France. As it would have been indecent for me to have quitted town the
very instant I discovered that Madame Duval was in it, we have
determined to remain in London for some days. But I, my dear and most
honoured sir, shall have no happiness till I am again with you.

MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA

Secure of my protection, let no apprehensions of Madame Duval disturb
your peace. Conduct yourself towards her with all respect and deference
due to so near a relation, remembering always that the failure of duty
on her part can by no means justify any neglect on yours. Make known to
her the independence I assure you of, and when she fixes the time for
her leaving England, trust to me the task of refusing your attending
her.

EVELINA TO MR. VILLARS

I have spent the day in a manner the most uncomfortable imaginable.
Madame Duval, on my visiting her, insisted upon my staying with her all
day, as she intended to introduce me to some of my own relations. These
consisted of a Mr. Brangton, who is her nephew, and three of his
children--a son and two daughters--and I am not ambitious of being known
to more of my relations if they have any resemblance to those whose
acquaintance I have already made.

I had finished my letter to you when a violent rapping at the door made
me run downstairs, and who should I see in the drawing-room but Lord
Orville!

He inquired of our health with a degree of concern that rather surprised
me, and when I told him our time for London is almost expired, he asked,
"And does Miss Anville feel no concern at the idea of the many mourners
her absence will occasion?"

"Oh, my lord, I'm sure you don't think"--I stopped there, for I hardly
knew what I was going to say. My foolish embarrassment, I suppose, was
the cause of what followed; for he came and took my hand, saying, "I do
think that whoever has once seen Miss Anville must receive an impression
never to be forgotten."

This compliment--from Lord Orville--so surprised me that I could not
speak, but stood silent and looking down, till recollecting my situation
I withdrew my hand, and told him I would see if Mrs. Mirvan was in.

I have since been extremely angry with myself for neglecting so
excellent an opportunity of apologising for my behaviour at the ball.

Was it not very odd that he should make me such a compliment?

*       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Mirvan secured places last night for the play at Drury Lane Theatre
in the front row of a side box. Sir Clement Willoughby, whose
conversation with Lord Orville respecting me on the night of the ball
Miss Mirvan overheard, was at the door of the theatre, and handed us
from the carriage. We had not been seated five minutes before Lord
Orville, whom we saw in the stage-box, came to us; and he honoured us
with his company all the evening. To-night we go to the opera, where I
expect very great pleasure. We shall have the same party as at the play,
for Lord Orville said he should be there, and would look for us.


_IV.--A Compromising Situation_


EVELINA TO MR. VILLARS

I could write a volume of the adventures of yesterday.

While Miss Mirvan and I were dressing for the opera, what was our
surprise to see our chamber-door flung open and the two Miss Brangtons
enter the room! They advanced to me with great familiarity, saying, "How
do you do, cousin? So we've caught you at the glass! Well, we're
determined to tell our brother of that!" Miss Mirvan, who had never
before seen them, could not at first imagine who they were, till the
elder said: "We've come to take you to the opera, miss. Papa and my
brother are below, and we are to call for your grandmother as we go
along."

I told them I was pre-engaged, and endeavoured to apologise. But they
hastened away, saying, "Well, her grandmamma will be in a fine passion,
that's one good thing!"

And indeed, shortly afterwards, Madame Duval arrived, her face the
colour of scarlet, and her eyes sparkling with fury, and behaved so
violently that to appease her I consented, by Mrs. Mirvan's advice, to
go with madame's party.

At the opera I was able, from the upper gallery, to distinguish the
happy party I had left, with Lord Orville seated next to Mrs. Mirvan.
During the last scene I perceived, standing near the gallery door, Sir
Clement Willoughby. I was extremely vexed, and would have given the
world to have avoided being seen by him in company with a family so low
bred and vulgar.

As soon as he was within two seats of us he spoke to me. "I am very
happy, Miss Anville, to have found you, for the ladies below have each a
humble attendant, and therefore I am come to offer my services here."

"Why, then," cried I, "I will join them." So I turned to Madame Duval,
and said, "As our party is so large, madame, if you give me leave I will
go down to Mrs. Mirvan that I may not crowd you in the coach."

And then, without waiting for an answer, I suffered Sir Clement to hand
me out of the gallery.

We could not, however, find Mrs. Mirvan in the confusion, and Sir
Clement said, "You can have no objection to permitting me to see you
safe home?"

While he was speaking, I saw Lord Orville, who advanced instantly
towards me, and with an air and voice of surprise, said, "Do I see Miss
Anville?"

I was inexpressibly distressed to suffer Lord Orville to think me
satisfied with the single protection of Sir Clement Willoughby, and
could not help exclaiming, "Good heaven, what can I do?"

"Why, my dear madam!" cried Sir Clement, "should you be thus uneasy? You
will reach Queen Ann Street almost as soon as Mrs. Mirvan, and I am sure
you cannot doubt being as safe."

Just then the servant came and told him the carriage was ready, and he
handed me into it, while Lord Orville, with a bow and a half-smile,
wished me good-night.

When I reached home Miss Mirvan ran out to meet me, and who should I see
behind her but--Lord Orville, who, with great politeness, congratulated
me that the troubles of the evening had so happily ended, and said he
had found it impossible to return home before he inquired after my
safety.

I am under cruel apprehensions lest Lord Orville should suppose my being
on the stairs with Sir Clement was a concerted scheme.


_V.--A Growing Acquaintance_


EVELINA TO MISS MIRVAN

Berry Hill, Dorset.--When we arrived here, how did my heart throb with
joy! And when, through the window, I beheld the dearest, the most
venerable of men with uplifted hands, returning, as I doubt not, thanks
for my safe arrival, I thought it would have burst my bosom! When I flew
into the parlour he could scarce articulate the blessings with which his
kind and benevolent heart overflowed.

Everybody I see takes notice of my looking pale and ill, and all my good
friends tease me about my gravity, and, indeed, dejection. Mrs. Selwyn,
a lady of large fortune, who lives near, is going in a short time to
Bristol, and has proposed to take me with her for the recovery of my
health.

EVELINA TO MR. VILLARS

Bristol Hotwells.--Lord Orville is coming to Bristol with his sister,
Lady Louisa Larpent. They are to be at the Honourable Mrs. Beaumont's,
and it will be impossible to avoid seeing him, as Mrs. Selwyn is very
well acquainted with Mrs. Beaumont.

This morning I accompanied Mrs. Selwyn to Clifton Hill, where,
beautifully situated, is the house of Mrs. Beaumont. As we entered the
house I summoned all my resolution to my aid, determined rather to die
than to give Lord Orville reason to attribute my weakness to a wrong
cause. On his seeing me, he suddenly exclaimed, "Miss Anville!" and then
he advanced and made his compliments to me with a countenance open,
manly, and charming, a smile that indicated pleasure, and eyes that
sparkled with delight. The very tone of his voice seemed flattering as
he congratulated himself upon his good fortune in meeting with me.

During our ride home Mrs. Selwyn asked me if my health would now permit
me to give up my morning walks to the pump-room for the purpose of
spending a week at Clifton; and as my health is now very well
established, to-morrow, my dear sir, we are to be actually the guests of
Mrs. Beaumont. I am not much delighted at this scheme, for greatly as I
am flattered by the attention of Lord Orville, I cannot expect him to
support it as long as a week.

*       *       *       *       *

We were received by Mrs. Beaumont with great civility, and by Lord
Orville with something more.

The attention with which he honours me seems to result from a
benevolence of heart that proves him as much a stranger to caprice as to
pride. I am now not merely easy, but even gay in his presence; such is
the effect of true politeness that it banishes all restraint and
embarrassment.


_VI.--A Happy Ending_


EVELINA TO MR. VILLARS

And now, my dearest sir, if the perturbation of my spirits will allow
me, I will finish my last letter from Clifton Hill.

This morning, when I went downstairs, Lord Orville was the only person
in the parlour. I felt no small confusion at seeing him alone after
having recently avoided him.

As soon as the usual compliments were over, I would have left the room,
but he stopped me.

"I have for some time past most ardently desired an opportunity of
speaking to you."

I said nothing, so he went on.

"I have been so unfortunate as to forfeit your friendship; your eye
shuns mine, and you sedulously avoid my conversation."

I was extremely disconcerted at this grave, but too just accusation, but
I made no answer.

"Tell me, I beseech you, what I have done, and how to deserve your
pardon."

"Oh, my lord!" I cried, "I have never dreamt of offence; if there is any
pardon to be asked it is rather for me than for you to ask it."

"You are all sweetness and condescension!" cried he; "but will you
pardon a question essentially important to me? Had, or had not, Sir
Clement Willoughby any share in causing your inquietude?"

"No, my lord!" answered I, with firmness, "none in the world. He is the
last man who would have any influence over my conduct."

Just then Mrs. Beaumont opened the door, and in a few minutes we went in
to breakfast. When she spoke of my journey a cloud overspread the
countenance of Lord Orville, and on Mrs. Selwyn asking me to seek some
books for her in the parlour, I was followed by Lord Orville. He shut
the door, and approached me with a look of great anxiety.

"You are going, then," he cried, taking my hand, "and you give me not
the smallest hope of your return?"

"Oh, my lord!" I said, "surely your lordship is not so cruel as to mock
me!"

"Mock you!" repeated he earnestly. "No, I revere you! You are dearer to
me than language has the power of telling!"

I cannot write the scene that followed, though every word is engraved on
my heart; but his protestations, his expressions, were too flattering
for repetition; nor would he suffer me to escape until he had drawn from
me the most sacred secret of my heart!

To be loved by Lord Orville, to be the honoured choice of his noble
heart--my happiness seems too infinite to be borne.

*       *       *       *       *

I could not write yesterday, so violent was the agitation of my mind,
but I will not now lose a moment till I have hastened to my best friend
an account of the transactions of the day.

Mrs. Selwyn and I went early in Mrs. Beaumont's chariot to see my
father, Sir John Belmont What a moment for your Evelina when, taking my
hand, she led me forward into his presence. An involuntary scream
escaped me; covering my face with my hands, I sank on the floor.

He had, however, seen me first, for in a voice scarce articulate he
exclaimed, "My God! does Caroline Evelyn still live? Lift up thy head,
if my sight has not blasted thee, thou image of my long-lost Caroline!"

Affected beyond measure, I half arose and embraced his knees.

"Yes, yes," cried he, looking earnestly in my face, "I see thou art her
child! She lives, she is present to my view!"

"Yes, sir," cried I, "it is your child if you will own her!"

He knelt by my side, and folded me in his arms. "Own thee!" he repeated,
"yes, my poor girl, and heaven knows with what bitter contrition!"

*       *       *       *       *

All is over, my dearest sir, and the fate of your Evelina is decided!
This morning, with tearful joy, and trembling gratitude, she united
herself for ever with the object of her dearest, eternal affection.

I have time for no more; the chaise now waits which is to conduct me to
dear Berry Hill and the arms of the best of men.

*       *       *       *       *




WILLIAM CARLETON


The Black Prophet

William Carleton, the Irish novelist, was born in Co. Tyrone
on February 20, 1794. His father was a small farmer, the
father of fourteen children, of whom William was the youngest.
After getting some education, first from a hedge schoolmaster,
and then from Dr. Keenan of Glasslough, Carleton set out for
Dublin and obtained a tutorship. In 1830 he collected a number
of sketches, and these were published under the title of
"Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry," and at once
enjoyed considerable popularity. In 1834 came "Tales of
Ireland," and from that time forward till his death Carleton
produced with great industry numerous short stories and
novels, though none of his work after 1848 is worthy of his
reputation. "The Black Prophet" was published in 1847, and
Carleton believed rightly that it was his best work. It was
written in a season of unparalleled scarcity and destitution,
and the pictures and scenes represented were those which he
himself witnessed in 1817 and 1822. Many of Carleton's novels
have been translated into French, German, and Italian, and
they will always stand for faithful and powerful pictures of
Irish life and character. Carleton died in Dublin on January
30, 1869.


_I.--The Murders in the Glen_


The cabin of Donnel M'Gowan, the Black Prophet, stood at the foot of a
hill, near the mouth of a gloomy and desolate glen.

In this glen, not far from the cabin, two murders had been committed
twenty years before. The one was that of a carman, and the other a man
named Sullivan; and it was supposed they had been robbed. Neither of the
bodies had ever been found. Sullivan's hat and part of his coat had been
found on the following day in a field near the cabin, and there was a
pool of blood where his foot-marks were deeply imprinted. A man named
Dalton had been taken up under circumstances of great suspicion for this
latter murder, for Dalton was the last person seen in Sullivan's
company, and both men had been drinking together in the market. A
quarrel had ensued, blows had been exchanged, and Dalton had threatened
him in very strong language.

No conviction was possible because of the disappearance of the body, but
Dalton had remained under suspicion, and the glen, with its dark and
gloomy aspect, was said to be haunted by Sullivan's spirit, and to be
accursed as the scene of crime and supernatural appearances.

Within M'Gowan's cabin, which bore every mark of poverty and
destitution, a young girl about twenty-one, of tall and slender figure,
with hair black as the raven's wing, and eyes dark and brilliant,
wrangled fiercely with an older woman, her stepmother. From words they
passed to a fearful struggle of murderous passion.

Presently, Sarah, the younger of the two, started to her feet, and fled
out of the house to wash her hands and face at the river that flowed
past. Then she returned, and spoke with frankness and good nature.

"I'm sorry for what I did. Forgive me, mother! You know I'm a hasty
divil--for a divil's limb I am, no doubt of it. Forgive me, I say! Do
now; here, I'll get something to stop the blood!"

She sprang at the moment, with the agility of a wild cat upon an old
chest that stood in the corner of the hut. By stretching herself up to
her full length, she succeeded in pulling down several old cobwebs that
had been undisturbed for years, and while doing so, knocked down some
metallic substance which fell on the floor.

"Murdher alive, mother!" she exclaimed. "What is this? Hallo, a
tobaccy-box! An' what's this on it? Let me see. Two letters--a 'P' and
an 'M.' 'P.M.'--arrah, what can that be for? Well, divil may care. Let
it lie on the shelf there. Here now, none of your cross looks. I say,
put these cobwebs to your face, and they'll stop the bleedin'. And now
good-night to you, an' let that be a warnin' to you not to raise your
hand to me again."

The girl went off to spend the night at a dance and a wake, and the
stepmother having dressed her wound as well as she could, sat down by
the fire and began to ruminate.

Presently she took up the tobacco-box, and looking at it carefully,
clasped her hands.

"It's the same!" she exclaimed. "Oh, merciful God, it's thrue--it's
thrue! I know it by the broken hinge an' the two letters! Saviour of
life, how will this end, and what will I do? But, anyway, I must hide
this, and put it out of his reach."

She accordingly went out and thrust the box up under the thatch of the
roof so that it was impossible to suspect that the roof had been
disturbed.


_II.--The Prophet Schemes_


That same evening Donnel was overtaken on the road from Ballynafail, the
market-town, by Jerry Sullivan, a struggling farmer, and they proceeded
together to the latter's house.

"This woful saison, along wid the low prices and the high rents, houlds
out a black and terrible look for the counthry, God help us!" said
Sullivan.

"Ay," returned the Black Prophet, "if you only knew it. Isn't the
Almighty, in His wrath, this moment proclaimin' it through the heavens
and the airth? Look about you, and say what is it you see that doesn't
foretell famine. Doesn't the dark, wet day, an' the rain, rain, rain
foretell it? Doesn't the rottin' crops, the unhealthy air, an' the green
damp foretell it? Doesn't the sky without a sun, the heavy clouds, an'
the angry fire of the west foretell it? Isn't the airth a page of
prophecy, an' the sky a page of prophecy, where every man may read of
famine, pestilence, an' death?"

"The time was," said Sullivan, "an' it's not long since, when I could
give you a comfortable welcome as well as a willin' one; but now 'tis
but poor and humble tratement I can give you. But if it was betther, you
should just be as welcome to it, an' what more can you say?"

"Well," replied the other, "what more can you say, indeed? I'm thankful
to you, Jerry, an' I'll accept your kind offer."

The night had set in when they reached the house, where the traces of
poverty were as visible upon the inmates as upon the furniture.

Sullivan was strangely excited--he had discovered a stolen interview
outside between his eldest daughter and young Condy Dalton.

Mave Sullivan--a young creature of nineteen, of rare natural beauty and
angelic purity--turned deadly pale when her father spoke.

"Bridget," Sullivan said, turning to his wife, "I tell you that I came
upon that undutiful daughter of ours coortin' wid the son of the man
that murdhered her uncle, my only brother--coortin' wid a fellow that
Dan M'Gowan here knows will be hanged yet, for he's jist afther tellin'
him so."

"You're ravin', Jerry," exclaimed his wife. "You don't mean to tell me
that she'd spake to, or make any freedoms whatsomever wid young Condy
Dalton? Hut, no, Jerry; don't say that, at all events!"

But Sullivan's indignation passed quickly to alarm and distress, for his
daughter tottered, and would have fallen to the ground if Donnel had not
caught her.

"Save me from that man!" she shrieked at Donnel, clinging to her mother.
"Don't let him near me! I can't tell why, but I am deadly afraid of
him!"

Her parents, already sorry for their harsh words, tried their utmost to
console her.

"Don't be alarmed, my purty creature," said the Black Prophet softly. "I
see a great good fortune before you. I see a grand and handsome husband,
and a fine house to live in. Grandeur and wealth is before her, for her
beauty an' her goodness will bring it all about."

When the family, after the father had offered up a few simple prayers,
retired to rest, Sullivan took down his brother's old great coat, and
placed it over M'Gowan, who was already in bed. But the latter
immediately sat up and implored him to take it away.

Next morning before departing, Donnel repeated to Mave Sullivan his
prophecy of the happy and prosperous marriage.

But Mave, who knew where her affection rested, found no comfort in these
predictions, for the Daltons were pressed as hard by poverty as their
neighbours.

As for Donnel M'Gowan, cunning and unscrupulous, his plan was to secure
Mave for young Dick o' the Grange, a small landowner, and a profligate.
To do this he relied on the help of his daughter Sarah and was
disappointed. For Sarah was to find Mave Sullivan her friend, and she
renounced her father's scheme, so that no harm happened to the girl.


_III.--The Shadow of Crime_


With famine came typhus fever, and the state of the country was
frightful beyond belief. Thousands were reduced to mendicancy, numbers
perished on the very highways, and the road was literally black with
funerals. Temporary sheds were erected near the roadsides, containing
fever-stricken patients who had no other home.

Under the ravening madness of famine, legal restraints and moral
principles were forgotten, and famine riots broke out. For, studded over
the country were a number of farmers with bursting granaries, who could
afford to keep their provisions in large quantities until a year of
scarcity and high prices arrived; and the people, exasperated beyond
endurance, saw long lines of provision carts on their way to the
neighbouring harbours for exportation.

Such was the extraordinary fact!

Day after day, vessels laden with Irish provisions, drawn from a
population perishing with actual hunger, and with pestilence which it
occasioned, were passing out of our ports, whilst other vessels came in
freighted with our provisions sent back, through the charity of England,
to our relief.

Goaded by suffering, hordes of people turned out to intercept meal-carts
and provision vehicles, and carts and cars were stopped on the highways,
and the food which they carried openly taken away.

Sarah M'Gowan herself went to the Daltons, where typhus and starvation
were doing their worst, to render what service she could, and Mave
Sullivan would have done the same but for the entreaties of her parents,
who feared the terrible fever.

The Black Prophet alone went on his way unmoved, scheming to accomplish
his vile ends. It was not enough for him that Mave was to be abducted;
he had also planned a robbery for the same night, and was further
resolved to procure the conviction of old Condy Dalton for the almost
forgotten murder of Sullivan in the glen.

M'Gowan was driven to this last step by his own disturbed mind. The
disappearance of the tobacco-box troubled him, for on seeking it under
the thatch it was no longer there, and the discovery by his wife of a
skeleton buried near their cabin caused him still greater uneasiness.
Then Sarah had followed him one night, when he was walking in his sleep,
to the secret grave of the murdered man, and though the Prophet did not
say anything on that occasion to incriminate himself, he was vexed by
the occurrence.

So, on the information of Donnel M'Gowan, and a man called Roddy Duncan,
who was deep in the Prophet's subtle villainies, the skeleton was dug
up, and old Condy Dalton arrested.

"It's the will of God!" replied the old man, when the police-officers
entered his unhappy dwelling, and charged him with the murder of
Bartholomew Sullivan. "It's God's will, an' I won't consale it any
longer. Take me away. I'm guilty--I'm guilty!"

Sarah was ministering to the Daltons at the very time when her father
was informing against old Condy, and was present when the police took
him away in custody. Shortly afterwards, when she had left the house,
she was struck down by typhus.

In a shed that simply consisted of a few sticks laid up against the side
of a ditch, with the remnant of some loose straw for bedding, Mave
Sullivan found the suffering girl, with no other pillow than a sod of
earth.

"Father of mercy!" thought Mave, "how will she live--how can she live
here? An' is she to die in this miserable way in a Christian land?"

Sarah lay groaning with pain, and then raving in delirium.

"I won't break my promise, father, but I'll break my heart; an' I can't
even give her warning. Ah, but it's treachery, an' I hate that. No, no;
I'll have no hand in it--manage it your own way!"

"Dear Sarah, don't you know me?" said Mave tenderly. "Look at me--I am
Mave Sullivan, your friend that loves you."

"Who is that?" Sarah asked, starting a little. "I never had anyone to
take care o' me--nor a mother; many a time--often--often--the whole
world--some one to love me. Oh, a dhrink! Is there no one to give me a
dhrink? I'm burning, I'm burning! Mave Sullivan, have pity on me--I
heard some one name her--I'll die without you give me a dhrink!"

Mave hastily fetched some water, and in the course of two or three days
Sarah's situation, thanks to the attention of Mave and her neighbours,
was changed for the better, and she was conveyed home to the Prophet's
cabin on a litter--only to die in a few days.

It was the knowledge of what she owed Mave that forced Sarah to
frustrate her father's plot for Mave's ruin.

The robbery was no more successful than the abduction, for Roddy Duncan
withdrew from it, and Donnel M'Gowan learnt that the house to be
plundered was well guarded.


_IV.--An Amazing Witness_


The court was crowded when Cornelius Dalton was put to the bar charged
with the wilful murder of Bartholomew Sullivan, by striking him on the
head with a walking stick, and when the old man stood up all eyes were
turned on him. It was clear that there was an admission of guilt in his
face, for instead of appearing erect and independent, he looked around
with an expression of remorse and sorrow, and it was with difficulty
that he was prevailed upon to plead "not guilty."

The first witness called was Jeremiah Sullivan, who deposed that at one
of the Christmas markets in 1798 he was present when an altercation took
place between his late brother Bartle and the prisoner. They were both
drinking, and their friends separated them. He never saw his brother
alive afterwards. He then deposed to the finding of his brother's coat
and hat, crushed and torn.

The next witness was Roddy Duncan, who deposed that on the night in
question he was passing on a car and saw a man drag something heavy,
like a sack. He then called out was that Condy Dalton? And the reply
was, "It is, unfortunately!" upon which he wished him good-night.

Next came the Prophet. He said he was on his way through Glendhu, when
he came to a lonely spot where he found the body of Bartholomew
Sullivan, and beside it a grave dug two feet deep. He then caught a
glimpse of the prisoner, Condy Dalton, among the bushes, with a spade in
his hand. He shouted out and, getting no answer, was glad to get off
safe.

On the cross-examination, he said "the reason why he let the matter rest
until now was that he did not wish to be the means of bringin' a
fellow-creature to an untimely death. His conscience, however, always
kept him uneasy, and many a time of late the murdhered man appeared to
him, and threatened him for not disclosing what he knew."

"You say the murdered man appeared to you. Which of them?"

"Peter Magennis--what am I sayin'? I mean Bartle Sullivan."

The counsel for the defence requested the judge and jury to make a note
of Peter Magennis, and then asked the Prophet what kind of a man Bartle
Sullivan was.

"He was a very remarkable man in appearance; stout, with a long face,
and a scar on his chin."

"And you saw that man murdered?"

"I seen him dead after havin' been murdhered."

"Do you think, now, if he were to rise again from the grave that you
would know him?"

Then the counsel turned round, spoke to some person behind, and a
stranger advanced and mounted a table confronting the Black Prophet.

"Whether you seen me dead or buried is best known to yourself," said the
stranger. "All I can say is that here I am, Bartle Sullivan, alive an'
well."

Hearing the name, crowds pressed forward, recognising Bartle Sullivan,
and testifying their recognition by a general cheer.

There were two persons present, however, Condy Dalton and the Prophet,
on whom Sullivan's appearance produced very opposite effects.

Old Dalton at first imagined himself in a dream, and it was only when