Part 25 (1/2)
CHAPTER XVI. -- Mysterious Disappearance of the Tobacco-box.
M'Gowan's mind, at this period of our narrative, was busily engaged in arranging his plans--for we need scarcely add here, that whether founded on justice or not, he had more than one ripening. Still there preyed upon him a certain secret anxiety, from which, by no effort, could he succeed in ridding himself. The disappearance of the Tobacco-box kept him so ill at ease and unhappy, that he resolved, on his way home, to make a last effort at finding it out, if it could be done; and many a time did he heartily curse his own stupidity for ever having suffered it to remain in his house or about it, especially when it was so easy to destroy it. His suspicions respecting it most certainly rested upon.
Nelly, whom he now began to regard with a feeling of both hatred and alarm. Sarah, he knew, had little sympathy with him; but then he also knew that there existed less in common between her and Nelly. He thought, therefore, that his wisest plan would be to widen the breach of ill-feeling between them more and more, and thus to secure himself, if possible, of Sarah's co-operation and confidence, if not from affection or good feeling towards himself, at least from ill-will towards her step-mother. For this reason, therefore, as well as for others of equal, if not of more importance, he came to the determination of taking, to a certain extent, Sarah into his confidence, and thus making not only her quickness and activity, but her impetuosity and resentments, useful to his designs. It was pretty late that night, when he reached home; and, as he had devoted the only portion of his time that remained between his arrival and bed-time, to a description of the unsettled state of the country, occasioned by what were properly called the Famine Outrages, that were then beginning to take place, he made no allusion to anything connected with his projects, to either Nelly or his daughter, the latter of whom, by the way, had been out during the greater part of the evening. The next morning, however, he asked her to take a short stroll with him along the river, which she did; and both returned, after having had at least an hour's conversation--Sarah, with a flushed cheek and indignant eye, and her father, with his brow darkened, and his voice quivering from suppressed resentment; so that, so far as observation went, their interview and communication had not been very agreeable on either side. After breakfast, Sarah put on her cloak and bonnet, and was about to go out, when her father said--
”Pray, ma'am, where are you goin' now?”
”It doesn't signify,” she replied; ”but at all events you needn't ax me, for I won't tell you.”
”What kind of answer is that to give me? Do you forget that I'm your father?”
”I wish I could; for indeed I am sorry you are.”
”Oh, you know,” observed Nelly, ”she was always a dutiful girl--always a quiet good crathur. Why, you onbiddable sthrap, what kind o' an answer is that to give to your father?”
Ever since their stroll that morning, Sarah's eyes had been turned from time to time upon her step-mother with flash after flash of burning indignation, and now that she addressed her, she said--
”Woman, you don't know how I scorn you! Oh, you mane an' wicked wretch, had you no pride during all your life! It's but a short time you an'
I will be undher the same roof together--an' so far as I am consarned, I'll not stoop ever to bandy abuse or ill tongue with you again. I know only one other person that is worse an' meaner still than you are--an'
there, I am sorry to say, he stands in the shape of my father.”
She walked out of the cabin with a flushed check, and a step that was full of disdain, and a kind of natural pride that might almost be termed dignity. Both felt rebuked; and Nelly, whose face got blanched and pale at Sarah's words, now turned upon the Prophet with a scowl.”
”Would it be possible,” said she, ”that you'd dare to let out anything to that madcap?”
”Now,” said he, ”that the coast is clear, I desire you to answer me a question that I'll put to you--an' mark my words--by all that s above us, an' undher us, an' about us, if you don't spake thruth, I'll be apt to make short work of it.”
”What is it?” she inquired, looking at him with cool and collected resentment, and an eye that was perfectly fearless.
”There was a Tobaccy-Box about this house, or in this house. Do you know anything about it?”
”A tobaccy-box--is it?”
”Ay, a tobaccy-box.”
”Well, an' what about it? What do you want wid it? An ould, rusty Tobaccy-box; musha, is that what's throublin' you this mornin'?”
”Come,” said he darkening, ”I'll have no humbuggin'--answer me at wanst.
Do you know anything about it?”
”Is it about your ould, rusty Tobaccy-box? Arrah, what 'ud I know about it? What the sorra would a man like you do wid a Tobaccy-box, that doesn't ever smoke? Is it mad or ravin' you are? Somehow I think the stroll you had wid the vagabone gipsy of a daughter of yours, hasn't put you into the best of timper, or her aither. I hope you didn't act the villain on me: for she looks at me as if she could ait me widout salt.
But, indeed, she's takin' on her own hands finely of late; she's gettin'
too proud to answer me now when I ax her a question.”
”Well, why don't you ax her as you ought?”