Part 24 (1/2)
”Donnel,” said Sullivan, after he had taken a seat, ”how you came to prophecy what would happen, an' what has happened, is to me a wondher; but sure enough, _fareer gair_, (* bitter misfortune) it has all come to pa.s.s.”
”I can't tell myself,” replied the other, ”how I do it; all I know is, that the words come into my mouth, an' I can't help spakin' them. At any rate, that's not surprisin'. I'm the seventh son of the seventh son, afther seven generations; that is I'm the seventh seventh son that was in our family; an' you must know that the knowledge increases as they go on. Every seventh son knows more than thim that wint before him till it comes to the last, and he knows more than thim all. There were six seventh sons before me, so that I'm the last; for it was never known since the world began that ever more than seven afther one another had the gift of prophecy in the same family. That's the raison, you see, that I have no sons--the knowledge ends wid me.”
”It's very strange,” replied Sullivan, ”an' not to be accounted for by any one but G.o.d--glory be to his name!”
”It is strange--an' when I find that I'm goin' to foretell any thing that's bad or unlucky, I feel great pain or uneasiness in my mind--but on the other hand, when I am to prophesy what's good, I get quite light-hearted and aisy--I'm all happiness. An' that's the way I feel now, an' has felt for the last day or two.”
”I wish to G.o.d, Donnel,” said Mrs. Sullivan, ”that you could prophesize something good for us.”
”Or,” continued her charitable and benevolent husband, ”for the thousands of poor creatures that wants it more still than we do--sure it's thankful to the Almighty we ought to be--an' is, I hope--that this woful sickness hasn't come upon us yet. Even Condy Dalton an'
his family--ay, G.o.d be praised for givin' me the heart to do it--I can forgive him and them.”
”Don't say them, Jerry ahagur,” observed his wife, ”we never had any bad feelin' against them.”
”Well, well,” continued the husband, ”I can forgive him an' all o'
them now--for G.o.d help them, they're in a state of most heart-breakin'
dist.i.tution, livin' only upon the bits that the poor starvin' neighbors is able to crib from their own hungry mouths for them!” And here the tears--the tears that did honor not only to him, but to human nature and his country--rolled slowly down his emaciated cheeks, for the deep distress to which the man that he believed to be the murdherer of his brother had been.
”Indeed, Donnel,” said Mrs. Sullivan, ”it would be a hard an'
uncharitable heart that wouldn't relent if it knew what they are suffering. Young Con is jist risin' out of the faver that was in the family, and it would wring your--”
A glance at Mave occasioned her to pause. The gentle girl, upon whom the Prophet had kept his eye during the whole conversation, had been reflecting, in her wasted but beautiful features, both the delicacy and depth of the sympathy that had been expressed for the unhappy Daltons.
Sometimes she became pale as ashes, and again her complexion a.s.sumed the subdued hue of the wild rose; for--alas that we must say it--sorrow and suffering--in other words, want, in its almost severest form, had thrown its melancholy hue over the richness of her blush--which, on this occasion, borrowed a delicate grace from distress itself. Such, indeed, was her beauty, and so gently and serenely did her virtues s.h.i.+ne through it, that it mattered not to what condition of calamity they were subjected; in every situation they seemed to shed some new and unexpected charm upon the eyes of those who looked upon her. The mother, we said on glancing at her, paused--but the chord of love and sorrow had been touched, and poor Mave, unable any longer to restrain her feelings, burst out into tears, and wept aloud on heading the name and sufferings of her lover. Her father looked at her, and his brow got sad; but there was no longer the darkness of resentment or indignation there; so true is it that suffering chastens the heart into its n.o.blest affections, and purges it of the gloomier and grosser pa.s.sions.
”Poor Mave,” he exclaimed, ”when I let the tears down for the man that has my doother's blood on his hands, it's no wonder you, should cry for him you love so well.”
”Oh, dear father,” she exclaimed, throwing herself into his arms, and embracing him tenderly, ”I feel no misery nor sorrow now--the words you have spoken have made me happy. All these sufferings will pa.s.s away; for it cannot be but G.o.d will, sooner or later, reward your piety and goodness. Oh, if I could do anything for--for--for any one,” and she blushed as she spoke; ”but I cannot. There is nothing here that I can do at home; but if I could go out and work by the day, I'd do it an' be happy, in ordher to help the--that---family that's now brought so low, and that's so much to be pitied!”
We have already said that the Prophet's eye had been bent upon her ever since he came into the house, but it was with an expression of benignity and affection which, notwithstanding the gloomy character of his countenance, no one could more plausibly or willingly a.s.sume.
Mave, in the mean time, could scarcely bear to look upon him; and it was quite clear from her manner that she had, since their last mysterious interview, once more fallen back into those feelings of strong aversion with which she had regarded him at first. M'Gowan saw this, and without much difficulty guessed at the individual who had been instrumental in producing the change.
”G.o.d pardon an' forgive me,” he exclaimed, as if giving unconscious utterance to his I own reflections--”for what I had thoughts of about that darlin' an' lovely girl; but sure I'll make it up to her; an', indeed, I feel the words of goodness that's to befall her breakin' out o' my lips. _A colleen dhas_, I had some private discoorse wid you when I was here last, an' will you let me spake a few words to you by ourselves agin?”
”No,” she replied, ”I'll hear nothing from you: I don't like you--I can't like you, an' I I'll hold no private discoorse with you.”
”Oh, then, but that voice is music itself, an' you are, by all accounts, the best of girls; I but sure we have all turned over a new leaf, poor child. I discovered how I was taken in an' dasaved; but sure I can't ait you--an' a sweet morsel you'd be, _a lanna dhas_--nor' can I run away wid you--an' I seen the day that it's not my heart would hinder me to do that same. Oh, my goodness, what a head o' hair! an' talkin' about that--you undherstand--I'd like to have a word or two wid yourself.'
”Say whatever you have to say before my father and mother, then,” she replied; ”I have no--” she paused a moment and seemed embarra.s.sed. The Prophet, who skilfully threw in the allusion to her hair, guessed the words she was on the point of uttering, and availing' himself of her difficulty, seemed to act as if she had completed what she was about to say.
”I know, dear,” he added, ”you have no saicrets from them: I'm glad to hear it, an' for that raison I'm willin' to say what I had to say in their presence; so far as I'm concerned, it makes no difference.”
The allusion to her hair; added to the last observations, reminded her that it might be possible that he had some message from her lover, and she consequently seemed to waver a little, as if struggling against her strong, instinctive abhorrence of him.
”Don't be afeard, Mave dear,” said her mother, ”sure, poor honest Donnel wishes you well, an' won't prophesize any harm to you. Go with him.”
”Do, achora,” added the father; ”Donnel can have nothing to say to you that can have any harm in it--go for a minute or two, since he wishes it.”
Reluctantly, and with an indomitable feeling against the man, she went out, and stood under the shelter of a little elder hedge that adjoined the house.