"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 a.s.sistance.

"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 pa.s.sin' 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 circ.u.mstances 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' n.o.body 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 compa.s.sion 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 a.s.sociating 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 G.o.d, 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 const.i.tutional 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 G.o.d, on which it rested, were scarcely able to support her against the host of const.i.tutional 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.sistance? In G.o.d'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 G.o.d forbid! How are you all at home?"

"We are all free from sickness, thank G.o.d," 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."

"G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 compet.i.tion, 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 pa.s.sed 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.