"You asked me," she proceeded, "to a.s.sist in a plan to have Mave Sullivan carried off by young d.i.c.k o' the Grange--I'm now ready for anything, and I'll do it. This world, father, has nothing good or happy in it for me--now I'll be aquil to it; if it gives me nothing good, it'll get nothing out of me. I'll give it blow for blow; kindness, good fortune, if it was to happen--but it can't now--would soften me; but I know, I feel that ill-treatment, crosses, disappointments, an' want of all hope in this life, has made, an' will make me a devil--ay, an' oh!

what a different girl I might be this day!"

"What has vexed you?" asked the father "for I see that something has."

"Isn't it a cruel thing," she proceeded, without seeming to have attended to him; "isn't it a cruel thing to think that every one you see about you has some happiness except yourself; an' that your heart is burstin', an' your brain burnin', an' no relief for you; no one point to turn to, for consolation--but everything dark and dismal, and fiery about you?"

"I feel all this myself," said the Prophet; "so, don't be disheartened, Sarah; in the coorse o' time your heart will get so hardened that you'll laugh at the world--ay, at all that's either bad or good in it, as I do."

"I never wish to come to that state," she replied; "an' you never felt what I feel--you never had that much of what was good in your heart.

No," she proceeded, "sooner than come to that state--that is, to your state--I'd put this knife into my heart. You, father, never loved one of your own kind yet."

"Didn't I?" he replied, while his eyes lightened into a glare like those of a provoked tiger; "ay, I loved one of our kind--of your kind; loved her--ay, an' was happy wid her--oh, how happy. Ah, Sarah M'Gowan, an'

I loved my fellow-creatures then, too, like a fool as I was: loved, ay, loved; an' she that I so loved proved false to me--proved an adulteress; an' I tell you now, that it may harden your heart against the world, that that woman--my wife--that I so loved, an' that so disgraced me, was your mother."

"It's a lie--it's as false as the devil himself," she replied, turning round quickly, and looking him with frantic vehemence of manner in the face. "My mother never did what you say. She's now in her grave, an'

can't speak for or defend herself; but if I were to stand here till judgment day, I'd say it was false. You were misled or mistaken, or your own bad, suspicious nature made you do her wrong; an' even if it was thrue--which it is not, but false as h.e.l.l--why would you crash and wring her daughter's heart by a knowledge of it? Couldn't you let me get through the short but bitther pa.s.sage of life that's before me, without addin' this to the other thoughts that's distractin' me?"

"I did it, as I said," he replied, "to make you harden your heart, an' to prevent you from puttin' any trust in the world, or expectin'

anything either of thruth or goodness from it."

She started, as if some new light had broken in upon her, and turning to him, said--

"Maybe I undherstand you, father--I hope I do. Oh, could it be that you wor wanst--a--a--a betther man--a man that had a heart for fellow-creatures, and cared for them? I'm lookin' into my own heart now, and I don't doubt but I might be brought to the same state yet. Ha, that's terrible to think of; but again, I can't believe it. Father, you can stoop to lies an' falsity--that I could not do; but no matther; you wor wanst a good man, maybe. Am I right?"

The Prophet turned round, and fixing his eyes upon his daughter, they stood each gazing upon the other for some time. He then looked for a moment into the ground, after which he sat down upon a stool, and covering his face with both his hands, remained in that position for two or three minutes.

"Am I right, father?" she repeated.

He raised his eyes, and looking upon her with his usual composure, replied--

"No--you are wrong--you are very wrong. When I was a light-hearted, affectionate boy, playing with my brothers and sisters, I was a villain.

When I grew into youth, Sarah, an' thought every one full of honesty an'

truth, an' the world all kindness, an' nothin' about me but goodness, an' generosity, an' affection, I was, of coorse, a villain. When I loved the risin' sun--when I looked upon the stars of heaven with a wonderin'

and happy heart--when the dawn of mornin' and the last light of the summer evening filled me with joy, and made me love every one and everything about me--the trees, the runnin' rivers, the green fields, and all that G.o.d--ha, what am I sayin'?--I was a villain. When I loved an' married your mother, an' when she--but no matther--when all these things happened, I was, I say, a villain; but now that things is changed for the betther, I am an honest man!"

"Father, there is good in you yet," she said, as her eyes sparkled in the very depth of her excitement, with a hopeful animation that had its source in a n.o.ble and exalted benevolence, "you're not lost."

"Don't I say," he replied, with a cold and bitter sneer, "that I am an honest man."

"Ah," she replied, "that's gone too, then--look where I will, everything's dark--no hope--no hope of any kind; but no matther now; since I can't do betther, I'll make them think o' me: aye, an' feel me too. Come, then, what have you to say to me?"

"Let us have a walk, then," replied her father. "There is a weeny glimpse of sunshine, for a wondher. You look heated--your face is flushed too, very much, an' the walk will cool you a little."

"I know my face is flushed," she replied; "for I feel it burnin', an'

so is my head; I have a pain in it, and a pain in the small o' my back too."

"Well, come," he continued, "and a walk will be of sarvice to you."

They then went out in the direction of the Rabbit Bank, the Prophet, during their walk, availing himself of her evident excitement to draw from her the history of its origin. Such a task, indeed, was easily accomplished, for this singular creature, in whom love of truth, as well as a detestation of all falsehood and subterfuge, seemed to have been a moral instinct, at once disclosed to him the state of her affections, and, indeed, all that the reader already knows of her love for Dalton, and her rivalry with Mave Sullivan. These circ.u.mstances were such precisely as he could have wished for, and our readers need scarcely be told that he failed not to aggravate her jealousy of Mave, nor to suggest to her the necessity on her part, if she possessed either pride or spirit, to prevent her union with Dalton by every means in her power.

"I'll do it," she replied, "I'll do it; to be sure I feel it's not right, an' if I had one single hope in this world, I'd scorn it; but I'm now desperate; I tried to be good, but I'm only a cobweb before the wind--everything is against me, an' I think I'm like some one that never had a guardian angel to take care of them."

The Prophet then gave her a detailed account of their plan for carrying away Mave Sullivan, and of his own subsequent intentions in life.

"We have more than one iron in the fire," he proceeded, "an' as soon as everything comes off right, and to our wishes, we'll not lose a single hour in going to America."

"I didn't think," said Sarah, "that Dalton ever murdered Sullivan till I heard him confess it; but I can well understand it now. He was hasty, father, and did it in a pa.s.sion, but it's himself that has a good heart.

Father, don't blame me for what I say, but I'd rather be that pious, affectionate ould man, wid his murdher on his head, than you in the state you're in. An' that's thrue, I must turn back and go to them--I'm too long away: still, something ails me--I'm all sickish, my head and back especially."

"Go home to your own place," he replied; "maybe it's the sickness you're takin."

"Oh, no," she replied, "I felt this way once or twice before, an' I know it'll go off me--good-bye."

"Good-bye, Sarah, an' remember, honor bright and saicresy."

"Saicresy, father, I grant you, but never honor bright for me again.

It's the world that makes me do it--the wicked, dark, cruel world, that has me as I am, widout a livin' heart to love me--that's what makes me do it."

They then separated, he pursuing his way to d.i.c.k o' the Grange's, and she to the miserable cabin of the Daltons. They had not gone far, however, when she returned, and calling after him, said--

"I have thought it over again, and won't promise altogether till I see you again."

"Are you goin' back o' your word so soon!" he asked, with a kind of sarcastic sneer. "I thought you never broke your word, Sarah."

She paused, and after looking about her as if in perplexity, she turned on her heel, and proceeded in silence.

CHAPTER XXVI. -- The Pedlar Runs a Close Risk of the Stocks.

Nelly's suspicions, apparently well founded as they had been, were removed from the Prophet, not so much by the disclosure to her and Sarah, of his having been so long cognizant of Sullivan's murder by Dalton, as by that unhappy man's own confession of the crime. Still, in spite of all that had yet happened, she could not divest herself of an impression that something dark and guilty was a.s.sociated with the Tobacco-box; an impression which was strengthened by her own recollections of certain incidents that occurred upon a particular night, much about the time of Sullivan's disappearance. Her memory, however, being better as to facts than to time, was such as prevented her from determining whether the incidents alluded to had occurred previous to Sullivan's murder, or afterwards. There remained, however, just enough of suspicion to torment her own mind, without enabling her to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion as to Donnel's positive guilt, arising from the mysterious incidents in question. A kind of awakened conscience, too, resulting not from any principle of true repentance, but from superst.i.tious alarm and a conviction that the Prophet had communicated to Sarah a certain secret connected with her, which she dreaded so much to have known, had for some time past rendered her whole life a singular compound of weak terror, ill-temper, gloom, and a kind of conditional repentance, which depended altogether upon the fact of her secret being known. In this mood it was that she left the cabin as we have described.

"I'm not fit to die," she said to herself, after she had gone--"an'

that's the second offer for my life she has made. Any way, it's the best of my play to lave them; an' above all, to keep away from her. That's the second attempt; and I know to a certainty, that if she makes a third one, it'll do for me. Oh, no doubt of that--the third time's always the charm!--an' into my heart that unlucky knife 'ill go, if she ever tries it a third time! They tell me," she proceeded, soliloquizing, as she was in the habit of doing, "that the inquest is to be held in a day or two, an' that the crowner was only unwell a trifle, and hadn't the sickness afther all. No matther--not all the wather in the sky 'ud clear my mind that there's not villany joined with that Tobaccy-box, though where it could go, or what could come of it (barrin' the devil himself or the fairies tuck it,) I don't know."

So far as concerned the coroner, the rumor of his having caught the prevailing typhus was not founded on fact. A short indisposition, arising from a cold caught by a severe wetting, but by no means of a serious or alarming nature, was his only malady; and when the day to which the inquest had been postponed had arrived, he was sufficiently recovered to conduct that important investigation. A very large crowd was a.s.sembled upon the occasion, and a deep interest prevailed throughout that part of the country. The circ.u.mstances, however, did not, as it happened, admit of any particular difficulty Jerry Sullivan and his friends attended as, was their duty, in order to give evidence touching the ident.i.ty of the body. This, however, was a matter of peculiar difficulty. On disinterring the remains, it was found that the clothes worn at the time of the murder had not been buried with them--in other words, that the body had been stripped of all but the under garment, previous to its interment. The evidence, nevertheless, of the Black Prophet and of Red Rody was conclusive. The truth, however, of most if not of all the details, but not of the fact itself, was denied by old Dalton, who had sufficiently recovered from his illness, to be present at the investigation. The circ.u.mstances deposed to by the two witnesses were sufficiently strong and home to establish the fact against him, although he impugned the details as we have stated, but admitted that--after a hard battle with weighty sticks, he did kill Sullivan with an unlucky blow, and left him dead in a corner of the field for a short time near the Grey Stone. He said that he did not bury the body, but that he carried it soon afterwards from the field in which the unhappy crime had been committed, to the roadside, where he laid it for a time, in order to procure a.s.sistance. He said he then changed his mind, and having become afraid to communicate the unhappy accident to any of the neighbors, he fled in great terror across the adjoining mountains, where he wandered nearly frantic until the approach of day-break the next morning. He then felt himself seized with an uncontrollable anxiety to return to the scene of conflict, which he did, and found, not much to his surprise indeed, that the body had been removed, for he supposed at the time that Sullivan's friends must have brought it home. This he declared was the truth, neither more nor less, and he concluded by solemnly stating, that he knew no more than the child unborn what had become of the body, or how it disappeared. He also acknowledged that he was very much intoxicated at the time of the quarrel, and that were it not for the shock he received by perceiving that the man was dead, he thought he would not have had anything beyond a confused and indistinct recollection of the circ.u.mstance at all.

He admitted also that he had threatened Sullivan in the market, and followed him closely for the purpose of beating him, but maintained that the fatal blow was not given with an intention of taking his life.

The fact, on the contrary, that the body had been privately buried and stripped before interment, was corroborated by the circ.u.mstance of Sullivan's body-coat having been found the next morning in a torn and b.l.o.o.d.y state, together with his great coat and hat; but indeed, the impression upon the minds of many was, that Dalton's version of the circ.u.mstances was got up for the purpose of giving to what was looked upon as a deliberate a.s.sa.s.sination, the character of simple homicide or manslaughter, so as that he might escape the capital felony, and come off triumphantly by a short imprisonment. The feeling against him too was strengthened and exasperated by the impetuous resentment with which he addressed himself to the Prophet and Rody Duncan, while giving their evidence, for it was not unreasonable to suppose that the man, who at his years, and in such awful circ.u.mstances, could threaten the lives of the witnesses against him, as he did, would not hesitate to commit, in a fit of that ungovernable pa.s.sion that had made him remarkable through life, the very crime with which he stood charged through a similar act of blind and ferocious vengeance. Others, on the contrary held different opinions; and thought that the old man's account of the matter was both simple and natural, and bore the stamp of sincerity and truth upon the very face of it. Jerry Sullivan only swore that, to the best of his opinion, the skeleton found was much about the size of what his brother's would be; but as the proof of his private interment by Dalton had been clearly established by the evidence of the Prophet and Rody, const.i.tuting, as it did, an unbroken chain of circ.u.mstances which nothing could resist, the jury had no hesitation in returning the following verdict:--

"We find a verdict of wilful murder against Cornelius Dalton, Senior, for that he, on or about the night of the fourteenth of December, in the year of grace, 1798, did follow and waylay Bartholomew Sullivan, and deprive him of his life by blows and violence, having threatened him to the same effect in the early part of the aforesaid day."

During the progress of the investigation, our friend the pedlar and Charley Hanlon were anxious and deeply attentive spectators. The former never kept his eyes off the Prophet, but surveyed him with a face in which it was difficult to say whether the expression was one of calm conviction or astonishment. When the investigation had come to a close, he drew Hanlon aside and said--

"That swearin', Charley, was too clear, and if I was on the jury myself I would find the same verdict. May the Lord support the poor old man in the mane time! for in spite of all that happened one can't help pity'n'

him, or at any rate his unfortunate family. However see what comes by not havin' a curb over one's pa.s.sions when the blood's up."