"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 pa.s.sion--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!"

"G.o.d bless you," replied Mave, "for you are truth an' honesty itself.

G.o.d 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 pa.s.sive; 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.

CHAPTEE XXV. -- Sarah Without Hope.

How Sarah returned to Dalton's cabin she herself knew not. Such was the tumult which the communication then made to her by Mave, had occasioned in her mind, that, the scene which had just taken place, altogether appeared to her excited spirit like a troubled dream, whose impressions were too unreal and deceptive to be depended on for a moment. The reaction from the pa.s.sive state in which Mave had left her, was, to a temperament like her's, perfectly overwhelming. Her pulse beat high, her cheek burned, and her eye flashed with more than its usual fire and overpowering brilliancy, and, with the exception of one impression alone, all her thoughts were so rapid and indistinct as to resemble the careering clouds which fly in tumult and confusion along the troubled sky, with nothing stationary but the sun far above, and which, in this case, might be said to resemble the bright conviction of Dalton's love for her, that Mave's a.s.surance had left behind it. On re-entering the cabin, without being properly conscious of what she either did or said, she once more knelt by the side of Dalton's bed, and hastily taking his unresisting hand, was about to speak; but a difficulty how to shape her language held her in a painful and troubled suspense for some moments, during which Dalton could plainly perceive the excitement, or rather rapture, by which she was actuated. At length a gush of hot and burning tears enabled her to speak, and she said:

"Con Dalton--dear Con, is it true? can it be true?--oh, no--no--but, then, she says it--is it true that you like me--like me!--no, no--that word is too wake--is it true that you love me? but no--it can't be--there never was so much happiness intended for me; and then, if it should be true--oh, if it was possible, how will I bear it? what will I do? what--is to be the consequence? for my love for you is beyond all belief--beyond all that tongue can tell. I can't stand this struggle--my head is giddy--I scarcely know what I'm sayin', or is it a dhrame that I'll waken from, and find it false--false?"

Dalton pressed her hand, and looking tenderly upon her face, replied:

"Dear Sarah, forgive me; your dhrame is both thrue and false. It is true that I like you--that I pity you; but you forbid me to say that--well it is true, I say, that I like you; but I can't say more. The only girl I love in the sense you mane, is Mave Sullivan. I could not tell you an untruth, Sarah; nor don't desave yourself. I like you, but I love her."

She started up, and in an instant dashed the tears from her cheeks; after which she said:

"I am glad to know it; you have said the truth--the bitther truth; ay, bitther it will prove, Condy Dalton, to more than me. My happiness in this world is now over forever. I never was happy; an' its clear that the doom is against me; I never will be happy. I am now free to act as I like. No matther what I do, it can't make me feel more than I feel now.

I might take a life; ay, twenty, an' I couldn't feel more miserable than I am. Then, what is there to prevent me from workin' out my own will, an' doin' what my father wishes? I may make myself worse an' guiltier; but unhappier I cannot be. That poor, weak hope was all I had in this world; but that is gone; and I have no other hope now."

"Compose yourself, dear Sarah; calm yourself," said Dalton.

"Don't call me dear Sarah," she replied; "you were wrong ever to do so.

Oh, why was I born! an' what has this world an' this life been to me but hardship an' sorrow? But still," she added, drawing herself up, "I will let you all see what pride can do. I now know my fate, an' what I must suffer: an' if one tear would gain your love, I wouldn't shed it--never, never."

"Sarah," said Mary, in a soothing voice, "I hope you won't blame poor Con. You don't know maybe that himself an' Mave Sullivan has loved one another ever since they were--"

"No more about Mave Sullivan," she replied, almost fiercely; "lave her to me. As for me, I'll not brake my word, either for good or evil; I was never the one to do an ungenerous--an ungenerous--no--" She paused, however, as if struck by some latent conviction, and, in a panting voice, she added, "I must lave you for a while, but I will be back in an hour or two; oh, yes I will; an' in the mane time, Mary, anything that is to be done, you can do it for me till I come agin. Mave Sullivan!

Mave Sullivan! lave Mave Sullivan to me!"

She then threw an humble garment about her, and in a few minutes was on her way to have an interview with her father. On reaching home, she found that he had arrived only a few minutes before her; and to her surprise he expressed something like; good humor, or, perhaps, gratification at her presence there. On looking into her face more closely, however, he had little trouble in perceiving that something extraordinary had disturbed her. He then glanced at Nelly, who, as usual, sat gloomily by the fire, knitting her brows and groaning with suppressed ill-temper as she had been in the habit of doing, ever since she suspected that Donnel had made a certain disclosure, connecting with her, to Sarah.

"Well," said he, "has there been another battle? have you been _ding dust_ at it as usual? What's wrong, Sally? eh? Did it go to blows wid you, for you looked raised?"

"You're all out of it," replied Nelly; "her blood's up, now, an' I'm not prepared for a sudden death. She's dangerous this minute, an' I'll take care of her. Blessed man, look at her eyes."

She repeated these words with that kind of low, dogged ridicule and scorn which so frequently accompany stupid and wanton brutality; and which are, besides, provoking, almost beyond endurance, when the mind is chafed by a consideration of an exciting nature.

Sarah flew like lightning to the old knife, which we have already mentioned, and, s.n.a.t.c.hing it from the shelf of the dresser, on which it lay, exclaimed:

"I have now no earthly thought, nor any hope of good in this world, to keep my hand from evil; an' for all ever you made me suffer, take this--"

Her father had not yet sat down, and it was, indeed, well that he had not--for it required all his activity and strength united, to intercept the meditated blow, by seizing his daughter's arm.'

"Sarah," said he, "what is this? are you mad, you murdhering jade, to attempt the vagabond's life? for she is a vagabond, and an ill-tongued vagabond. Why do you provoke the girl by sich language, you double-distilled ould sthrap? you do nothin' but growl an' snarl, an'

curse, an' pray--ay, pray, from mornin' to night, in sich a way, that the very devil himself could not bear you, or live wid you. Begone out o' this, or I'll let her at you, an' I'll engage she'll give you what'll settle you."

Nelly rose, and putting on her cloak went out.

"I'm goin'," she replied, looking at, and addressing the Prophet; "an'

plaise G.o.d, before long I'll have the best wish o' my heart fulfilled, by seein' you hanged; but, until then, may my curse, an' the curse o'

G.o.d light on you and pursue you. I know you have tould her everything, or she wouldn't act towards me as she has done of late."

Sarah stood like the Pythoness, in a kind of savage beauty, with the knife firmly grasped in her hand.

"I'm glad she's gone," she said; "but it's not her, father, that I ought to raise my hand against."

"Who then, Sarah?" he asked, with something like surprise.