"Blessed Father!" exclaimed another, "did you see the brightness of her eyes while she was spakin?"

"No matther what she is," said a young fellow beside them; "the devil a purtier crature ever was made; be my soul, I only wish I had a thousand pounds, I wouldn't be long without a wife at any rate."

The crowd having wrecked Skinadre's dwelling, and carried off and destroyed almost his whole stock of provisions, now proceeded in a different direction, with the intention of paying a similar visit to some similar character. Sarah and Darby--for he durst not venture, for the present, towards his own house--now took their way to the cabin of old Condy Dalton, where they arrived just in time to find the house surrounded by the officers of justice, and some military.

"Ah," thought Sarah, on seeing them; "it is done, then, an' you lost but little time about it. May G.o.d forgive you, father."

They had scarcely entered, when one of the officers pulling out a paper, looked at it and asked, "Isn't your name Condy or Cornelius Dalton?"--

"That is my name," said the old man.

"I arrest you, then," he continued, "for the murder of one Bartholomew Sullivan."

"It is the will of G.o.d," replied the old man, while the tears flowed down his cheeks--"it's G.o.d's will, an' I won't consale it any longer; take me away--I'm guilty--I'm guilty."

CHAPTEE XXI. -- Condy Datton goes to Prison.

The scene that presented itself in Condy Dalton's miserable cabin was one, indeed, which might well harrow any heart not utterly callous to human sympathy. The unhappy old man had been sitting in the armchair we have alluded to, his chin resting on his breast, and his mind apparently absorbed in deep and painful reflection, when the officers of justice entered. Many of our Landlord readers, and all, probably, of our Absentee ones, will, in the simplicity of their ignorance regarding the actual state of the lower cla.s.ses, most likely take it for granted that the picture we are about to draw exists nowhere but in our own imagination. Would to G.o.d that it were so! Gladly and willingly would we take to ourselves all the shame; acknowledge all the falsehood; pay the highest penalty for all the moral guilt of our misrepresentations, provided only any one acquainted with the country could prove to us that we are wrong, change our nature, or, in other words, falsify the evidence of our senses and obliterate our experience of the truths we are describing.

Old Dalton was sitting, as we have said, in the only memorial of his former respectability now left him--the old arm-chair--when the men bearing the warrant for his arrest presented themselves. The rain was pouring down in that close, dark, and incessant fall, which gives scarcely any hope of its ending, and throws the heart into that anxious and gloomy state which every one can feel and perhaps no one describe.

The cabin in which the Daltons now lived was of the poorest description.

When ejected from their large holding by d.i.c.k o' the Grange, or in other words, were auctioned out, they were unhappily at a loss where to find a place in which they could take a temporary refuge. A kind neighbor who happened to have the cabin in question lying unoccupied, or rather waste upon his hands, made them an offer of it; not, as he said, in the expectation that they could live in it for any length of time, but merely until they could provide themselves with a more comfortable and suitable abode.

"He wished," he added, "it was better for their sakes; and sorry he was to see such a family brought so low as to live in it at all!"

Alas! he knew not at the time how deeply the unfortunate family in question were steeped in distress and poverty. They accepted this miserable cabin; but in spite of every effort to improve their condition, days, weeks, and months pa.s.sed, and still found them unable to make a change for the better.

When Darby and Sarah entered, they found young Con, who had now relapsed, lying in one corner of the cabin, on a wretched shake-down bed of damp straw; while on another of the same description lay his amiable and affectionate sister Nancy. The cabin stood, as we have said, in a low, moist situation, the floor of it being actually lower--which is a common case--than the ground about it outside. It served, therefore, as a receptacle for the damp and under-water which the incessant down-pouring of rain during the whole season had occasioned. It was therefore, dangerous to tread upon the floor, it was so soft and slippery. The rain, which fell heavily, now came down through the roof in so many places that they were forced to put under it such vessels as they could spare, not even excepting the beds over each of which were placed old clothes, doubled up under dishes, pots, and little bowls, in order, if possible, to keep them dry. The house--if such it could be called--was almost dest.i.tute of furniture, nothing but a few pots, dishes, wooden noggins, some spoons, and some stools being their princ.i.p.al furniture, with the exception of one standing short-posted bed, in a corner, near the fire. There, then, in that low, damp, dark, pestilential kraal, without chimney or window, sat the old man, who, notwithstanding its squalid misery, could have looked upon it as a palace, had he been able to say to his own heart--I am not a murderer.

There, we say, he sat alone, surrounded by pestilence and famine in their most fearful shapes, listening to the moanings of his sick family, and the ceaseless dropping of the rain, which fell into the vessels that were placed to receive it. Mrs. Dalton was "out," a term which was used in the bitter misery of the period, to indicate that the person to whom it applied had been driven to the last resource of mendicancy; and his other daughter, Mary, had gone to a neighbor's house to beg a little fire.

As the old man uttered the words, no language could describe the misery which was depicted on his countenance.

"Take me," he exclaimed; "ah, no; for then what will become of these?"

pointing to his son and daughter, who were sick.

The very minions of the law felt for him; and the chief of them said, in a voice of kindness and compa.s.sion:

"It's a distressin' case; but if you'll be guided by me, you won't say anything that may be brought against yourself. I was never engaged,"

said he, looking towards Darby and Sarah, to whom he partly addressed his discourse, "in anything so painful as this. A man of his age, now afther so many years! However--well--it can't be helped; we must do our duty."

"Where is the rest of your family?" asked another of them; "is this young woman a daughter of yours?"

"Not at all," replied a third; "this is a daughter of the Black Prophet himself; and, by j.a.pers, you hardened gipsey, it's a little too bad for you to come to see how your blasted ould father's work gets on. It's his evidence that's bringin' this dacent ould man from his family to a gaol, this miserable evenin'. Be off out o' this, I desire you; I wondher you're not ashamed to be present here, above all places in the world, you brazen devil."

Sarah's whole soul, however, in all its best and n.o.blest sympathies, had pa.s.sed into and mingled with the scene of unparalleled misery which was then before her. She went rapidly to the bed in which young Con was I stretched; stooped down, and looking closely at him, perceived that he was in a broken and painful slumber. She then pa.s.sed to that in which his sister lay, and saw that she was also asleep. After a glance at each, she rubbed her hands with a kind of wild satisfaction, and going up to old Dalton, exclaimed--for she had not heard a syllable of the language used towards her by the officer of justice--

"Ay," said she, laying her hand upon his white hairs; "you are to be pitied this night, poor ould man; but which of you, oh, which of you is to be pitied most, you or them! an' your wife, too; an' your other daughter, an' your other son, too; but he's past under-standin' it; oh, what will they do? At your age, too--at your age! Oh, couldn't you die?--couldn't you contrive, someway, to die?--couldn't you give one great struggle, an' then break your heart at wanst, an' forever!"

These words were uttered rapidly, but in a low and cautious voice, for she still feared to awaken those who slept.

The old man had also been absorbed in, his own misery; for he looked at her inquiringly, and only replied, "Poor girl, what is it you're saying?"

"I'm biddin' you to die," she replied, "if you can, you needn't be afeard of G.o.d--he has punished you enough for the crime you have committed. Try an' die, if you can--or if you can't--oh," she exclaimed, "I pray G.o.d that you--that he, there--" and she ran and bent over young Con's bed for a moment; "that you--that you may never recover, or live to see what you must see."

"It's a fact, that between hunger and this sickness," continued he who had addressed her last, "they say an' I know that there's great number of people silly; but I think this lady is downright mad; what do you mane, you clip?"

Sarah stared at him impatiently, but without any anger.

"He doesn't hear me," she added, again putting her hand in a distracted manner upon Dalton's gray hair; "no, no; but since it can't be so, there's not a minute to be lost. Oh, take him away, now," she proceeded, "take him away while they're asleep, an' before his wife and daughter comes home--take him away, now; and spare him--spare them--spare them all as much sufferin' as you can."

"There's not much madness in that, Jack," returned one of them; "I think it would be the best thing we could do. Are you ready to come now, Dalton?" asked the man.

"Who's that," said the old man, in a voice of indescribable woe and sorrow; "who's that was talkin' of a broken heart? Oh, G.o.d," he exclaimed, looking up to Heaven, with a look of intense agony, "support me--support them; and if it be your blessed will, pity us all; but above all things, pity them, oh, Heavenly Father, and don't punish them for my sin!"

"It's false," exclaimed Sarah, looking on Dalton, and reasoning apparently with herself; "he never committed a could blooded murdher; an' the Sullivans are--are--oh--take him away," she said, still in a low, rapid voice; "take him away! Come now," she added, approaching Dalton again; "come--while they're asleep, an' you'll save them an'

yourself much distress. I'm not afeard of your wife--for she can bear it if any wife could--but I do your poor daughter, an' she so weak an'

feeble afther her illness; come."

Dalton looked at her, and said:

"Who is this girl that seems to feel so much for me? but whoever she is, may G.o.d bless her, for I feel that she's right. Take me away before they waken! oh, she is right in every word she says, for I am not afeard of my wife--her trust in G.o.d is too firm for anything to shake. I'm ready; but I fear I'll scarcely be able to walk all the way--an' sich an evenin' too--Young woman, will you break this business to these ones, and to my wife, as you can?"

"Oh, I will, I will," she replied; "as well as I can; you did well to say so," she added, in a low voice to herself; "an' I'll stay here with your sick family, an' I'll watch an' attend them. Whatever can be done by the like o' me for them, I'll do. I'll--I'll not lave them--I'll nurse them--I'll take care of them--I'll beg for them--oh, what would I not do for them?" and while speaking she bent over young Con's bed, and clasping her hands, and wringing them several times, she repeated "oh what wouldn't I do for you!"

"May G.o.d bless you, best of girls, whoever you are! Come, now, I'm ready."

"Ay," said Sarah, running over to him, "that's right--I'll break the bitter news to them as well as it can be done; come, now."

The old man stood, in the midst of his desolation, with his hat in his hand, and he looked towards the beds.

"Poor things!" he exclaimed; "what a change has come over you, for what you wanst, an' that not long since, wor. Never, my darlin' childhre--oh, never did one harsh or undutiful word come from your lips to your unhappy father. In my ould age and misery I'm now lavin' you--may be forever--never, maybe, to see you again in this world; an' oh, my G.o.d, if we are never to meet in the other; if the innocent and the guilty is never to meet, then this is my last look at you, for everlastin', for everlastin'! I can't do it," he added, weeping bitterly--"I must take my lave of them; I must kiss their lips."

Sarah, while he spoke, had uttered two or three convulsive sobs; but she shed no tears; on the contrary, her eyes were singularly animated and brilliant. She put her arms about him, and said, in a soothing and solicitous tone:

"Oh, no, it's all thrue; but if you kiss them, you'll disturb and waken them; and then, you know, when they see you taken away in this manner, an' hears what it's for, it may be their death."

"Thrue, achora; thrue: well, I will only look at them, then. Let me keep my eyes on them for a little; may be they may go first, an' may be I may go first; the last time, may be, for everlastin', that I'll see them!"

He went over, as he spoke, Sarah still having her hand upon his arm, as if to intimate her anxiety to keep him under such control as might prevent him from awakening them; and, standing first over the miserable bed where Nancy slept, he looked down upon her.

"Ay," said he, while the tears showered down his cheeks, "there lies the child that never vexed a parent's heart or ruffled one of our tempers.

May the blessin', if it is a blessin', or can be a blessin'--"