"Dear Sarah, don't you know me?" reiterated Mave; "look at me--don't you know Mave Sullivan--your friend, Mave Sullivan, that knows your value and loves you."

"Who?" she asked, starting a little; "who--what name is that?--who is it?--say it again."

"Don't you know Mave Sullivan, that loves you, an' feels for your miserable situation, my dear Sarah."

"I never had a guardian angel, nor any one to take care o' me--nor a mother, many a time--often--often the whole world--jist to look at her face--an' to know--feel--love me. Oh, a dhrink, a dhrink--is there no one to get me a dhrink! I'm burnin', I'm burnin'--is there no one to get me a dhrink! Mave Sullivan, Mave Sullivan, have pity on me! I heard some one name her--I heard her voice--I'll die without a dhrink."

Mave looked about the desolate shed, and to her delight spied a tin porringer, which Sarah's unhappy predecessors had left behind them; seizing this, she flew to a little stream that ran by the place, and filling the vessel, returned and placed it to Sarah's lips. She drank it eagerly, and looking piteously and painfully up into Mave's face, she laid back her head, and appeared to breathe more freely. Mave hoped that the drink of cold water would have cooled her fever and a.s.suaged her thirst, so as to have brought her to a rational state--such a state as would have enabled the poor girl to give some account of the extraordinary situation in which she found herself, and of the circ.u.mstances which occasioned her to take shelter in such a place. In this, however, she was disappointed. Sarah having drank the cold water, once more shut her eyes, and fell into that broken and oppressive slumber which characterizes the terrible malady which had stricken her down. For some time she waited with this benign expectation, but seeing there was no likelihood of her restoration, to consciousness, she again filled the tin vessel, and placing it upon a stone by her bedside, composed the poor girl's dress about her, and turned her steps toward a scene in which she expected to find equal misery.

It is not our intention, however, to dwell upon it. It is sufficient to say, that she found the Daltons--who, by the way, had a pretty long visit from the pedlar--as her brother had said, beginning to recover, and so far this was consolatory; but there was not within the walls of the house, earthly comfort, or food or nourishment of any kind. Poor Mary was literally gasping for want of sustenance, and a few hours more might have been fatal to them all. There was no fire--no gruel, milk or anything that could in the slightest possible degree afford them relief.

Her brother Denny, however, who had been desired by her to fetch his purchases directly to their cabin, soon returned, and almost at a moment that might be called the crisis, not of their malady, for that had pa.s.sed, but of their fate itself, his voice was heard, shouting from a distance that he had discharged his commission; for we may observe that no possible inducement could tempt him to enter that or any other house where fever was at work. Mave lost little time in administering to their wants and their weaknesses. With busy and affectionate hands she did all that could be done for them at that particular juncture. She prepared food for Mary, made whey and gruel, and left as much of her little purse as she thought could be spared from the wants of Sarah M'Gowan.

In the course of two or three days afterwards, however, Sarah's situation was very much changed for the better; but until that change was effected, Mave devoted as much time to the poor girl as she could possibly spare. Nor was the force of her example without its beneficial effects in the neighborhood, especially as regarded Sarah herself. The courage she displayed, despite her const.i.tutional timidity, communicated similar courage to others, in consequence of which Sarah was scarcely ever without some one in her bleak shed to watch and take care of her.

Her father, however, on hearing of her situation, availed himself of what some of the neighbors considered a mitigation of her symptoms, and with as much care and caution as possible, she was conveyed home on a kind of litter, and nurse-tended by an old woman from the next village, Nelly having disappeared from the neighborhood.

The attendance of this old woman, by the way, surprised the Prophet exceedingly. He had not engaged her to attend on Sarah, nor could he ascertain who had. Upon this subject she was perfectly inscrutable. All he could know or get out of her was, that she had been engaged; and he could perceive also, that she was able to procure her many general comforts, not usually to be had about the sick bed of a person in her condition of life.

Mave, during all her attendance upon Sarah, was never able to ascertain whether, in the pauses of delirium, she had been able to recognize her.

At one period, while giving her a drink of whey, she looked up into her eyes with something like a glance of consciousness, mingled with wonder, and appeared about to speak, but in a moment it was gone, and she relapsed into her former state.

This, however, was not the only circ.u.mstance that astonished Mave.

The course of a single week also made a very singular change in the condition of the Daltons. Their miserable cabin began to exhibit an abundance of wholesome food, such as fresh meat, soup, tea, sugar,white bread, and even to wine, to strengthen the invalids. These things were to Mave equally a relief and a wonder; nor were the neighbors less puzzled at such an unaccountable improvement in the circ.u.mstances of this pitiable and suffering family. As in the case of Sarah, however, all these comforts, and the source from whence they proceeded, were shrouded in mystery. It is true, Mrs. Dalton smiled in a melancholy way when any inquiries were made about the matter, and shaking her head, declared, that although she knew, it was out of her power to break the seal of secrecy, or violate the promise she had made to their unknown benefactor.

Sarah's fever was dreadfully severe, and for some time after her removal from the shed, there was little hope of her recovery. Our friend, the pedlar, paid her a visit in the very height of her malady, and without permission, given or asked, took the liberty, in her father's absence, of completely removing her raven hair, with the exception, as in Mave's case, of those locks which adorn the face and forehead, and, to his shame and dishonesty be it told, without the slightest offer of remuneration.

CHAPTER XXVIII. -- Double Treachery.

The state of the country at this period of our narrative was, indeed, singularly gloomy and miserable. Some improvement, however, had taken place in the statistics of disease; but the dest.i.tution was still so sharp and terrible, that there was very little diminution of the tumults which still prevailed. Indeed the rioting, in some districts, had risen to a frightful extent. The cry of the people was, for either bread or work; and to still, if possible, this woeful clamor, local committees, by large subscriptions, aided, in some cases, by loans from government, contrived to find them employment on useful public works. Previous to this, nothing could surpa.s.s the prostration and abject subserviency with which the miserable crowds solicited food or labor. Only give them labor at any rate--say sixpence a day--and they did not wish to beg or violate the laws. No, no; only give them peaceable employment, and they would rest not only perfectly contented, but deeply grateful. In the meantime, the employment they sought for was provided, not at sixpence, but at one-and-sixpence a day; so that for a time they appeared to feel satisfied, and matters went on peaceably enough. This, however, was too good to last. There are ever, among such ma.s.ses of people, unprincipled knaves, known as "politicians"--idle vagabonds, who hate all honest employment themselves, and ask no better than to mislead and fleece the ignorant unreflecting people, however or wherever they can. These fellows read and expound the papers on Sundays and holidays; rail not only against every government, no matter what its principles are, but, in general, attack all const.i.tuted authority, without feeling one single spark of true national principle, or independent love of liberty. It is such corrupt scoundrels that always a.s.sail the executive of the country, and at the same time supply the official staff of spies and informers with their blackest perjurers and traitors. In truth, they are always the first to corrupt, and the first to betray. You may hear these men denouncing government this week, and see them strutting about the Castle, its pampered instruments, and insolent with its patronage, the next. If there be a strike, conspiracy, or cabal of any kind, these "patriots" are at the bottom of it; and wherever ribbonism and other secret societies do not exist, there they are certain to set them agoing.

For only a short time were these who had procured industrial employment permitted to rest satisfied with the efforts which had been made on their behalf. The "patriots" soon commenced operations.

"Eighteen pence a day was nothing; the government had plenty of money, and if the people wished to hear a truth, it could be tould them by those who knew--listen hether"--as the Munster men say--"the country gentlemen and the committees are putting half the money into their own pockets"--this being precisely what the knaves would do themselves if they were in their places--"and for that reason we'll strike for higher wages."

In this manner were the people led first into folly, and ultimately into rioting and crime; for it is not, in point of fact, those who are suffering most severely that take a prominent part in these senseless tumults, or who are the first to trample upon law and order. The evil example is set to those who do suffer by these factious vagabonds; and, under such circ.u.mstances, and betrayed by such delusions, the poor people join the crowd, and find themselves engaged in the outrage, before they have time to reflect upon their conduct.

At the time of which we write, however, the government did not consider it any part of its duty to take a deep interest in the domestic or social improvement of the people. The laws of the country, at that period, had but one aspect--that of terror; for it was evident that the legislature of the day had forgotten that neither an individual nor a people can both love and fear the same object at the same time. The laws checked insubordination and punished crime; and having done this, the great end and object of all law was considered to have been attained.

We hope, however, the day has come when education, progress, improvement and reward, will shed their mild and peaceful l.u.s.tre upon our statute-books, and banish from them those Draconian enactments, that engender only fear and hatred, breathe of cruelty, and have their origin in a tyrannical love of blood.

We have said that the aspect of the country was depressing and gloomy; but we may add here, that these words convey but a vague and feeble idea of the state to which the people at large were reduced. The general dest.i.tution, the famine, sickness and death, which had poured such misery and desolation over the land, left, as might be expected, their terrible traces behind them. Indeed the sufferings which a year of famine and disease--and they usually either accompany or succeed each other--inflicts upon the mult.i.tudes of poor, are such as no human pen could at all describe, so as to portray a picture sufficiently faithful to the dreary and death-like spirit which should breath in it. Upon the occasion we write of, nothing met you, go where you might, but suffering, and sorrow, and death, to which we may add, tumult, and crime, and bloodshed. Scarcely a family but had lost one or more.

Every face you met was an index of calamity, and bore upon it the unquestionable impressions of struggle and hardship. Cheerfulness and mirth had gone, and were forgotten. All the customary amus.e.m.e.nts of the people had died away. Almost every house had a lonely and deserted look; for it was known that one or more beloved beings had gone out of it to the grave. A dark, heartless spirit was abroad. The whole land, in fact, mourned, and nothing on which the eye could rest, bore a green or a thriving look, or any symptom of activity, but the churchyards, and here the digging and delving were incessant--at the early twilight, during the gloomy noon, the dreary dusk, and the still more funeral looking light of the midnight taper.

The first days of the a.s.sizes were now near, and among all those who awaited them, there was none whose fate excited so profound an interest as that of old Condy Dalton. His family had now recovered from their terrible sufferings, and were able to visit him in his prison--a privilege which was awarded to them as a mark of respect for their many virtues, and of sympathy for their extraordinary calamities and trials.

They found him resigned to his fate, but stunned with wonder at the testimony on which he was likely to be convicted. The pedlar, who appeared to take so singular an interest in the fortunes of his family, sought and obtained a short interview with him, in which he requested him to state, as accurately as he could remember, the circ.u.mstances on which the prosecution was founded, precisely as they occurred. This he did, closing his account by the usual burthen of all his conversation ever since he went to gaol:

"I know I must suffer; but I think nothing of myself, only for the shame it will bring upon my family."

Sarah's unexpected illness disconcerted at least one of the projects of Donnel Dhu. There were now only two days until the a.s.sizes, and she was as yet incapable of leaving her bed, although in a state of convalescence. This mortified the Prophet very much, but his subtlety and invention never abandoned him. It struck him that the most effectual plan now would be--as Sarah's part in aiding to take away Mave was out of the question--to merge the violence to which he felt they must resort, into that of the famine riots; and under the character of one of these tumults, to succeed, if possible, in removing Mave from her father's house, ere her family could understand the true cause of her removal. Those who were to be engaged in this were, besides, princ.i.p.ally strangers, to whom neither Mave nor her family were personally known; and as a female cousin of hers--an orphan--had come to reside with them until better times should arrive, it would be necessary to have some one among the party who knew Mave sufficiently to make no mistake as to her person. For this purpose he judiciously fixed upon Thomas Dalton, as the most appropriate individual to execute this act of violence against the very family who were likely to be the means of bringing his father to a shameful death. This young man had not yet recovered the use of his reason, so as to be considered sane. He still roved about as before, sometimes joining the mobs, and leading them on to the outrage, and sometimes sauntering in a solitary mood, without seeming altogether conscious of what he did or said. To secure his co-operation was a matter of little or difficulty, and the less so as he heard, with infinite satisfaction, that Dalton was perpetually threatening every description of vengeance against the Sullivans, about to be tried, and very likely to suffer for the murder.

It was now the day but one previous to the commencement of the a.s.sizes, and our readers will be kind enough to accompany us to the Grange, or rather to the garden of the Grange, at the gate of which our acquaintance Red Rody is knocking. He has knocked two or three times, and sent, on each occasion, Hanlon, old d.i.c.k, young d.i.c.k, together with all the component parts of the establishment, to a certain territory, where, so far as its legitimate historians a.s.sure us, the coldness of the climate has never been known to give any particular offence.

"I know he's inside, for didn't I see him goin' in--well, may all the devils--hem--oh, good morrow, Charley--troth you'd make a good messenger for death. I'm knocking here till I have lost the use of my arm wid downright fatigue."

"Never mind, Rody, you'll recover it before you're twice married--come in." They then entered. "Well, Rody, what's the news?"

"What the news, is it? Why then is anything in the shape of news--of good news I mean--to be had in such a counthry as this? Troth it's a shame for any one that has health an' limbs to remain in it. An' now that you're answered, what's the news yourself, Charley? I hope that the Drivership's safe at last, I thought I was to sleep at home in my comfortable berth last--"

"Not now till afther the 'sizes, Rody."

"The master's goin' to them? bekaise I heard he wasn't able."

"He's goin', he says, happen what may; he thinks it's his last visit to them, and I agree wid him--he'll soon have a greater 'sizes and a different judge to meet."

"Ay, Charley, think of that now; an' tell me, he sleeps in Ballynafail, as usual; eh, now?"

"He does of course."

"An' Jemmy Branigan goes along wid him?"

"Are you foolish, Kody? Do you think he could live widout him?"

"Well, I b'lieve not. Throth, whenever the ould fellow goes in the next world, there'll be no keepin' Jemmy from him. Howandiver, to dhrop that.

Isn't these poor times, Charley, an' isn't this a poor counthry to live in--or it would be nearer the truth to say starve in?"

"No, but it would be the truth itself," replied the other. "What is there over the whole counthry but starvation and misery?"

"Any dhrames about America since, Charley? eh, now?"

"Maybe ay, and maybe no, Rody. Is it true that Tom Dalton threatens all kinds of vengeance on the Sullivans?"

"Ay, is it, an' the whole counthry says that he's as ready to knock one o' them on the head as ever the father before him was. They don't think the betther of the ould man for it; but what do you mane by 'maybe ay, an' maybe no,' Charley?"

"What do you mane by axin' me?"

Each looked keenly for some time at the other as he spoke, and after this there was a pause. At length, Hanlon, placing his hand upon Rody's shoulder, replied:

"Rody, it won't do. I know the design--and I tell you now that one word from my lips could have you brought up at the a.s.sizes--tried--and I won't say the rest. You're betrayed!"

The ruffian's lip fell--his voice faltered, and he became pale.

"Ay!" proceeded the other, "you may well look astonished--but listen, you talk about goin' to America--do you wish to go?"

"Of coorse I do," replied Body, "of coorse--not a doubt of it."

"Well," proceeded Hanlon again, "listen still! your plan's discovered, you're betrayed; but I can't tell you who betrayed you, I'm not at liberty. Now listen, I say, come this way. Couldn't you an' I ourselves do the thing--couldn't we make the haul, and couldn't we cut off to America without any danger to signify, that is, if you can be faithful?"