These things were to Mave equally a relief and a wonder; nor were the neighbors less puzzled at such an unaccountable improvement in the circumstances of this pitiable and suffering family. As in the case of Sarah, however, all these comforts, and the source from whence they proceeded, were shrouded in mystery. It is true, Mrs. Dalton smiled in a melancholy way when any inquiries were made about the matter, and shaking her head, declared, that although she knew, it was out of her power to break the seal of secrecy, or violate the promise she had made to their unknown benefactor. Sarah's fever was dreadfully severe, and for some time after her removal from the shed, there was little hope of her recovery. Our friend, the pedlar, paid her a visit in the very height of her malady, and without permission, given or asked, took the liberty, in her father's absence, of completely removing her raven hair, with the exception, as in Mave's case, of those locks which adorn the face and forehead, and, to his shame and dishonesty be it told, without the slightest offer of remuneration. _ |
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