Читать книгу The Black Prophet: A Tale Of Irish Famine - William Carleton - Страница 8

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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 assembled; 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 assemblies. 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 Dick 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 sex, that he invariably made I love to every pretty girl he met, or could lure into conversation. The usual consequences followed. Nobody was such a favorite with the sex 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 assurance was boundless, as were his powers of flattery. It is unnecessary to say, then, that a man so admirably calculated to succeed with the sex, was properly appreciated by them, and that his falsehood, flattery, and assurance 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 circumstance which considerably diminished her popularity with her own sex. 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 dickens 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 passin' 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.

The place at that moment was, indeed, a lonely one, and it was by no means surprising that, apart from the occurrence of two murders, one on, and the other near, the spot where they stood, the neighboring peasantry should feel great reluctance in passing it at night. The light of the moon was just sufficient to expose the natural wildness of the adjacent scenery. The glen itself lay in the shadow of the hill, and seemed to the eye so dark that nothing but the huge outlines of the projecting crags, whose shapes appeared in the indistinctness like gigantic spectres, could been seen; while all around, and where the pale light of! the moon fell, nothing was visible but the muddy gleams of the yellow flood as it rushed, with its hoarse and incessant roar, through a flat country on whose features the storm and the hour had impressed a character of gloom, and the most dismal desolation. Nay, the still appearance of the Grey Stone, or rock, at which they stood, had, when contrasted with the moving elements about them, and associated with the murder committed at its very foot, a solemn appearance that was of itself calculated to fill the mind with awe and terror. Hanlon felt this, as, indeed, his whole manner indicated.

“Well,” said his companion, alluding to the short prayer he had just concluded, “I didn't expect to see you at your prayers like a voteen this night at any rate. Is it fear that makes you so pious upon our hands? Troth, I doubt there's a white feather—a cowardly dhrop—in you, still an' all.”

“If you can be one minute serious, Sally, do, I beg of you. I am very much disturbed, I acknowledge, an' so would you, mabe, if you knew as much as I do.”

“You're the color of death,” she replied putting her fingers upon his cheek; “—an, my God! is it paspiration I feel such a night as this? I declare to goodness it is. Give me the white pocket-handkerchy that you say Peggy Murray gave you. Where is it?” she proceeded, taking it out of his pocket. “Ah, ay, I have it; stoop a little; take care of your hat; here now,” and while speaking she wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead. “Is this the one she made you a present of, an' put the letthers on?”

“It is,” he replied, “the very same—but she didn't make me a present of it, she only hemmed it for me.”

“That's a lie of you,” she replied, fiercely; “she bought it for you out of her own pocket. I know that much. She tould Kate Duffy so herself, and boasted of it: but wait.”

“Well,” replied Hanlon, anxious to keep down the gust of jealousy which he saw rising, “and if she did, how could I prevent her?”

“What letthers did she put on it?”

“P. and an M.,” he replied, “the two first letthers of my name.”

“That's another lie,” she exclaimed; “they're not the two first letthers of your name, but of her own; there's no M in Hanlon. At any rate, unless you give the same handkerchy to me, I'll make it be a black business to her.”

“Keep it, keep it, wid all my heart,” he replied, glad to get rid of a topic which at that moment came on him so powerfully and unseasonably. “Do what you like wid it.”

“You say so willingly, now—do you?”

“To be sure I do; an' you may tell the whole world that I said so, if you like.”

“P. M.—oh, ay, that's for Peggy Murray—maybe the letthers I saw on the ould tobaccy-box I found in the hole of the wall to-day were for Peggy Murray. Ha! ha! ha! Oh, may be I won't have a brag over her!”

“What letthers?” asked Hanlon eagerly; “a tobaccy-box, did you say?”

“Ay did I—a tobaccy-box. I found it in a hole in the wall in our house to-day; it tumbled out while I was gettin' some cobwebs to stop a bleedin'.”

“Was it a good one?” asked Hanlon, with apparent carelessness, “could one use it?”

“Hardly; but no, it's all rusty, an' has but one hinge.”

“But one hinge!” repeated the other, who was almost breathless with anxiety; “an' the letthers—what's this you say they wor?”

“The very same that's on your handkerchy,” she replied—“a P. an' an M.”

“Great God!” he exclaimed, “is this possible! Heavens! What is that? Did you hear anything?”

“What ails you?” she enquired. “Why do you look so frightened?”

“Did you hear nothing?” he again asked.

“Ha! ha!—hear!” she replied, laughing—“hear; I thought I heard something like a groan; but sure 'tis only the wind. Lord! what a night! Listen how the wind an' storm growls an' tyrannizes and rages down in the glen there, an' about the hills. Faith there'll be many a house stripped this night. Why, what ails you? Afther all, you're but a hen-hearted divil, I doubt; sorra thing else.”

Hanlon made her no reply, but took his hat off, and once more offered up a short prayer, apparently in deep and most extraordinary excitement.

“I see,” she observed, after he had concluded, “that you're bent on your devotions this night; and the devil's own place you've pitched upon for them.”

“Well, now,” replied Hanlon, “I'll be biddin' you good-night; but before you go, promise to get me that tobaccy-box you found; it's the least you may give it to me for Peggy Murray's handkerchy.”

“Hut,” returned Sally, “it's not worth a thraneen; you couldn't use it even if you had it; sure it's both rusty and broken.”

“No matther for that,” he replied; “I want to play a thrick on Peggy Murray wid it, so as to have a good laugh against her—the pair of us—you wid the handkerchy, and me wid the tobaccy-box.”

“Very well,” she replied. “Ha! ha! ha!—that'll be great. At any rate, I've a crow to pluck wid the same Peggy Murray. Oh, never you fear, you must have it; the minnit I get my hands on it, I'll secure it for you.” After a few words more of idle chat they separated; he to his master's house, which was a considerable distance off; and this extraordinary creature—unconscious of the terrors and other weaknesses that render her sex at once so dependent on and so dear to man—full only of delight at the expected glee of the wake—to the house of death where it was held.

In the country parts of Ireland it is not unusual for those who come to a wake-house from a distance, to remain there until the funeral takes place: and this also is frequently the case with the nearest door neighbors. There is generally a solemn hospitality observed on the occasion, of which the two classes I mention partake. Sally's absence, therefore, on that night, or for the greater portion of the next day, excited neither alarm nor surprise at home. On entering their miserable sheiling, she found her father, who had just returned, and her step-mother in high words; the cause of which, she soon learned, had originated in his account of the interview between young Dalton and Mave Sullivan, together with its unpleasant consequences to himself.

“What else could you expect,” said his wife, “but what you got? You're ever an' always too ready wid your divil's grin an' your black prophecy to thim you don't like. I wondher you're not afeard that some of them might come back to yourself, an' fall upon your own head. If ever a man tempted Providence you do.”

“Ah, dear me!” he exclaimed, with a derisive sneer, rendered doubly repulsive by his own hideous and disfigured face, “how pious we are! Providence, indeed! Much I care about Providence, you hardened jade, or you aither, whatever puts the word into your purty mouth. Providence! oh, how much we regard it, as if Providence took heed of what we do. Go an' get me somethin' to put to this swellin', you had betther; or if it's goin' to grow religious you are, be off out o' this; we'll have none of your cant or pishthrougues here.”

“What's this?” inquired Sarah, seating; herself on a three legged stool, “the ould work, is it? bell-cat, bell-dog. Ah, you're a blessed pair an' a purty pair, too; you, wid your swelled face an' blinkin' eye. Arrah, what dacent man gave you that? An' you,” she added, turning to her step-mother, “wid your cheeks poulticed, an' your eye blinkin' on the other side—what a pair o' beauties you are, ha! ha! ha! I wouldn't be surprised if the divil an' his mother fell in consate wid you both!—ha! ha!”

“Is that your manners, afther spendin' the night away wid yourself?” asked her father, angrily. “Instead of stealin' into the house thremblin' wid fear, as you ought to be, you walk in wid your brazen face, ballyraggin' us like a Hecthor.”

“Devil a taste I'm afeard,” she replied, sturdily; “I did nothin' to be afeard or ashamed of, an' why should I?”

“Did you see Mr. Hanlon on your travels, eh?”

“You needn't say eh about it,” she replied, “to be sure I did; it was to meet him that I went to the dance; I have no saicrets.”

“Ah, you'll come to a good end yet, I doubt,” said her father.

“Sure she needn't be afeard of Providence, any how,” observed his wife.

“To the divil wid you, at all events,” he replied; “if you're not off out o' that to get me somethin' for this swellin' I'll make it worse for you.”

“Ay, ay, I'll go,” looking at him with peculiar bitterness, “an wid the help of the same Providence that you laugh at, I'll take care that the same roof won't cover the three of us long. I'm tired of this life, and come or go what may, I'll look to my sowl an' lead it no longer.

“Do you mane to break our hearts?” he replied, laughing; “for sure we couldn't do less afther her, Sally; eh, ha! ha! ha! Before you lave us, anyhow,” he added, “go and get me some Gaiharrawan roots to bring down this swellin'; I can't go to the Grange wid sich a face as this on me.”

“You'll have a blacker an' a worse one on the day of judgment,” replied Nelly, taking up an old spade as she spoke, and proceeding to look for the Casharrawan (Dandelion) roots he wanted.

When she had gone, the prophet, assuming that peculiar sweetness of manner, for which he was so remarkable when it suited his purpose, turned to his daughter, and putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out a tress of fair hair, whose shade and silky softness were exquisitely beautiful.

“Do you see that,” said he, “isn't that pretty?”

“Show,” she replied, and taking the tress into her hand, she looked at it.

“It is lovely; but isn't that aquil to it?” she continued, letting loose her own of raven black and equal gloss and softness—“what can it brag over that? eh,” and as she compared them her black eye flashed, and her cheek assumed a rich glow of pride and conscious beauty, that made her look just such a being as an old Grecian statuary would have wished to model from.

“It is aiquil to hers any day,” replied her father, softening into affection as he contemplated her; “and indeed, Sally, I think you're her match every way except—except—no matter, troth are you.”

“What are you going to do wid it?” she asked; “is it to the Grange it's goin'?”

“It is an' I want you to help me in what I mentioned to you. If I get what I'm promised, we'll lave the country, you and I, and as for that ould vagabond, we'll pitch her to ould Nick. She's talking about devotion and has nothing but Providence in her lips.”

“But isn't there a Providence?” asked his daughter, with a sparkling eye.

“Devil a much myself knows or cares,” he replied, with indifference, “whether there is or not.”

“Bekase if there is,” she said, pausing—“if there is, one might as well—”

She paused again and her fine features assumed an intellectual meaning—a sorrowful and meditative beauty, that gave a new and more attractive expression to her face than her father had ever witnessed on it before.

“Don't vex me, Sarah,” he replied, snappishly. “Maybe it's goin' to imitate her you are. The clargy knows these things maybe—an' maybe they don't. I only wish she'd come back with the caaharrawan. If all goes right, I'll pocket what'll bring yourself an' me to America. I'm beginnin' somehow to get unaisy; an' I don't wish to stay in this country any longer.”

Whilst he spoke, the sparkling and beautiful expression which had lit up his daughter's countenance passed away, and with it probably the moment in which it was possible to have opened a new and higher destiny to her existence.

Nelly, in the meantime, having taken an old spade with her to dig the roots she went in quest of, turned up Glendhu, and kept searching for some time in vain, until at length she found two or three bunches of the herb growing in a little lonely nook that lay behind a projecting ledge of rock, where one would seldom think of looking for herbage at all. Here she found a little, soft, green spot, covered over with dandelion; and immediately she began to dig it up. The softness of the earth and its looseness surprised her a good deal; and moved by an unaccountable curiosity, she pushed the spade further down, until it was met by some substance that felt rather hard. From this she cleared away the earth as well as she could, and discovered that the spade had been opposed by a bone; and on proceeding to examine still further, she discovered that the spot on which the dandelions had grown, contained the bones of a full grown human body.