Читать книгу The Black Prophet: A Tale Of Irish Famine - William Carleton - Страница 6

“It's false,” replied the young fellow, with kindling eye; “it's false, from your teeth to your marrow. I know my father's heart an' his thought—an' I say that whoever charges him with the murder of your brother, is a liar—a false and damnable li—”

He checked himself ere he closed the sentence.

“Jerry Sullivan,” said he, in an altered voice, “I ax your pardon for the words—it's but natural you should feel as you do; but if it was any other man than yourself that brought the charge of blood against my father, I would thramp upon him where he stands.”

“An' maybe murdher him, as my poor brother was murdhered. Dalton, I see the love of blood in your eye,” replied Sullivan, bitterly.

“Why,” replied the other, “you have no proof that the man was murdered at all. His body was never found; and no one can say what became of him. For all that any one knows to the contrary, he may be alive still.”

“Begone, sirra,” said Sullivan, in a burst of impetuous resentment which he could not restrain, “if I ever know you to open your lips to that daughter of mine—if the mane crature can be my daughter—I'll make it be the blackest deed but one that ever a Dalton did; and as for you—go in at wonst—I'll make you hear me by and by.”

Dalton looked at him once more with a kindling but a smiling eye.

“Speak what you like,” said he—“I'll curb myself. Only, if you wish your daughter to go in, you had better leave the way and let her pass.”

Mave—for such was her name—with trembling limbs, burning blushes and palpitating heart, then passed from the shady angle where they stood; but ere she did, one quick and lightning glance was bestowed upon her lover, which, brief though it was, he felt as a sufficient consolation for the enmity of her father.

The prophet had not yet spoken; nor indeed had time been given him to do so, had he been inclined. He looked on, however, with' surprise, which soon assumed the appearance, as well as the reality, of some malignant satisfaction which he could not conceal.

He eyed Dalton with a grin of peculiar bitterness.

“Well,” said he, “it's the general opinion that if any one knows or can tell what the future may bring about, I can; an', if my knowledge doesn't desave me, Dalton, I think, while you're before me, that I'm lookin' at a man that was never born to be drowned at any rate. I prophecy that, die when you may, you'll live to see your own funeral.”

“If you're wise,” replied the young man, “you'll not provoke me now Jerry Sullivan may say what he wishes—he's safe, an he knows why; but I warn you, Donnel Dhu, to take no liberty with me; I'll not bear it.

“Troth, I don't blame Jerry Sullivan,” rejoined the prophet. “Of coorse no man would wish to have a son-in-law hanged. It's in the prophecy that you'll go to the surgeons yet.”

“Did you foresee in your prophecies this mornin' that you'd get yourself well drubbed before night?” asked Dalton, bristling up.

“No,” said the other; “my prophecy seen no one able to do it.”

“You and your prophecy are liars, then,” retorted the other: “an' in the doom you're kind enough to give me, don't be too sure but you meant yourself. There's more of murdher an' the gallows in your face than there is in mine. That's all I'll say, Donnel. Anything else you'll get from me will be a blow; so take care of yourself.”

“Let him alone, Donnel,” said Sullivan; “it's not safe to meddle with one of his name. You don't know what harm he may do you.”

“I'm not afeard of him,” said the prophet, with a sneer; “he'll find himself a little mistaken, if he tries his hand. It won't be for me you'll hang, my lad.”

The words were scarcely uttered when a terrific blow on the eye, struck with the rapidity of lightning, shot him to the earth, where he lay for about half a minute, apparently insensible. He then got up, and after shaking his head, as if to rid himself of a sense of confusion and stupor, looked at Dalton for some time.

“Well,” said he, “it's all over now—but the truth is, the fault was my own. I provoked him too much, an' without any occasion. I'm sorry you struck me, Condy, for I was only jokin' all the time. I never had ill-will against you; an' in spite of what has happened, I haven't now.”

A feeling of generous regret, almost amounting to remorse, instantly touched Dalton's heart; he seized the hand of Donnel, and expressed his sorrow for the blow he had given him.

“My God,” he exclaimed, “why did I strike you? But sure no one could for a minute suppose that you weren't in earnest.”

“Well, well,” said the other, “let it be a warnin' to both of us; to me, in the first place, never to carry a joke too far; and to you, never to allow your passion to get the betther of you, afaird that you might give a blow in anger that you'd have cause to repent of all the days of your life. My eye and cheek is in a frightful state; but no matther, Condy, I forgive you, especially in the hope that you'll mark my advice.”

Dalton once more asked his pardon, and expressed his unqualified sorrow at what had occurred; after which he again shook hands with Dalton and departed.

Sullivan felt surprised at this rencontre, especially at the nature of its singular termination; he seemed, however, to fall into a meditative and gloomy mood, and observed when Dalton had gone—

“If I ever had any doubt, Donnel, that my poor brother owed his death to a Dalton, I haven't it now.”

“I don't blame you much for sayin' so,” replied Donnel. “I'm sorry myself for what has happened, and especially as you were present. I'm afeard, indeed', that a man's life would be but little in that boy's hands under a fit of passion. I provoked him too much, though.”

“I think so,” said Sullivan. “Indeed, to tell you the truth, I had as little notion that you wore jokin' as he had.”

“That's my drame out last night, at all events,” said Donnel.

“How is that?” asked Sullivan, as they approached the door.

“Why,” said he, “I dreamed that I was lookin' for a hammer at your house, an' I thought that you hadn't one to give me; but your daughter Mave came to me, and said, 'here's a hammer for you, Donnel, an' take care of it, for it belongs to Condy Dalton.' I thought I took it, an' the first thing I found myself doin' was drivin' a nail in what appeared to be my own coffin. The same dhrame would alarm me but that I know that dhrames goes by contrairies, as I've reason to think this will.”

“No man understands these things better than yourself, Donnel,” said Sullivan; “but, for my part, I think there's a dangerous kick in the boy that jist left us; and I'm much mistaken or the world will hear of it an' know it yet.”

“Well, well,” said Donnel Dhu, in a very Christian-like spirit, “I fear you're right, Jerry; but still let us hope for the best.”

And as he spoke, they entered the house.