CHAPTER XXIII. — Darby in Danger—Nature Triumphs.
The mild and gentle Mave Sullivan, with all her natural grace and unobtrusive modesty, was yet like many of the fair daughters of her country, possessed of qualities which frequently lie dormant in the heart until some trying calamity or startling event of more than ordinary importance, awakens them into life and action. Indeed, any one in the habit of observing the world, may have occasionally noticed, that even within the range of his own acquaintances, there has been many a quiet and apparently diffident girl, without pretence or affectation of any kind, who when some unexpected and stunning blow has fallen either upon herself or upon some one within the circle of her affections, has manifested a spirit so resolute or a devotion so heroic, that she has at once constituted herself the lofty example whom all admire and endeavor to follow. The unrecorded calamities of ordinary life, and the annals of human affection, as they occur from day to day around us, are full of such noble instances of courage and self sacrifice on the part of woman for the sake of those who are dear to her. Dear, holy, and heroic woman! how frequently do we who too often sneer at your harmless vanities and foibles, forget the light by which your love so often dispels the darkness of our affliction, and the tenderness with which your delicious sympathy charms our sorrows and our sufferings to rest, when nothing else can succeed in giving us one moment's consolation!
The situation of the Daltons, together with the awful blow which fell upon them at a period of such unexampled misery, had now become the melancholy topic of conversation among their neighbors, most, if not all, of whom were, however, so painfully absorbed in their own individual afflictions either of death, or famine, or illness, as to be able to render them no assistance. Such as had typhus in their own families were incapable of attending to the wants or distress of others, and such as had not, acting under the general terror of contagion which prevailed, avoided the sick houses as they would a plague.
On the morning after old Dalton's removal to prison, Jerry Sullivan and his family were all assembled around a dull fire, the day being, as usual, so wet that it was impossible to go out unless upon some matter of unusual importance; there was little said, for although they had hitherto escaped the fever, still their sufferings and struggles were such as banished cheerfulness from among them. Mave appeared more pale and dejected than they had ever yet seen her, and it was noticed by one or two of the family, that she had been occasionally weeping in some remote corner of the house where she thought she might do so without being observed.
“Mave, dear,” said her father, “what is the matter wid you? You look, darlin', to be in very low spirits to-day. Were you cryin'?”
She raised her large innocent eyes upon him, and they instantly filled with tears.
“I can't keep it back from you, father,” she replied, “let me do as I will—an' oh, father dear, when we look out upon the world that is in it, an' when we see how the hand o' God is takin' away so many from among us, and when we see how the people everywhere is sufferin' and strugglin' wid so much—how one is here this day, and in a week to come in the presence of their Judge! Oh, surely, when we see all the doin's of death and distress about us, we ought to think that it's no time to harbor hatred or any other bad or unchristian feelin's in our hearts!”
“It is not, indeed, darlin'; an' I hope nobody here does.”
“No,” she replied; and as she spoke, the vibrations of sorrow and of sympathy shook her naturally sweet voice into that tender expression which touches the heart of the hearer with such singular power—“no, father,” she proceeded, “I hope not; religion teaches us a different lesson—not only to forgive our enemies, but to return good for evil.”
“It does, achora machree,” replied her father, whose eyes expressed a kind of melancholy pride, as he contemplated his beautiful but sorrowful looking girl, giving utterance to truths which added an impressive and elevated character to her beauty.
“Young and ould, achushla machree, is fallin' about us in every direction; but may the Father of Mercy spare you to us, my darlin' child, for if anything was to happen you, where—Oh, where could we look upon your aiquil, or find anything that could console us for your loss?”
“If it's my fate to go, father, I'll go, an if it isn't God will take care of me; whatever comes, I'm resigned to His will.”
“Ay, dear, an' you ever wor, too—and for the same raison God's blessin' will be upon you; but what makes you look so low, avourneen? I trust in my Saviour, you are not unwell, Mave, dear.”
“Thanks be to God, no, father; but there's a thing on my mind, that's distressin' me very much, an' I hope you'll allow me my way in it.”
“I may say so, dear; because I know you wouldn't ax me for anything that 'ud be wrong to grant you. What is it, Mave?”
“It's the unhappy an' miserable state that these poor Daltons is in,” she replied. “Father, dear, forgive me for what I'm about to say; for, although it may make you angry, there's nothin' farther from my heart than to give you offence.”
“You needn't tell me so, Mave; you need not, indeed; but sure you know, darlin', that unfortunately, we have nothing in our power to do for them; I wish to the Lord we had! Didn't we do all that people in our poor condition could do for them? Didn't you, yourself, achora, make us send them such little assistance as we could spare?—ay, even to sharin' I may say, our last morsel wid them; an' now, darlin', you know we haven't it.”
“I know that,” she replied, as she wiped away the tears; “where is there a poorer family than we are, sure enough? but, father, dear; we can assist them—relieve them; ay, maybe save them—for all that.”
“God be praised then!” exclaimed Sullivan; “only show me how, an' we'll be glad to do it; for I can forget everything now, Mave, but their distress.”
“But do you know the condition they're in at this moment?” she asked, “do you know, father, that they're stretched on the bed of sickness? I mean Nancy an'—an' young Con, who has got into a relapse; poor Mary is scarcely able to go about, she's so badly recovered from the fever; an' Tom, the wild unfortunate young man, is out of his senses, they say. Then there's nobody to look to them but Mrs. Dalton herself; an' she, you know, has to go 'out' to ask their poor bit from the neighbors. Only think,” she proceeded, with a fresh burst of sorrow, “oh, only think, father, of sich a woman bein' forced to this!”
“May the Lord pity her an' them, this woeful day!” exclaimed Sullivan.
“Now, father,” proceeded Mave; “I know—oh who knows better or so well—what a good an' a kind an' a forgivin' heart you have; an' I know that even in spite of the feelin' that was, and maybe is, upon your mind against them, you'll grant me my wish in what I'm goin' to ask.”
“What is it then?—let me hear it.”
“It's this: you know that here, in our family I can do nothing to help ourselves—that is, there is nothing for me to do—an' I feel the time hang heavy on my hands. I have been thinkin', father dear, of this miserable state the poor Daltons is in, without any one to attend them in their sickness—to say a kind word to them, or to hand them even a drink of clean water, if they wanted it. Them that hasn't got the fever yet, won't go near them for fear of catchin' it. What, then, will become of them? There they are, without the face, or hand, or voice of kindness about them. Oh, what on God's blessed earth will become of them? They may die an' they must die, for want of care and assistance.”
“But sure that's not our fault, dear Mave; we can't help them.”
“We can, father—an' we must; for if we don't they'll die. Father,” she added, laying her wasted hand in his; “it is my intention to go over to them—an' as I have nothing that I can do at home, to spend the greater part of the day with them in takin' care of them—an'—an' in doin' what I can for them, Yes, father dear—it is my intention—for there is none but me to do it for them.”
“Saviour of earth, Mave dear, is it mad you are? You, achora machree, that's! dearer to us all than the apple of our eye, or the very pulse of our hearts—to let you into a plague-house—to let you near the deadly faver that's upon them—where you'd be sure to catch it; an' then—oh, blessed Father. Mave what's come over you, to think of sich a thing?—ay, or to think that we'd let you expose yourself? But it's all the goodness and kindness of your affectionate heart; put it out of your head, however—don't name it, or let us hear of it again.”
“But, father, it's a duty that our religion teaches us.”
“Why—what's come over you, Mave?—all at wanst too—you that was so much afeard of it that you wouldn't go on a windy side of a feverish house, nor walk near any one that was even recoverin' from it. Why, what's come over you?”
“Simply, father, the thought if I don't go to them and help them, they will die. I was afeard of the fever, and I am afeard of it—but am I to let my own foolish fears prevent me from doin' the part of a Christian to them? Let us put ourselves in their place—an' who knows—although may God forbid!—but it may be our own before the season passes—suppose it was our own case—an' that all the world was afeard to come near us; oh, what would we think of any one, man or woman, that trustin' in God, would set their own fears at defiance, an' come to our relief.”
“Mave, I couldn't think of it; if anything happened you, an' that we lost you, I never would lay my head down without the bitther thought that I had a hand in your death.”
At this moment, the mother who had been in another room, came in to the kitchen—and having listened for a minute to the subject of their conversation, she immediately joined her husband; but still with feelings of deep and almost tearful sympathy for the Daltons.
“It's like her, poor affectionate girl,” she exclaimed, looking tenderly at her daughter; “but it's a thing, Mave, we could never think of; so put it out of your head.”
She approached her mother, and, seizing her hands, exclaimed:—
“Oh, mother, for the sake of the livin' God, make it your own case!—think of it—bring it home to you—look into the frightful state they're in. Are they to die in a Christian country for want of some kind person to attend upon them? Is it not our duty, when we know how they are sufferin'? I cannot rest, or be at ease; an' I am not afeard of fever here. You may say I love young Condy Dalton, an' that it is on his account I am wishin' to go. Maybe it is; an' I will now tell you at wanst, that I do love him, and that if it was the worst plague that ever silenced the noise of life in a whole country, it wouldn't prevent me from goin' to his relief, nor to the relief of any one belongin' to him.”
“I know,” said her father, “that that was at the bottom of it.”
“I do love him,” she continued, “an' this is more than ever I had courage to tell you openly before; but, father, I feel that I am called upon here to go to their assistance, and to see that they don't die from neglect in a Christian country. I have trust an' confidence in the Almighty God. I am not afeard of fever now; and even if I take it an' die, you both know that I'll die in actin' the part of a Christian girl; an' what brighter hope could anything bring to us than the happiness that such a death would open to me? But here I feel that the strength and protection of God is upon me, and I will not die.”
“That's all very well Mave,” said her mother; “but if you took it, and did die—oh, darlin'———”
“In God's name, then, I'll take my chance, an' do the duty that I feel myself called upon to do; and, father dear, just think for a minute—the thrue Christian doesn't merely forgive the injury but returns good for evil; and then, above all things, let us make it our own case. As I said before, if we were as they are—lyin' racked with pain, burnin' with druth, the head splittin', the whole strength gone—not able, maybe, to spake, and hardly able to make a sign—to wake ourselves, to put a drink to our lips;—suppose, I say, we wor lyin' in this state, an' that all the world had deserted us—oh, wouldn't we say that any fellow-crature that had the kindness and the courage to come and aid us—wet our lips, raise our heads, and cheer our sinkin' hearts by the sound of their voice alone—oh, wouldn't we say that it was God that in His mercy put it into their heart to come to us, and relieve us, and save us?”
The mother's feelings gave way at this picture; and she said, addressing her husband—
“Jerry, maybe it's right that she should go, bekaise, afther all, what if it's God Himself that has put it into her heart?”
He shook his head, but it was clear that his opposition began to waver.
“Think of the danger,” he replied; “think of that. Still if I thought it was God's own will that was setting her to it—”
“Father,” she replied, “let us do what is right, and lave the rest to God Himself. Surely you aren't afeard to trust in Him. I may take the fever here at home, without goin' at all, and die; for if it's His blessed will that I should die of it, nothing can save me, let me go or stay where I plaise; and if it's not, it matthers little where I go; His divine grace and goodness will take care of me and protect me. It's to God Himself, then, you are trustin' me, an' that ought to satisfy you.”
Her parents looked at each other—then at her; and, with tears in their eyes, as if they had been parting with her as for a sacrifice, they gave a consent, in which that humble confidence in the will of God which constitutes the highest order of piety, was blended with a natural yearning and terror of the heart, lest they were allowing her to place herself rashly within the fatal reach of the contagion which prevailed. Having obtained their permission, she lost very little time in preparing for the task she had proposed to execute. A very small portion of meal, and a little milk, together with one or two jugs of gruel, whey, &c, she put under her cloak; and after getting the blessings of her parents, and kissing them and the rest of the family, she departed upon her pious—her sublime mission, followed by the tears and earnest prayers of her whole family.
How anomalous, and full of mysterious and inexplicable impulses is the human heart! Mave Sullivan, who, in volunteering to attend at the contagious beds of the unfortunate Daltons, gave singular and noble proof of the most heroic devotedness, absolutely turned from the common road, on her way to their cabin, rather than meet the funeral of a person who had died of fever, and on one or two occasions kept aloof from men who she knew to be invalids by the fact of their having handkerchiefs about their heads—a proof, in general, that they had been shaved or blistered, while laboring under its severest form.
When she had gone within about a quarter of a mile of her destination, she met two individuals, whose relative positions indicated anything but a state of friendly feeling between them. The persons we allude to were Thomas Dalton and the miserable object of his vengeance, Darby Skinadre. Our readers are aware that Sarah caused Darby to accompany her, for safety, to the cabin of the Daltons, as she feared that, should young Dalton again meet him at the head of his mob, and he in such a furious and unsettled state, the hapless miser might fall a victim to his vengeance. No sooner, therefore, had the meal-monger heard Tom's name mentioned by his father, when about to proceed to prison, than he left a dark corner of the cabin, into which he had slunk, and, passing out, easily disappeared, without being noticed, in the state of excitement which prevailed.
The very name of Tom reminded him that he was in his father's house, and that should he return, and find him there, he might expect little mercy at his hands. Tom, however, amidst the melancholy fatuity under which he labored, never forgot that he had an account to settle with Skinadre. It ran through his unsettled understanding like a sound thread through a damaged web; for ever and anon his thought and recollection would turn to Peggy Murtagh, and the miser's refusal to give her credit for the food she asked of him. During the early part of that day he had gone about with a halter in his hand, as if seeking some particular individual; and whenever he chanced to be questioned as to his object, he always replied with a wild and ferocious chuckle—
“The fellow that killed her!—the fellow that killed her!”
Upon the present occasion, Mave was surprised by meeting him and the miser, whom he must have met accidentally, walking side by side, but in a position which gave fearful intimation of Dalton's purpose respecting him. Around the unfortunate wretch's neck was the halter aforesaid, made into a running noose, while, striding beside him, went his wild and formidable companion, holding the end of it in his hand, and eyeing him from time to time with a look of stupid but determined ferocity. Skinadre's appearance and position were ludicrously and painfully helpless. His face was so pale and thin that it was difficult to see, even in those frightfuf times of sickness and famine, a countenance from which they were more significantly reflected. He was absolutely shrunk up with terror into half his size, his little thin, corded neck appearing as if it were striving unsuccessfully to work its way down into his trunk, and his small ferret eyes looking about in every direction for some one to extricate him out of the deadly thrall in which he was held. Mave, who had been aware of the enmity which his companion bore him, as well as of its cause, and fearing that the halter was intended to hang the luckless mealman, probably upon the next tree they came to, did not, as many another female would do, avoid or run away from the madman. On the contrary, she approached him with an expression singularly winning and sweet on her countenance, and in a voice of great kindness, laid her hand upon his arm to arrest his attention, asked him how he did. He paused a moment, and looking upon her with a dull but turbid eye, exclaimed with an insane laugh, pointing at the same time, to the miser—“This is the fellow that killed her—ha, ha, ha, but I have him now—here he is in the noose; in the noose. Ay, an' I swore it, an' there's another, too, that's to get it, but I won't rob any body, nor join in that at all; I'll hang him here, though—ha, Darby, I have you now.”
As he spoke, poor Skinadre received a chuck of the halter which almost brought his tongue out as far as in the throttling process which we have before described.
“Mave, achora,” said he, looking at her after his recovery from the powerful jerk he had just got, “for the sake of heaven, try an' save my life; if you don't he'll never let me out of his hands a livin' man.”
“Don't be alarmed, Darby,” she replied, “poor Tom won't injure you; so far from that, he'll take the halter from about your neck, an' let you go. Won't you let poor Darby go, Tom?”
“I will,” he replied, “after I hang him—ha, ha, ha; 'twas he that killed her; he let her die wid hunger, but now he'll swing for it, ha, ha!”
These words were accompanied by another chuck, which pulled miserable Skinadre almost off his legs.
“Tom, for shame,” said Mave, “why would you do sich an unmanly thing with this poor ould crature?—be a man, and let him go.”
“Ay, when he's, hangin', wid his tongue out, ha, ha, ha; wait till we get to the Rabbit Bank, where there's a tree to be had; I've sworn it, ay, on her very grave too; so good-by, Mave! Come along, Darby.”
“Mave, as you expect to have the gates of Heaven opened to your sowl, an' don't lave me,” exclaimed the miser with clasped hands.
Mave looked up and down the road, but could perceive no one approach who might render the unfortunate man assistance.
“Tom,” said she, “I must insist on your settin' the poor man at liberty; I insist upon it. You cannot, an' you must not take his life in a Christian country; if you do, you know you will be hanged yourself. Let him go immediately.”
“Oh, ay,” he replied, “you insist, Mave; but I'll tell you what—I'll put Peggy in a coach yet, when I come into my fortune; an' so you'll insist, will you? Jest look at that wrist of yours,” he replied, seizing hers, but with gentleness, “and then look at this of mine; an' now will you tell me that you'll insist? Come, Darby, we're bound for the Bank; there's not a beech there but's a hundred feet high, an' that's higher than ever I'll make you swing from. Your heart bled for her, didn't it! but how will you look when I have you facin' the sun, wid your tongue out?”
“Tom,” replied the wretch, “I go on my knees to you, an' as you hope, Tom—”
“Hope, you hard-hearted hound! isn't her father's curse upon me? ay, an' in me? Wasn't she destroyed among us? an' you bid me hope. By the broken heart she died of, you'll get a double tug for that,” and he was about to drag him on in a state of great violence, when Mave again placed her hand upon, his arm, and said—
“I am sure, Tom, you are not ungrateful; I am sure you would not forget a kind act done to poor Peggy, that's gone.”
“Peggy!” he replied, “what's about her? gone!—Peggy gone!—is she gone?”
“She is gone,” replied Mave, “but not lost; an' it is most likely that she is now looking down with displeasure at your conduct and intentions towards this poor man; but listen.”
“Are you goin' to spake about Peggy, though?”
“I am, and listen. Do you remember one evenin' in the early part of this summer, it was of a Sunday, there was a crowd about old Brian Murtagh's house, and the report of Peggy's shame had gone abroad and couldn't be kept from people's eyes any longer. She was turned out of her father's house—she was beaten by her brother who swore that he would take the life of the first person, whether man or woman, young or ould, that would give her one hour's shelter. She was turned out, poor, young, misled and mistaken crature, and no one would resave her, for no one durst. There was a young girl then passin' through the village, on her way home, much about Peggy's own age, but barring in one respect, neither so good nor so handsome. Poor Peggy ran to that young girl, an' she was goin' to throw herself into her arms, but she stopped. 'I am not worthy,' she said, cryin' bitterly; 'I am not worthy,—but oh, I have no roof to shelter me, for no one dare take me in. What will become of me?'”
While she spoke, Dalton's mind appeared to have been stirred into something like a consciousness of his situation, and his memory to have been brought back, as it were, from the wild and turbulent images, which had impaired its efficacy, to a personal recollection of circumstances that had ceased to affect him. His features, for instance, became more human, his eye more significant of his feeling, and his whole manner more quiet and restored. He looked upon the narrator with an awakened interest, surveyed Darby, as if he scarcely knew how or why he came there, and then sighed deeply. Mave proceeded:
“'I am an outcast now,' said poor Peggy; 'I have neither house nor home; I have no father, no mother, no brother, an' he that I loved, an' said that he loved me, has deserted me. Oh,' said she, 'I have nothing to care for, an' nobody to care for me now, an' what was dearest of all—my good name—is gone: no one will shelter me, although I thought of nothing but my love for Thomas Dalton!' She was scorned, Thomas Dalton, she was insulted and abused by women who knew her innocence and her goodness till she met him; every tongue was against her, every hand was against her, and every door was closed against her; no, not every one—the young woman she spoke to, with tears in her eyes, out of compassion for one so young and unfortunate, brought Peggy Murtagh home, and cried with her, and gave her hope, and consoled her, and pleaded with her father and mother for the poor deluded girl in such a way that they forgot her misfortune and sheltered her; till, after her brother's death, she was taken in again to her own father's house. Now, Tom, wouldn't you like to oblige that girl who was kind to poor Peggy Murtagh?”
“It was in Jerry Sullivan's—it was into your father's house she was taken.”
“It was Tom; and the young woman who befriended Peggy Murtagh is now standin' by your side and asks you to let Darby Skinadre go; do, then, let him go, for the sake of that young woman!”
Mave, on concluding, looked up into his face, and saw that his eyes were moist; he then smiled moodily, and, placing his hand upon her head in an approving manner, said—
“You wor always good, Mave—here, set Darby free; but my mind's uneasy; I'm not right, I doubt:—nor as I ought to be; but I'll tell you what—I'll go back towards home wid you, if you'll tell me more about Peggy.”
“Do so,” she replied, delighted at such a proposal; “an' I will tell you many a thing about her; an' you, Darby,” she added, turning round to that individual—short, however, as the time was, the exulting, but still trembling usurer was making his way, at full speed, towards his own house; so that she was spared the trouble of advising him, as she had intended, to look to his safety as well as he could. Such was the gentle power with which Mave softened and subdued this ferocious and unsettled young man to her wishes; and, indeed, so forcible in general was her firm but serene enthusiasm, that wherever the necessity for exerting it occurred, it was always crowned with success.
Thomas Dalton as might be expected, swayed by the capricious impulse of his unhappy derangement, did not accompany her to his father's cabin. When within a few hundred yards of it, he changed his intention, and struck across the country like one who seemed uncertain as to the course he should take. Of late, indeed, he rambled about, sometimes directing, otherwise associating himself with, such mobs as we have described; sometimes wandering, in a solitary manner, through the country at large; and but seldom appearing at home. On the present occasion, he looked at Mave, and said:
“I hate sick people, Mave, an' I won't go home; but, whisper, when you see Peggy Murtagh's father, tell him that I'll have her in a coach, yet, plaise God, an' he'll take the curse off o' me, when he hears it, maybe, an' all will be right.”
He then bid her good-bye, turned from the road, and bent his steps in the direction of the Rabbit Bank, on one of the beeches of which he had intended to hang the miser.
CHAPTER XXIV. — Rivalry.
If the truth were known, the triumph which Mave Sullivan achieved over the terror of fever which she felt in common with almost every one in the country around her, was the result of such high-minded devotion, as would have won her a statue in the times of old Greece, when self-sacrifice for human good was appreciated and rewarded. In her case, indeed, the triumph was one of almost unparalleled heroism; for among all the difficulties which she had to overcome, by far the greatest was her own constitutional dread of contagion. It was only on reaching the miserable pest-house in which the Daltons lived, and on witnessing, with her own eyes, the clammy atmosphere which, in the shape of dark heavy smoke, was oozing in all directions from its roof, that she became conscious of the almost fatal step that she was about to take, and the terrible test of Christian duty and exalted affection, to which she was in the act of subjecting herself.
On arriving at the door, and when about to enter, even the resolution she had come to, and the lofty principle of trust in God, on which it rested, were scarcely able to support her against the host of constitutional terrors, which, for a moment, rushed upon her breast. The great act of self-sacrifice, as it may almost be termed, which she was about to perform, became so diminished in her imagination, that all sense of its virtue passed away; and instead of gaining strength from a consciousness of the pure and unselfish motive by which she was actuated, she began to contemplate her conduct as the result of a rash and unjustifiable presumption on the providence of God, and a wanton exposure of the life he had given her. She felt herself tremble; her heart palpitated, and for a minute or two her whole soul became filled with a tumultuous and indistinct! perception of all she had proposed to do, as well as of everything about her. Gradually, however, his state of feeling cleared away—by and by the purity and Christian principle that were involved in her conduct, came to her relief.
“What,” she asked herself, “if they should die without assistance? In God's name, and with his strength to aid me, I will run all risks, and fulfil the task I have taken upon me to do. May he support and protect me through it.”
Thus resolved, and thus fortified, she entered the gloomy scene of sickness and contagion.
There were but four persons within: that is to say, her lover, his sister Nancy, Mary the invalid, and Sarah M'Gowan. Nancy and her brother were now awake, and poor Mary occupied her father's arm-chair, in which she sat with her head reclined upon the back of it, somewhat, indeed, after his own fashion—and Sarah opposite young Con's bed, having her eyes fixed, with a mournful expression, on his pale and almost deathlike countenance. Mave's appearance occasioned the whole party to feel much surprise—and Mary rose from her arm-chair, and greeting her affectionately, said—
“I cannot welcome you, dear Mave, to sick a place as this—and indeed I am sorry you came to see us—for I needn't tell you what I'd feel—what we'd all feel,” and here she looked quickly, but with the slightest possible significance at her brother, “if anything happened you in consequence; which may God forbid! How are you all at home?”
“We are all free from sickness, thank God,” said Mave, whom the presence of Sarah caused to blush deeply; “but how are you all here? I am sorry to find that poor Nancy is ill—and that Con has got a relapse.”
She turned her eyes upon him as she spoke, and, on contemplating his languid and sickly countenance, she could only, by a great effort, repress her tears.
“Do not come near us, dear Mave,” said Dalton, “and, indeed, it was wrong to come here at all.”
“God bless you, an' guard you, Mave,” said Nancy, “an' we feel your goodness; but as Con says, it was wrong to put yourself in the way of danger. For God's sake, and as you hope to escape this terrible sickness, lave the house at wanst. We're sensible of your kindness—but lave us—lave us—for every minute you stop, may be death to you.”
Sarah, who had never yet spoken to Mave, turned her black mellow eyes from her to her lover, and from him to her alternately. She then dropped them for a time on the ground, and again looked round her with something like melancholy impatience. Her complexion was high and flushed, and her eyes sparkled with unaccustomed brilliancy.
“It's not right two people should run sich risk on our account,” said Con, looking towards Sarah; “here's a young woman who has come to nurse, tend and take care of us, for which, may God bless her, and protect her!—it's Sarah M'Gowan, Donnel Dhu's daughter.”
“Think of Mave Sullivan,” said Sarah—“think only' of Mave Sullivan—she's in danger—ha—but as for me—suppose I should take the faver and die?”
“May God forbid, poor girl,” exclaimed Con; “it would lave us all a sad heart. Dear Mave don't stop here—every minute is dangerous.”
Sarah went over to the bedside, and putting her hand gently upon his forehead, said—
“Don't spake to pity me—I can't bear pity; anything at all but pity from you. Say you don't care what becomes of me, or whether I die or not—but don't pity me.”
It is extremely difficult to describe Sarah's appearance and state of mind as she spoke this. Her manner towards Con was replete with tenderness, and the most earnest and anxious interest, while at the same time there ran through her voice a tone of bitter feeling, an evident consciousness of something that pressed strongly on her heart, which gave a marked and startling character to her language.
Mave for a moment forgot everything but the interest which Sarah, and the mention of her, excited. She turned gently round from Mary, who had been speaking to her, and fixing her eyes on Sarah, examined her with pardonable curiosity, from head to foot; nor will she be blamed, we trust, if, even then and there, the scrutiny was not less close, in consequence of it having been I known to her that in point of beauty, and symmetry of figure, they had stood towards each other, for some time past, in the character of rivals. Sarah who had on, without stockings, a pair of small slippers, a good deal the worse for wear, had risen from the bed side, and now stood near the fire, directly opposite the only little window in the house, and, consequently, in the best light it afforded. Mave's glance, though rapid, was comprehensive; but she felt it was sufficient: the generous girl, on contemplating the wild grace and natural elegance of Sarah's figure, and the singular beauty and wonderful animation of her features, instantly, in her own mind, surrendered all claim to competition, and admitted to herself that Sarah was, without exception, the most perfectly beautiful girl she ever seen. Her last words, too, and the striking tone in which they were spoken, arrested her attention still more; so that she passed naturally from the examination of her person to the purport of her language.
We trust that our readers know enough of human nature, to understand that this examination of Sarah, upon the part of Mave Sullivan, was altogether an involuntary act, and one which occurred in less time than we have taken to write any one of the lines in which it is described.
Mave, who perceived at once that the words of Sarah were burdened by some peculiar distress, could not prevent her admiration from turning into pity without exactly knowing why; but in consequence of what Sarah had just said, she feared to express it either by word or look, lest she might occasion her unnecessary pain. She consequently, after a slight pause, replied to her lover—
“You must not blame me, dear Con, for being here. I came to give whatever poor attendance I could to Nancy here, and to sich of you as want it, while you're sick. I came, indeed, to stay and nurse you all, if you will let me; an' you won't be sorry to hear it, in spite of all that has happened, that I have the consent of my father an' mother for so doin'.”
A faint smile of satisfaction lit up her lover's features, but this was soon overshadowed by his apprehension for her safety.
Sarah, who had for about a half minute been examining Mave on her part, now started, and exclaimed with flashing eyes, and we may add, a bursting and distracted heart—
“Well, Mave Sullivan, I have often seen you, but never so well as now. You have goodness an' truth in your face. Oh, it's a purty face—a lovely face. But why do you state a falsehood here—for what you've just said is false; I know it.”
Mave started, and in a moment her pale face and neck were suffused by one burning blush, at the idea of such an imputation. She looked around her, as if enquiring from all those who were present the nature of the falsehood attributed to her; and then with a calm but firm eye, she asked Sarah what she could mean by such language.
“You're afther sayin',” replied Sarah, “that you're come here to nurse Nancy there. Now that's not true, and you know it isn't. You come here to nurse young Con Dalton: and you came to nurse him, bekaise you love him. No, I don't blame you for that, but I do for not saying so, without fear or disguise—for I hate both.”
“That wouldn't be altogether true either,” replied Mave, “if I said so; for I did come to nurse Nancy, and any others of the family that might stand in need of it. As to Con, I'm neither ashamed to love him, nor afeard to acknowledge it; and I had no notion of statin' a falsehood when I said what I did. I tell you, then, Sarah M'Gowan, that you've done me injustice. If there appeared to be a falsehood in my words, there was none in my heart.”
“That's truth; I know, I feel that that's truth,” replied Sarah, quickly; “but oh, how wrong I am,” she exclaimed, “to mention that or anything else here that might distract him! Ah,” she proceeded, addressing Mave, “I did you injustice—I feel I did, but don't be angry with me, for I acknowledge it.”
“Why should I be angry with you?” replied Mave, “you only spoke what you thought, an' this, by all accounts, is what you always do.”
“Let us talk as little as possible here,” replied Sarah, the sole absorbing object of whose existence lay in Dalton's recovery. “I will speak to you on your way home, but not here—not here;” and while uttering the last words she pointed to Dalton, to intimate that further conversation might disturb him.
“Dear Mave,” observed Mary, now rising from her chair, “you are stayin' too long; oh, for God's sake, don't stop; you can't dhrame of the danger you're in.”
“But,” replied Mave, calmly, “you know, Mary, that I came to stop and to do whatever I can do till the family comes round. You are too feeble to undertake anything, and might only get into a relapse if you attempted it.”
“But, then we have Sarah M'Gowan,” she replied, “who came, as few would—none livin' this day, I think, barrin' yourself and her—to stay with us, and to do anything that she can do for us all. May God for ever bless her! for short as the time is, I think she has saved some of our lives—Condy's without a doubt.”
Mave turned towards Sarah, and, as she looked upon her, the tears started to her eyes.
“Sarah M'Gowan,” said she, “you are fond of truth, an' you are right; I can't find words to thank you for doin' what you did, God bless and reward you!”
She extended her hand as she spoke, but Sarah put it back. “No,” said she, indignantly, “never from you; above all that's livin' don't you thank me. You, you, why you arn't his wife yet,” she exclaimed, in a suppressed voice of deep agitation, “an maybe you never will. You don't know what may happen—you don't know—”
She immediately seemed to recollect something that operated as a motive to restrain any exhibition of strong feeling or passion on her part, for all at once she composed herself, and sitting down, merely said:—
“Mave Sullivan, I'm glad you love truth, and I believe you do; I can't, then, resave any thanks from you, nor I won't; an' I would tell you why, any place but here.”
“I don't at all understand you,” replied Mave; “but for your care and attention to him, I'm sure it's no harm to say, may God reward you! I will never forget it to you.”
“While I have life,” said Dalton feebly, and fixing his eyes upon Sarah's face, “I, for one, won't forget her kindness.”
“Kindness!” she re-echoed—“ha, ha!—well, it's no matter—it's no matter!”
“She saved my life, Mave; I was lyin' here, and hadn't even a drink of water, and there was no one else in the house; Mary, there, was out, an' poor Nancy was ravin' an' ragin' with illness and pain; but she, Sarah, was here to settle us, to attend us, to get us a drink whenever we wanted it—to raise us up, an' to put it to our lips, an' to let us down with as little pain as possible. Oh, how could I forget all this? Dear, dear Sarah, how could I forget this if I was to live a thousand years?”
Con's face, while he spoke, became animated with the enthusiasm of the feeling to which he gave utterance, and, as his eyes were fixed on Sarah with a suitable expression, there appeared to be a warmth of emotion in his whole manner which a sanguine person might probably interpret in something beyond gratitude.
Sarah, after he had concluded, looked upon him with a long, earnest, but uncertain gaze; so long, indeed, and so intensely penetrating was it, that the whole energy of her character might, for a time, be read clearly in the singular expression of her eyes. It was evident that her thoughts were fluttering between pleasure and pain, cheerfulness and gloom; but at length her countenance lost, by degrees its earnest character, the alternate play of light and shadow over it ceased, and the gaze changed, almost imperceptibly, into one of settled abstraction.
“It might be,” she said, as if thinking aloud—“it might be—but time will tell; and, in the manetime, everything must be done fairly—fairly; still, if it shouldn't come to pass—if it should not—it would be betther if I had never been born; but it may be, an' time will tell.”
Mave had watched her countenance closely, and without being able to discover the nature of the conflict that appeared in it, she went over, and placing her hand gently upon Sarah's arm, exclaimed—
“Don't blame me for what I'm goin' to say, Sarah—if you'll let me call you Sarah; but the truth is, I see that your mind is troubled. I wish to God I could remove that trouble, or that any one here could! I am sure they all would, as willingly as myself.”
“She is troubled,” said Mary; “I know by her manner that there's something distressing on her mind. Any earthly thing that we could do to relieve her we would; but I asked her, and she wouldn't tell me.”
It is likely that Mary's kindness, and especially Mave's, so gently, but so sincerely expressed, touched her as they spoke. She made no reply, however, but approached Mave with a slight smile on her face, her lips compressed, and her eyes, which were fixed and brilliant, floating in something that looked like moisture, and which might as well have been occasioned by the glow of anger as the impulse of a softer emotion, or perhaps—and this might be nearer the truth—as a conflict between the two states of feeling. For some moments she looked into Mave's very eyes, and after a little, she seemed to regain her composure, and sat down without speaking. There was a slight pause occasioned by the expectation that she had been about to reply, during which Dalton's eyes were fixed upon her. In her evident distress, she looked upon him. Their eyes met, and the revelation that that glance of anguish, on the part of Sarah, gave to him, disclosed the secret.
“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, involuntarily and unconsciously, “is this possible?”
Sarah felt that the discovery had been made by him at last; and seeing that all their eyes were still upon her, she rose up, and approaching Mave, said—
“It is true, Mave Sullivan, I am troubled—Mary, I am troubled;” and as she uttered the words, a blush so deep and so beautiful spread itself over her face and neck, that the very females present were, for the moment, lost in admiration of her radiant youth and loveliness. Dalton's eyes were still upon her, and after a little time, he said—
“Sarah, come to me.”
She went to his bedside, and kneeling, bent her exquisite figure over him; and as her dark brilliant eyes looked into his, he felt the fragrance of her breath mingling with his own.
“What is it?” said she.
“You are too near me,” said he.
“Ah, I feel I am,” she said, shaking her head.
“I mane,” he added, “for your own safety. Give me your hand, dear Sarah.”
He took her hand, and raising himself a little on his right side, he looked upon her again; and as he did so, she felt a few warm tears falling upon it.
“Now,” he said, “lay me down again, Sarah.”
A few moments of ecstatic tumult, in which Sarah was unconscious of anything about her, passed. She then rose, and sitting down on the little stool, she wept for some minutes in silence. During this quiet paroxysm no one spoke; but when Dalton turned his eyes upon Mave Sullivan, she was pale as ashes.
Mary, who had noticed nothing particular in the incidents just related, now urged Mave to depart; and the latter, on exchanging glances with Dalton, could perceive that a feeble hectic had overspread his face. She looked on him earnestly for a moment, then paused as if in thought, and going round to his bedside, knelt down, and taking his hand, said—
“Con, if there is any earthly thing that I can do to give ease and comfort to your mind, I am ready to do it. If it would relieve you, forget that you ever saw me, or ever—ever—knew me at all. Suppose I am not living—that I am dead. I say this, dear Con, to relieve you from any pain or distress of mind that you may feel on my account. Believe me, I feel everything for you, an' nothing now for myself. Whatever you do, I tell you that a harsh word or thought from me you will never have.”
Mave, while she spoke, did not shed a tear; nor was her calm, sweet voice indicative of any extraordinary emotion. Sarah, who had been weeping until the other began to speak, now rose up, and approaching Mave, said—
“Go, Mave Sullivan—go out of this dangerous house; and you, Condy Dalton, heed not what she has said. Mave Sullivan, I think I understand your words, an' they make me ashamed of myself, an' of the thoughts that have been troublin' me. Oh, what am I when compared to you?—nothing nothing.”
Mave had, on entering, deposited the little matters she had brought for their comfort, and Mary now came over, and placing her hand on her shoulder, said:
“Sarah is right, dear Mave; for God's sake do not stay here. Oh, think—only think if you tuck this faver, an' that anything happened you.”
“Come,” said Sarah, “leave this dangerous place; I will see you part of the way home—you can do nothing here that I won't do, and everything that I can do will be done.” Her lover's eyes had been fixed upon her, and with a feeble voice—for the agitation had exhausted him—he added his solicitations for her departure to theirs.
“I hope I will soon be better, dear Mave, and able to get up too—but may God bless you and take care of you till then!”
Mave again went round and took his hand, on which he felt a few tears fall.
“I came here, dear Con,” she said, “to take care of you all, and why need I be ashamed to say so—to do all I could for yourself. Sarah here wishes me to spake the truth, an' why shouldn't I? Think of my words then, Con, and don't let me or the thoughts of me occasion you one moment's unhappiness. To see you happy is all the wish I have in this world.”
She then bade them an affectionate farewell, and was about to take her departure, when Sarah, who had been musing for a moment, went to Dalton, and having knelt on one knee, was about to speak, and to speak, as was evident from her manner, with great earnestness, when she suddenly restrained herself, clasped her hands with a vehement action, looked distractedly from him to Mave, and then suddenly rising, took Mave's hand, and said:
“Come away—it's dangerous to stop where this fever is—you ought to be careful of yourself—you have friends that loves you, and that would feel for you if you were gone. You have a kind good father,—a lovhin' mother—a lovin' mother, that you could turn to, an' may turn to, if ever you should have a sore heart—a mother—oh, that blessed word—what wouldn't I give to say that I have a mother! Many an' outrage—many a wild fit of passion—many a harsh word, too—oh, what mightn't I be now if I had a mother? All the world thinks I have a bad heart—that I'm without feelin'; but, indeed, Mave Sullivan, I'm not without feelin', an' I don't think I have a bad heart.”
“You have not a bad heart,” replied Mave, taking her hand; “no one, dear Sarah, could look into your face and say so; no, but I think so far from that, your heart is both kind and generous.”
“I hope so,” she replied, “I hope I have—now come you and leave this dangerous house; besides I have something to say to you.”
Mave and she proceeded along the old causeway that led to the cabin, and having got out upon the open road, Sarah stood.
“Now, Mave Sullivan,” said she, “listen—you do me only justice to say that I love truth, an' hate a lie, or consalement of any kind. I ax you now this—you discovered awhile ago that I love Condy Dalton? Isn't that thrue?”
“I wasn't altogether certain,” replied Mave, “but I thought I did—an' now I think you do love him.”
“I do love him—oh, I do—an' why as you said, should I be ashamed of it?—ay, an' it was my intention to tell you so the first time I'd see you, an' to give you fair notice that I did, an' that I'd lave nothing undone to win him from you.”
“Well,” replied the other, “this is open and honest, at all events.”
“That was my intention,” pursued Sarah, “an' I had, for a short time, other thoughts; ay, an' worse thoughts; my father was pursuadin' me—but I can't spake on that—for he has my promise not to do so. Oh, I'm nothing, dear Mave—nothing at all to you. I can't forget your words awhile ago—bekaise I knew what you meant at the time, when you said to Con, 'any earthly thing that I can do to give aise and comfort to your mind. I am ready to do it. If it would relieve you, forget that you ever saw me or ever knew me.' Now, Mave, I've confessed to you that I love Con Dalton—but I tell you not to trouble your heart by any thoughts of me; my mind's made up as to what I'll do—don't fear me, I'll never cross you here. I'm a lonely creature,” she proceeded, bursting into bitter tears; “I'm without friends and relations, or any one that cares at all about me—”
“Don't say so,” replied Mave, “I care about you, an' it's only now that people is beginning to know you—but that's not all, Sarah, if it's any consolation to you to know it—know it—Condy Dalton loves you—ay, loves you, Sarah M'Gowan—you may take my word for that—I am certain this day that what I say is true.”
“Loves me!” she exclaimed.
“Loves you,” repeated Mave, “is the word, an I have said it.”
“I didn't suspect that when I spoke,” she replied.
Each looked upon the other, and both as they stood were as pale as death itself. At length Mave spoke.
“I have only one thought, Sarah, an' that is how to make him happy; to see him happy.”
“I can scarcely spake,” replied Sarah; “I wouldn't know what to say if I did. I'm all confused; Mave, dear, forgive me!”
“God bless you,” replied Mave, “for you are truth an' honesty itself. God bless an' you, make him happy! Good-bye, dear Sarah.”
She put her hand into Sarah's and felt that it trembled excessively—but Sarah was utterly passive; she did not even return the pressure which she had received, and when Mave departed, she was standing in a reverie, incapable of thought, deadly pale, and perfectly motionless.