you may hear the downpowrin' of rain that's in it; an' the wind, too, is risin' fast, every minute--gettin' so strong, indeed, that I doubt it 'ill be a storm before it stops; an' Dan, if it 'udn't be too much, may be you'd not object to offer up one pather an' avy for the poor sowl of him that owned it, an' that was brought to his account so suddenly and so terribly. There," he added, fixing it upon them; "it helps to keep you warm at any rate; an' it's surely betther to have it so employed than hangin' idle, as I said, against the wall."

M'Gowan immediately sat up in the bed, and putting down his hands, removed the coat.

"We don't want it at all," he replied; "take it away, Jerry--do, for heaven's sake. The night's not at all so cowld as you think, an' we'll keep one another warm enough wid-out it, never fear."

"Troth you do want it," said Sullivan; "for fareer gair, it's the light coverin' that's over you an' them, poor boys. Heighho, Dan, see what innocence is--poor things, they're sound already--an' may G.o.d pity them an' provide for them, or enable me to do it!" And as he looked down upon the sleeping lads, the tears came so abundantly to his eyes, that he was forced to wipe them away. "Keep the coat, Dan," he added; "you do want it."

"No," replied the other. "The truth is, I couldn't sleep under it. I'm very timersome, an' a little thing frightens me."

"Oh," said Sullivan, "I didn't think of that: in troth, if you're timersome, it's more than the world b'lieves of you. Well, well--I'll hang it up again; so good night, an' a sound sleep to you, an' to every man that has a free conscience in the sight of G.o.d!"

No response was given to this prayer, and his words were followed by a deep and solemn silence, that was only broken occasionally by the heavy pattering of the descending rain, and the fitful gusts of the blast, as they rushed against the house, and sung wildly among the few trees by which it and the garden were enclosed.

Every one knows that a night of wind and storm, if not rising actually to a tempest or hurricane, is precisely that on which sleep is with its deepest influence upon men. Sullivan's family, on that which we are describing, were a proof of this; at least until about the hour of three o'clock, when they were startled by a cry for help, so loud and frightful, that in a moment he and the boys huddled on their dress, and hurried to the bed in which the prophet lay. In a minute or two they got a candle lit; and truly the appearance of the man was calculated to drive fear and alarm into their hearts. They found him sitting in the bed, with his eyes so wild and staring that they seemed straining out of their sockets. His hair was erect, and his mouth half open, and drawn back; while the perspiration poured from him in torrents. His hands were spread, and held up, with their palms outwards, as if in the act of pushing something back that seemed to approach him. "Help," he shouted, "he is comin' on me--he will have me powerless in a minute. He is gaspin' now, as he--Stay back, stay back--here--here, help; it's the murdhered man--he's upon me. Oh!--Oh, G.o.d! he's comin' nearer and nearer. Help me--save me!"

Sullivan on holding the candle to his face, perceived that he was still asleep; and suspecting the nature of his dream, he awoke him at once. On seeing a portion of the family about him, he started again, and looked for a moment so completely aghast that he resembled horror personified.

"Who--what--what are you? Oh," he exclaimed, recovering, and striving to compose himself, "ha--Good G.o.d! what a frightful drame I had. I thought I was murdherin' a man; murdherin' the"--he paused, and stared wildly about him.

"Murdherin' who?" asked Jerry.

"Murdherin'! eh--ha--why, who talks about murdherin'?"

"Compose yourself," added Sullivan; "you did; but you're frightened. You say you thought you were murdherin' some one; who was it?"

"Yes, yesr" he replied; "it was myself. I thought the murdhered man was--I mean, that the man was murdherin' myself." And he looked with a terrible shudder of fear towards the great coat.

"Hut," said Sullivan, "it was only a drame; compose yourself; why should you be alarmed?--your hand is free of it. So, as I said, compose yourself; put your trust in G.o.d, an' recommend yourself to his care."

"It was a terrible drame," said the other, once more shuddering; "but then it was a drame. Good G.o.d; yes! However, I ax pardon for disturbin'

you all, an' breaking in upon your sleep. Go to bed now; I'm well enough; only jist set that bit of candle by the bed-side for awhile, till I recover, for I did get a fearful fright."

He then laid himself down once more, and having wiped the perspiration from his forehead, which was now cadaverous, he bade them good night, and again endeavored to compose himself to rest. In this he eventually succeeded, the candle burning itself out; and in about three-quarters of an hour the whole family were once more wrapped in sound and uninterrupted repose.

The next morning the Sullivan family rose to witness another weary and dismal day of incessant rain, and to partake of a breakfast of thin stirabout, made and served up with that woful ingenuity, which necessity, the mother of invention in periods of scarcity, as well as in matters of a different character, had made known to the benevolent hearted wife of Jerry Sullivan. That is to say, the victuals were made so unsubstantially thin, that in order to impose, if possible, on the appet.i.te, it was deemed necessary to deceive the eye by turning the plates and dishes round and round several times, while the viands were hot, so as by spreading them over a larger surface, to give the appearance of a greater quant.i.ty. It is, heaven knows, a melancholy cheat, but one with which the periodical famines of our unhappy country have made our people too well acquainted. Previous, however, to breakfast, the prophet had a private interview with Mave, or the _Gra Gal_, as she was generally termed to denote her beauty and extraordinary power of conciliating affection; _Gra Gal_ signifying the fair love, or to give the more comprehensive meaning which it implied, the fair-haired beauty whom all love, or who wins all love. This interview lasted, at least, a quarter of an hour, or it might be twenty minutes, but as the object of it did not then transpire, we can only explain the appearances which followed it, so far at least, as the parties themselves were concerned. The _Gra Gal_, as we shall occasionally call her, seemed pleased, if not absolutely gratified, by the conversation that pa.s.sed between them. Her eye was elated, and she moved about like one who appeared to have been relieved from some reflection that had embarra.s.sed and depressed her; still it might have been observed that this sense of relief had nothing in it directly affecting the person of the prophet himself, on whom her eyes fell from time to time with a glance that changed its whole expression of satisfaction to one of pain and dislike.

On his part there also appeared a calm sedate feeling of satisfaction, under which, however, an eye better acquainted with human nature might easily detect a triumph. He looked, to those who could properly understand him, precisely as an able diplomatist would who had succeeded in gaining a point.

When breakfast was over, and previous to his departure, he brought Jerry Sullivan and his wife out to the barn, and in a tone and manner of much mystery, a.s.suming at the same time that figurative and inflated style so peculiar to him, and also to his rival the Senachie, he thus addressed them--

"Listen," said he, "listen, Jerry Sullivan, and Bridget, his wife; a child was born, and a page was written--the moon saw it, and the stars saw it; but the sun did not, for he is dark to fate an' sees nothing but the face of nature. Do you understand that, Jerry Sullivan, an' you Bridget, his wife?"

"Well, troth we can't say we do yet, at all events," they replied; "but how could we, ye know, if it's regardin' prophecy you're spakin'."

"Undherstand it!" he replied, contemptuously, "you undherstand it!--no nor Father Philemy Corcoran himself couldn't undherstand it, barrin' he fasted and prayed, and refrained from liquor, for that's the way to get the ray o' knowledge; at laist it's, the way I got it first--however, let that pa.s.s. As I was sayin' a child was born and a page was written--and an angel from heaven was sent to Nebbychodanazor, the prophet, who was commanded to write. What will I write? says Nebbychodanazor, the prophet. Write down the fate of a faymale child, by name Mave Sullivan, daughter to Jerry Sullivan and his wife Bridget, of Aughnmurrin. Amin, says the prophet; fate is fate, what's before is not behind, neither is what's behind before, and every thing will come to pa.s.s that's to happen. Amin, agin, says the prophet, an' what am I to write? Grandeur an' wealth--up stairs and down stairs--silks-an'

satins--an inside car--bracelets, earrings, and Spanish boots, made of Morroccy leather, tanned at Cordovan. Amin, agin, says Nebbychodanazor, the prophet; this is not that, neither is that the other, but every is everything--naither can something be nothing, nor nothing something, to the end of time; and time itself is but cousin jarmin to eternity--as is recorded in the great book of fate, fortune and fatality. Write again, says the angel. What am I to write? At the name of Mabel Sullivan place along wid all the rest, two great paragons of a woman's life, Marriage and Prosperity--write marriage happy, and prosperity numerous--and so the child's born, an' the page written--beauty and goodness, a happy father, and a proud mother--both made wealthy through her means."

"And so," he proceeded, dropping the recitative, and resuming his natural voice--

"Be kind and indulgent to your daughter, for she'll yet live to make all your fortunes. Take care of her and yourself till I sees yez again."

And without adding another word he departed.

CHAPTER IV. -- A Dance, and Double Discovery.

The dance to which Sarah M'Gowan went after the conflict with her step-mother, was but a miserable specimen of what a dance usually is in Ireland. On that occasion, there were but comparatively few a.s.sembled; and these few, as may be guessed, consisted chiefly of those gay and frolicsome spirits whom no pressure of distress, nor anything short of sickness or death, could sober down into seriousness. The meeting, in fact, exhibited a painful union of mirth and melancholy. The season brought with it none of that relief to the peasantry which usually makes autumn so welcome. On the contrary, the failure of the potato crop, especially in its quality, as well as that in the grain generally, was not only the cause of hunger and distress, but also of the sickness which prevailed. The poor were forced, as they too often are, to dig their potatoes before they were fit for food; and the consequences were disastrous to themselves in every sense. Sickness soon began to appear; but then it was supposed that as soon as the new grain came in, relief would follow. In this expectation, however, they were, alas! most wofully disappointed. The wetness of the summer and autumn had soured and fermented the grain so lamentably, that the use of it transformed the sickness occasioned by the unripe and bad potatoes into a terrible and desolating epidemic. At the period we are treating of, this awful scourge had just set in, and was beginning to carry death and misery in all their horrors throughout the country. It was no wonder, then, that, at the dance we are describing, there was an almost complete absence of that cheerful and light-hearted enjoyment which is, or at least which was, to be found at such meetings. It was, besides, owing to the severity of the evening, but thinly attended. Such a family had two or three members of it sick; another had buried a fine young woman; a third, an only son; a fourth, had lost the father, and the fifth, the mother of a large family. In fact, the conversation on this occasion was rather a catalogue of calamity and death, than that hearty ebullition of animal spirits which throws its laughing and festive spirits into such a.s.semblies. Two there were, however, who, despite of the gloom which darkened both the dance and the day, contrived to sustain our national reputation for gayety and mirth. One of these was our friend, Sarah, or, as she was better known, Sally M'Gowan, and the other a young fellow named Charley Hanlon, who acted as a kind of gardener and steward to d.i.c.k o' the Grange. This young fellow possessed great cheerfulness, and such an everlasting fund of mirth and jocularity, as made him the life and soul of every dance, wake, and merry-meeting in the parish. He was quite a Lothario in his sphere--a lady-killer--and so general an admirer of the s.e.x, that he invariably made I love to every pretty girl he met, or could lure into conversation. The usual consequences followed. n.o.body was such a favorite with the s.e.x in general, who were ready to tear each other's caps about him, as they sometimes actually did; and indeed this is not at all to be wondered at. The fellow was one of the most open, hardy liars that ever lived. Of shame he had heard; but of what it meant, no earthly eloquence could give him the slightest perception; and we need scarcely add, that his a.s.surance was boundless, as were his powers of flattery. It is unnecessary to say, then, that a man so admirably calculated to succeed with the s.e.x, was properly appreciated by them, and that his falsehood, flattery, and a.s.surance were virtues which enshrined the vagabond in their hearts. In short, he had got the character of being a rake; and he was necessarily obliged to suffer the agreeable penalty of their admiration and favor in consequence. The fellow besides, was by no means ill-looking, nor ill-made, but just had enough of that kind of face and figure which no one can readily either find fault with or praise.

This gallant and Sally M'Gowan, were in fact, the life of the meeting; and Sally, besides, had the reputation of being a great favorite with him--a circ.u.mstance which considerably diminished her popularity with her own s.e.x. She herself felt towards him that kind of wild, indomitable affection, which is as vehement as it is unregulated in such minds as hers. For instance, she made no secret of her attachment to him, but on the contrary, gloried in it, even to her father, who, on this subject, could exercise no restraint whatsoever over her. It is not our intention to entertain our readers with the history of the occurrences which took place at the dance, as they are, in fact, not worth recording. Hanlon, at its close, prepared to see Sally home, as is usual.

"You may come with me near home," she replied; "but I'm not goin' home to-night."

"Why, where the d.i.c.kens are you goin' then?" he asked.

"To Barny Gorrnly's wake; there 'ill be lots of fun there, too," she replied. "But come--you can come wid me as far as the turn-up to the house; for I won't go in, nor go home neither, till afther the berril, tomorrow."

"Do you know," said he, rather gravely, "the Grey Stone that's at the mouth of the Black Glen?"

"I ought," said she; "sure that's where the carman was found murdhered."

"The same," added Hanlon. "Well, I must go that far to-night," said he.

"And that's jist where I turn off to the Gormly's."

"So far, then, we'll be together," he replied.

"But why that far only, Charley--eh?"

"That's what you could never guess," said he, "and very few else aither; but go I must, an' go I will. At all events, I'll be company for you in pa.s.sin' it. Are you never afeard at night, as you go near it?"

"Divil a taste," she replied; "what 'ud I be afeard of? my father laughs at sich things; although," she added, musing, "I think he's sometimes timorous for all that. But I know he's often out at all hours, and he says he doesn't care about ghosts--I know I don't."

The conversation now flagged a little, and Hanlon, who had been all the preceding part of the evening full of mirth and levity, could scarcely force himself to reply to her observations, or sustain any part in the dialogue.

"Why, what the sorra's comin' over you?" she asked, as they began to enter into the shadow of the hill at whose foot her father's cabin stood, and which here, for about two hundred yards, fell across the road. "It is gettin' afeard you are?"

"No," he replied; "but I was given to undherstand last night, that if I'd come this night to the Grey Stone, I'd find out a saicret that I'd give a great deal to know."

"Very well," she replied, we'll see that; an' now, raise your spirits.

Here we're in the moonlight, thank goodness, such as it is. Dear me, thin, but it's an awful night, and the wind's risin'; and listen to the flood, how it roars in the glen below, like a thousand bulls!"

"It is," he replied; "but hould your tongue now for a little, and as you're here stop wid me for a while, although I don't see how I'm likely to come by much knowledge in sich a place as this."

They now approached the Grey Stone, and as they did the moon came out a little from her dark shrine of clouds, but merely with that dim and feeble light which was calculated to add ghastliness and horror to the wildness and desolation of the place.

Sally could now observe that her companion was exceedingly pale and agitated, his voice, as he spoke, became disturbed and infirm; and as he laid his hand upon the Grey Stone he immediately withdrew it, and taking off his hat he blessed himself, and muttered a short prayer with an earnestness and solemnity for which she could not account. Having concluded it, both stood in silence for a short time, he awaiting the promised information--for which on this occasion he appeared likely to wait in vain;--and she without any particular purpose beyond her natural curiosity to watch and know the event.