Part 38 (1/2)
”Tom, for shame,” said Mave, ”why would you do sich an unmanly thing with this poor ould crature?--be a man, and let him go.”
”Ay, when he's, hangin', wid his tongue out, ha, ha, ha; wait till we get to the Rabbit Bank, where there's a tree to be had; I've sworn it, ay, on her very grave too; so good-by, Mave! Come along, Darby.”
”Mave, as you expect to have the gates of Heaven opened to your sowl, an' don't lave me,” exclaimed the miser with clasped hands.
Mave looked up and down the road, but could perceive no one approach who might render the unfortunate man a.s.sistance.
”Tom,” said she, ”I must insist on your settin' the poor man at liberty; I insist upon it. You cannot, an' you must not take his life in a Christian country; if you do, you know you will be hanged yourself. Let him go immediately.”
”Oh, ay,” he replied, ”you insist, Mave; but I'll tell you what--I'll put Peggy in a coach yet, when I come into my fortune; an' so you'll insist, will you? Jest look at that wrist of yours,” he replied, seizing hers, but with gentleness, ”and then look at this of mine; an' now will you tell me that you'll insist? Come, Darby, we're bound for the Bank; there's not a beech there but's a hundred feet high, an' that's higher than ever I'll make you swing from. Your heart bled for her, didn't it!
but how will you look when I have you facin' the sun, wid your tongue out?”
”Tom,” replied the wretch, ”I go on my knees to you, an' as you hope, Tom--”
”Hope, you hard-hearted hound! isn't her father's curse upon me? ay, an'
in me? Wasn't she destroyed among us? an' you bid me hope. By the broken heart she died of, you'll get a double tug for that,” and he was about to drag him on in a state of great violence, when Mave again placed her hand upon, his arm, and said--
”I am sure, Tom, you are not ungrateful; I am sure you would not forget a kind act done to poor Peggy, that's gone.”
”Peggy!” he replied, ”what's about her? gone!--Peggy gone!--is she gone?”
”She is gone,” replied Mave, ”but not lost; an' it is most likely that she is now looking down with displeasure at your conduct and intentions towards this poor man; but listen.”
”Are you goin' to spake about Peggy, though?”
”I am, and listen. Do you remember one evenin' in the early part of this summer, it was of a Sunday, there was a crowd about old Brian Murtagh's house, and the report of Peggy's shame had gone abroad and couldn't be kept from people's eyes any longer. She was turned out of her father's house--she was beaten by her brother who swore that he would take the life of the first person, whether man or woman, young or ould, that would give her one hour's shelter. She was turned out, poor, young, misled and mistaken crature, and no one would resave her, for no one durst. There was a young girl then pa.s.sin' through the village, on her way home, much about Peggy's own age, but barring in one respect, neither so good nor so handsome. Poor Peggy ran to that young girl, an'
she was goin' to throw herself into her arms, but she stopped. 'I am not worthy,' she said, cryin' bitterly; 'I am not worthy,--but oh, I have no roof to shelter me, for no one dare take me in. What will become of me?'”
While she spoke, Dalton's mind appeared to have been stirred into something like a consciousness of his situation, and his memory to have been brought back, as it were, from the wild and turbulent images, which had impaired its efficacy, to a personal recollection of circ.u.mstances that had ceased to affect him. His features, for instance, became more human, his eye more significant of his feeling, and his whole manner more quiet and restored. He looked upon the narrator with an awakened interest, surveyed Darby, as if he scarcely knew how or why he came there, and then sighed deeply. Mave proceeded:
”'I am an outcast now,' said poor Peggy; 'I have neither house nor home; I have no father, no mother, no brother, an' he that I loved, an' said that he loved me, has deserted me. Oh,' said she, 'I have nothing to care for, an' n.o.body to care for me now, an' what was dearest of all--my good name--is gone: no one will shelter me, although I thought of nothing but my love for Thomas Dalton!' She was scorned, Thomas Dalton, she was insulted and abused by women who knew her innocence and her goodness till she met him; every tongue was against her, every hand was against her, and every door was closed against her; no, not every one--the young woman she spoke to, with tears in her eyes, out of compa.s.sion for one so young and unfortunate, brought Peggy Murtagh home, and cried with her, and gave her hope, and consoled her, and pleaded with her father and mother for the poor deluded girl in such a way that they forgot her misfortune and sheltered her; till, after her brother's death, she was taken in again to her own father's house. Now, Tom, wouldn't you like to oblige that girl who was kind to poor Peggy Murtagh?”
”It was in Jerry Sullivan's--it was into your father's house she was taken.”
”It was Tom; and the young woman who befriended Peggy Murtagh is now standin' by your side and asks you to let Darby Skinadre go; do, then, let him go, for the sake of that young woman!”
Mave, on concluding, looked up into his face, and saw that his eyes were moist; he then smiled moodily, and, placing his hand upon her head in an approving manner, said--
”You wor always good, Mave--here, set Darby free; but my mind's uneasy; I'm not right, I doubt:--nor as I ought to be; but I'll tell you what--I'll go back towards home wid you, if you'll tell me more about Peggy.”
”Do so,” she replied, delighted at such a proposal; ”an' I will tell you many a thing about her; an' you, Darby,” she added, turning round to that individual--short, however, as the time was, the exulting, but still trembling usurer was making his way, at full speed, towards his own house; so that she was spared the trouble of advising him, as she had intended, to look to his safety as well as he could. Such was the gentle power with which Mave softened and subdued this ferocious and unsettled young man to her wishes; and, indeed, so forcible in general was her firm but serene enthusiasm, that wherever the necessity for exerting it occurred, it was always crowned with success.
Thomas Dalton as might be expected, swayed by the capricious impulse of his unhappy derangement, did not accompany her to his father's cabin.
When within a few hundred yards of it, he changed his intention, and struck across the country like one who seemed uncertain as to the course he should take. Of late, indeed, he rambled about, sometimes directing, otherwise a.s.sociating himself with, such mobs as we have described; sometimes wandering, in a solitary manner, through the country at large; and but seldom appearing at home. On the present occasion, he looked at Mave, and said:
”I hate sick people, Mave, an' I won't go home; but, whisper, when you see Peggy Murtagh's father, tell him that I'll have her in a coach, yet, plaise G.o.d, an' he'll take the curse off o' me, when he hears it, maybe, an' all will be right.”