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Title: Willy Reilly
       The Works of William Carleton, Volume One

Author: William Carleton

Illustrator: M. L. Flanery

Release Date: June 7, 2005 [EBook #16001]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILLY REILLY ***




Produced by David Widger





WILLY REILLY

by William Carleton


Illustrated by M. L. Flanery


CONTENTS:

     CHAPTER
     I.--An Adventure and an Escape

     II.--The Cooleen Bawn

     III.--Daring Attempt of the Red Rapparee
     --Mysterious Disappearance of His
     Gang--The Avowal

     IV.--A Sapient Project for our Hero's
     Conversion--His Rival makes his
     Appearance, and its Consequences

     V.--The Plot and the Victims

     VI.--The Warning--an Escape

     VII.--An Accidental Incident favorable to
     Reilly, and a Curious Conversation

     VIII.--A Conflagration--An Escape--And
     an Adventure

     IX.--Reilly's Adventure Continued
     --A Prospect of By-gone Times--Reilly
     gets a Bed in a Curious Establishment

     X.--Scenes that took place in the Mountain
     Cave

     XI.--The Squire's Dinner and his Guests

     XII.--Sir Robert Meets a Brother Sportsman
     --Draws his Nets, but Catches Nothing

     XIII.--Reilly is Taken, but connived at by
     the Sheriff--the Mountain Mass

     XIV.--Reilly takes Service with Squire
     Folliard

     XV.--More of Whitecraft's Plots and Pranks

     XVI.--Sir Robert ingeniously extricates
     Himself out of a great Difficulty

     XVII.--Awful Conduct of Squire Folliard
     --Fergus Keilly begins to Contravene
     the Red Rapparee

     XVIII.--Something not very Pleasant for all
     Parties

     XIX.--Reilly's Disguise Penetrated
     --He Escapes--Fergus Reilly is on the Trail
     of the Rapparee--Sir Robert begins
     to feel Confident of Success

     XX.--The Rapparee Secured--Reilly and
     the Cooleen Bawn Escape, and are Captured

     XXI.--Sir Robert Accepts of an Invitation

     XXII.--The Squire Comforts Whitecraft in
     his Affliction

     XXIII.--The Squire becomes Theological and
     a Proselytizer, but signally fails

     XXIV.--Preparations--Jury of the Olden Time
     --The Scales of Justice

     XXV.--Rumor of Cooleen Bawn's Treachery
     --How it appears--Reilly stands his Trial
     --Conclusion




PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

I am agreeably called upon by my bookseller to prepare for a Second
Edition of "Willy Reilly." This is at all times a pleasing call upon an
author; and it is so especially to me, inasmuch as the first Edition
was sold at the fashionable, but unreasonable, price of a guinea and a
half--a price which, in this age of cheap literature, is almost fatal to
the sale of any three-volume novel, no matter what may be its merits.
With respect to "Willy Reilly," it may be necessary to say that I never
wrote any work of the same extent in so short a time, or with so much
haste. Its popularity, however, has been equal to that of any other
of my productions; and the reception which it has experienced from the
ablest public and professional critics of the day has far surpassed my
expectations. I accordingly take this opportunity of thanking them most
sincerely for the favorable verdict which they have generously passed
upon it, as I do for their kindness to my humble efforts for the last
twenty-eight years. Nothing, indeed, can be a greater encouragement to
a literary man, to a novel writer, in fact, than the reflection that he
has an honest and generous tribunal to encounter. If he be a quack or an
impostor, they will at once detect him; but if he exhibit human nature
and truthful character in his pages, it matters not whether he goes to
his bookseller's in a coach, or plods there humbly, and on foot; they
will forget everything but the value and merit of what he places before
them. On this account it is that I reverence and respect them; and
indeed I ought to do so, for I owe them the gratitude of a pretty long
literary life.

Concerning this Edition, I must say something. I have already stated
that it was written rapidly and in a hurry. On reading it over for
correction, I was struck in my cooler moments by many defects in it,
which were, kindly overlooked, or, perhaps, not noticed at all. To
myself, however, who had been brooding over this work for a long time,
they at once became obvious. I have accordingly added an underplot of
affection between Fergus Reilly--mentioned as a distant relative of my
hero--and the _Cooleen Bawn's_ maid, Ellen Connor. In doing so, I have
not disturbed a single incident in the work; and the reader who may have
perused the first Edition, if he should ever--as is not unfrequently the
case--peruse this second one, will certainly wonder how the additions
were made. That, however, is the secret of the author, with which they
have nothing to do but to enjoy the book, if they can enjoy it.

With respect to the O'Reilly name and family, I have consulted my
distinguished' friend--and I am proud to call him so--John O'Donovan,
Esq., LL.D., M.R.I.A., who, with the greatest kindness, placed the
summary of the history of that celebrated family at my disposal. This
learned gentleman is an authority beyond all question. With respect to
Ireland--her language--her old laws--her history--her antiquities--her
archaeology--her topography, and the genealogy of her families, he is
a perfect miracle, as is his distinguished fellow-laborer in the same
field, Eugene Curry. Two such men--and, including Dr. Petrie, three such
men--Ireland never has produced, and never can again--for this simple
reason, that they will have left nothing after them for their successors
to accomplish. To Eugene Curry I am indebted for the principal fact upon
which my novel of the "Tithe Proctor" was written--the able introduction
to which was printed verbatim from a manuscript with which he kindly
furnished me. The following is Dr. O'Donovan's clear and succinct
history of the O'Reilly family from the year 435 until the present time:

"The ancestors of the family of O'Reilly had been celebrated in Irish
history long before the establishment of surnames in Ireland. In the
year 435 their ancestor, Duach Galach, King of Connaught, was baptized
by St. Patrick on the banks of Loch Scola, and they had remained
Christians of the old Irish Church, which appears to have been peculiar
in its mode of tonsure, and of keeping Easter (and, since the twelfth
century, firm adherents to the religion of the Pope, till Dowell
O'Reilly, Esq., the father of the present head of the name, quarrelling
with Father Dowling, of Stradbally, turned Protestant, about the year
1800).

"The ancestor, after whom they took the family name, was Reillagh, who
was chief of his sect, and flourished about the year 981.

"From this period they are traced in the Irish Annals through a
long line of powerful chieftains of East Breifny (County Cavan), who
succeeded each other, according to the law of Tanistry, till the year
1585, when two rival chieftians of the name, Sir John O'Reilly and
Edmund O'Reilly, appeared in Dublin, at the parliament summoned by
Perrot. Previously to this, John O'Reilly, finding his party weak, had
repaired to England, in 1583, to solicit Queen Elizabeth's interest,
and had been kindly received at Court, and invested with the order of
Knighthood, and promised to be made Earl, whereupon he returned home
with letters from the Queen to the Lord Deputy and Council of Ireland,
instructing them to support him in his claims. His uncle, Edmund, of
Kilnacrott, would have succeeded Hugh Connallagh O'Reilly, the father of
Sir John, according to the Irish law of Tanistry, but he was set aside
by Elizabeth's government, and Sir John set up as O'Reilly in his place.
Sir John being settled in the chieftainship of East Breifny, entered
into certain articles of agreement with Sir John Perrot, the Lord
Deputy, and the Council of Ireland, whereby he agreed to surrender the
principality of East Breifny to the Queen, on condition of obtaining it
again from the crown _in capite_ by English tenure, and the same to be
ratified to him and the heirs male of his body. In consequence of this
agreement, and with the intent of abolishing the tanistic succession,
he, on the last day of August, 1590, perfected a deed of feofment,
entailing thereby the seignory of Breifny (O'Reilly) on his eldest son,
Malmore (Myles), surnamed Alainn (the comely), afterwards known as the
Queen's O'Reilly.

"Notwithstanding these transactions, Sir John O'Reilly soon after joined
in the rebellion of Hugh, Earl of Tyrone, and died on the first of June,
1596. After his death the Earl of Tyrone set up his second brother,
Philip, as the O'Reilly, and the government of Elizabeth supported the
claim of Sir John's son, Malmore, the comely, in opposition to Philip,
and Edmund of Kilnacrott. But Malmore, the Queen's O'Reilly, was slain
by Tyrone in the great battle of the Yellow Ford, near Benburb, on the
14th of August, 1528, and the Irish of Ulster agreed to establish Edmund
of Kilnacrott, as the O'Reilly.

"The lineal descendants of Sir John passed into the French service, and
are now totally unknown, and probably extinct. The descendants of Edmund
of Kilnacrott have been far more prolific and more fortunate. His senior
representative is my worthy old friend Myles John O'Reilly, Esq., Heath
House, Emo, Queen's Co., and from him are also descended the O'Reillys
of Thomastown Castle, in the County of Louth, the Counts O'Reilly of
Spain, the O'Reillys of Beltrasna, in Westmeath, and the Reillys of
Scarva House, in the County of Down.

"Edmund of Kilnacrott had a son John who had a son Brian, by Mary,
daughter of the Baron of Dunsany, who had a famous son Malmore, commonly
called Myles the Slasher. This Myles was an able military leader during
the civil wars of 1641, and showed prodigies of valor during the years
1641, 1642, and 1643; but, in 1644, being encamped at Granard, in the
County of Longford, with Lord Castlehaven, who ordered him to proceed
with a chosen detachment of horse to defend the bridge of Finea against
the Scots, then bearing down on the main army with a very superior
force, Myles was slain at the head of his troops, fighting bravely on
the middle of the bridge. Tradition adds, that during this action he
encountered the colonel of the Scots in single combat, who laid open his
cheek with a blow of his sword; but Myles, whose jaws were stronger than
a smith's vice, held fast the Scotchman's sword between his teeth till
he cut him down, but the main body of the Scots pressing upon him, he
was left dead on the bridge.

"This Myles the Slasher was the father of Colonel John O'Reilly, of
Ballymacadd, in the County Meath, who was elected Knight of the Shire
for the County of Cavan, in the parliament held at Dublin on the 7th of
May, 1689. He raised a regiment of dragoons, at his own expense, for the
service of James II., and assisted at the siege of Londonderry in
1689. He had two engagements with Colonel Wolsley, the commander of
the garrison of Belturbet, whom he signally defeated. He fought at the
battles of the Boyne and Aughrim, and was included in the articles of
capitulation of Limerick, whereby he preserved his property, and was
allowed to carry arms.

"Of the eldest son of this Colonel John O'Reilly, who left issue, my
friend Myles J. O'Reilly, Esq., is now the senior representative.

"From Colonel John O'Reilly's youngest son, Thomas O'Reilly, of
Beltrasna, was descended Count Alexander O'Reilly, of Spain, who took
Algiers! immortalized by Byron. This Alexander was born near Oldcastle,
in the County Meath, in the year 1722. He was Generalissimo of his
Catholic Majesty's forces, and Inspector-General of the Infantry, etc.,
etc. In the year 1786 he employed the Chevalier Thomas O'Gorman to
compile for him a history of the House of O'Reilly, for which he paid
O'Gorman the sum of £1,137 10.s., the original receipt for which I have
in my possession.

"Prom this branch of the O'Reilly family was also descended the
illustrious Andrew Count O'Reilly, who died at Vienna in 1832, at the
age of 92. He was General of Cavalry in the Austrian service. This
distinguished man filled in succession all the military grades in the
Austrian service, with the exception of that of Field Marshal, and was
called by Napoleon '_le respectable General O'Reilly_.'

"The eldest son of Myles J. O'Reilly, Esq., is a young gentleman of
great promise and considerable fortune. His rencontre with Lord Clements
(now Earl of Leitrim) has been not long since prominently before the
public, and in a manner which does justice to our old party quarrels!
Both are, however, worthy of their high descent; and it is to be hoped
that they will soon become good friends, as they are boih young, and
remarkable for benevolence and love of fatherland."

As this has been considered by some persons as a historical novel,
although I really never intended it as such, it may be necessary to give
the reader a more distinct notion of the period in which the incidents
recorded in it took place. The period then was about that of 1745, when
Lord Chesterfield was Governor-General of Ireland. This nobleman, though
an infidel, was a bigot, and a decided anti-Catholic; nor do I think
that the temporary relaxation of the penal laws against Catholics was
anything else than an apprehension on the part of England that the
claims of the Pretender might be supported by the Irish Catholics, who
then, so depressed and persecuted, must have naturally felt a strong
interest in having a prince who professed their own religion placed upon
the English throne. Strange as it may appear, however, and be the cause
of it what it may, the Catholics of Ireland, as a people and as a body,
took no part whatever in supporting him. Under Lord Chesterfield's
administration, one of the most shocking and unnatural Acts of
Parliament ever conceived passed into a law. This was the making void
and null all intermarriages between Catholic and Protestant that should
take place after the 1st of May, 1746. Such an Act was a renewal of the
Statute of Kilkenny, and it was a fortunate circumstance to Willy Reilly
and his dear Cooleen Bawn that he had the consolation of having been
transported for seven years. Had her father even given his consent at an
earlier period, the laws of the land would have rendered their marriage
impossible. This cruel law, however, was overlooked; for it need hardly
be said that it was met and spurned not only by human reason, but by
human passion. In truth, the strong and influential of both religions
treated it with contempt, and trampled on it without any dread of the
consequences. By the time of his return from transportation, it was
merely a dead letter, disregarded and scorned by both parties, and was
no obstruction to either the marriage or the happiness of himself and
his dear _Cooleen Bawn_.

I know not that there is any thing else I can add to this preface,
unless the fact that I have heard several other ballads upon the subject
of these celebrated lovers--all of the same tendency, and all in the
highest praise of the beauty and virtues of the fair _Cooleen Bawn_.
Their utter vulgarity, however, precludes them from a place in these
pages. And, by the way, talking of the law which passed under the
administration of Lord Chesterfield against intermarriages, it is not
improbable that the elopement of Reilly and the _Cooleen Bawn_, in
addition to the execution of the man to whom I have given the name of
Sir Robert Whitecraft, may have introduced it in a spirit of reaction,
not only against the consequences of the elopement, but against the
baronet's ignominious death. Thus, in every point from which we can
view it, the fate of this celebrated couple involved not only popular
feeling, but national importance.

I have not been able to trace with any accuracy or satisfaction that
portion or branch of the O'Reilly family to which my hero belonged. The
dreary lapse of time, and his removal from the country, have been the
means of sweeping into oblivion every thing concerning him, with the
exception of his love for Miss Folliard, and its strange consequences.
Even tradition is silent upon that part of the subject, and I fear that
any attempt to throw light upon it must end only in disappointment.
I have reason to believe that the Counsellor Fox, who acted as his
advocate, was never himself raised to the bench; but that that honor was
reserved for his son, who was an active judge a little before the close
of the last century.

W. Carleton.

Dublin, December, 1856.




CHAPTER I.--An Adventure and an Escape.


Spirit of George Prince Regent James, Esq., forgive me this
commencement! *

     * I mean no offence whatsoever to this distinguished and
     multitudinous writer; but the commencement of this novel really
     resembled that of so many of his that I was anxious to avoid the
     charge of imitating him.

It was one evening at the close of a September month and a September day
that two equestrians might be observed passing along one of those old
and lonely Irish roads that seemed, from the nature of its construction,
to have been paved by a society of antiquarians, if a person could judge
from its obsolete character, and the difficulty, without risk of neck or
limb, of riding a horse or driving a carriage along it. Ireland, as our
English readers ought to know, has always been a country teeming with
abundance--a happy land, in which want, destitution, sickness, and
famine have never been felt or known, except through the mendacious
misrepresentations of her enemies. The road we speak of was a proof
of this; for it was evident to every observer that, in some season of
superabundant food, the people, not knowing exactly how to dispose of
their shilling loaves, took to paving the common roads with them, rather
than they should be utterly useless. These loaves, in the course
of time, underwent the process of petrifaction, but could not,
nevertheless, be looked upon as wholly lost to the country. A great
number of the Irish, within six of the last preceding years--that is,
from '46 to '52--took a peculiar fancy for them as food, which, we
presume, caused their enemies to say that we then had hard times in
Ireland. Be this as it may, it enabled the sagacious epicures who lived
upon them to retire, in due course, to the delightful retreats of Skull
and Skibbereen,* and similar asylums, there to pass the very short
remainder of their lives in health, ease, and luxury.

     * Two poor-houses in the most desolate parts of the County of
     Cork, where famine, fever, dysentery, and cholera, rendered more
     destructive by the crowded state of the houses and the consequent
     want of ventilation, swept away the wretched in-mates to the
     amount, if we recollect rightly, of sometimes from fifty to
     seventy per diem in the years '45 and '47.

The evening, as we have said, was about the close of September, when the
two equestrians we speak of were proceeding at a pace necessarily slow.
One of them was a bluff, fresh-complexioned man, of about sixty summers;
but although of a healthy look, and a frame that had evidently once
been vigorous, yet he was a good deal stooped, had about him all the
impotence of plethora, and his hair, which fell down his shoulders, was
white as snow. The other, who rode pretty close to him, was much about
his own age, or perhaps a few years older, if one could judge by a face
that gave more undeniable evidences of those furrows and wrinkles which
Time usually leaves behind him. This person did not ride exactly side by
side with the first-mentioned, but a little aback, though not so far
as to prevent the possibility of conversation. At this time it may be
mentioned here that every man that could afford it wore a wig, with the
exception of some of those eccentric individuals that are to be found
in every state and period of society, and who are remarkable for
that peculiar love of singularity which generally constitutes their
character--a small and harmless ambition, easily gratified, and
involving no injury to their fellow-creatures. The second horseman,
therefore, wore a wig, but the other, although he eschewed that
ornament, if it can be called so, was by no means a man of that mild
and harmless character which we have attributed to the eccentric and
unfashionable class of whom we have just spoken. So far from that, he
was a man of an obstinate and violent temper, of strong and unreflecting
prejudices both for good and evil, hot, persevering, and vindictive,
though personally brave, intrepid, and often generous. Like many of his
class, he never troubled his head about religion as a matter that must,
and ought to have been, personally, of the chiefest interest to himself,
but, at the same time, he was looked upon as one of the best and
staunchest Protestants of the day. His loyalty and devotedness to
the throne of England were not only unquestionable, but proverbial
throughout the country; but, at the same time, he regarded no clergyman,
either of his own or any other creed, as a man whose intimacy was worth
preserving, unless he was able to take off his three or four bottles
of claret after dinner. In fact, not to keep our readers longer in
suspense, the relation which he and his companion bore to each other was
that of master and servant.

The hour was now a little past twilight, and the western sky presented
an unusual, if not an ominous, appearance. A sharp and melancholy breeze
was abroad, and the sun, which had set among a mass of red clouds, half
placid, and half angry in appearance, had for some brief space gone
down. Over from the north, however, glided by imperceptible degrees a
long black bar, right across the place of his disappearance, and nothing
could be more striking than the wild and unnatural contrast between the
dying crimson of the west and this fearful mass of impenetrable darkness
that came over it. As yet there was no moon, and the portion of light
or rather "darkness visible" that feebly appeared on the sky and
the landscape, was singularly sombre and impressive, if not actually
appalling. The scene about them was wild and desolate in the extreme;
and as the faint outlines of the bleak and barren moors appeared in the
dim and melancholy distance, the feelings they inspired were those of
discomfort and depression. On each side of them were a variety of lonely
lakes, abrupt precipices, and extensive marshes; and as our travellers
went along, the hum of the snipe, the feeble but mournful cry of the
plover, and the wilder and more piercing whistle of the curlew, still
deepened the melancholy dreariness of their situation, and added to
their anxiety to press on towards the place of their destination.

"This is a very lonely spot, your honor," said his servant, whose name
was Andrew, or, as he was more familiarly called, Andy Cummiskey.

"Yes, but it's the safer, Andy," replied his master. "There is not a
human habitation within miles of us."

"It doesn't follow, sir, that this place, above all others in the
neighborhood, is not, especially at this hour, without some persons
about it. You know I'm no coward, sir."

"What, you scoundrel! and do you mean to hint that I'm one?"

"Not at all, sir; but you see the truth is, that, this being the very
hour for duck and wild-fowl shootin', it's hard to say where or when a
fellow might start up, and mistake me for a wild duck, and your honor
for a curlew or a bittern."

He had no sooner spoken than the breeze started, as it were, into more
vigorous life, and ere the space of many minutes a dark impenetrable
mist or fog was borne over from the solitary hills across the dreary
level of country through which they passed, and they felt themselves
suddenly chilled, whilst a darkness, almost palpable, nearly concealed
them from each other. Now the roads which we have described, being
almost without exception in remote and unfrequented parts of the
country, are for the most part covered over with a thick sole of close
grass, unless where a narrow strip in the centre shows that a pathway is
kept worn, and distinctly marked by the tread of foot-passengers. Under
all these circumstances, then, our readers need not feel surprised
that, owing at once to the impenetrable obscurity around them, and the
noiseless nature of the antique and grass-covered pavement over which
they went, scarcely a distance of two hundred yards had been gained when
they found, to their dismay,' that they had lost their path, and were
in one of the wild and heathy stretches of unbounded moor by which they
were surrounded.

"We have lost our way, Andy," observed his master. "We've got off that
damned old path; what's to be done? where are you?"

"I'm here, sir," replied his man; "but as for what's to be done, it
would take Mayo Mullen, that sees the fairies and tells fortunes, to
tell us that. For heaven's sake, stay where you are, sir, till I get up
to you, for if we part from one another, we're both lost. Where are you,
sir?"

"Curse you, sirra," replied his master angrily, "is this either a time
or place to jest in? A man that would make a jest in such a situation as
this would dance on his father's tombstone."

"By my soul, sir, and I'd give a five-pound note, if I had it, that you
and I were dancing 'Jig Polthogue' on it this minute. But, in the mane
time, the devil a one o' me sees the joke your honor speaks of."

"Why, then, do you ask me where I am, when you know I'm astray, that
we're both astray, you snivelling old whelp? By the great and good King
William, I'll be lost, Andy!"

"Well, and even if you are, sir," replied Andy, who, guided by his
voice, had now approached and joined him; "even if you are, sir, I trust
you'll bear it like a Christian and a Trojan."

"Get out, you old sniveller--what do you mean by a Trojan?"

"A Trojan, sir, I was tould, is a man that lives by sellin' wild-fowl.
They take an oath, sir, before they begin the trade, never to die until
they can't help it."

"You mean to say, or to hint at least, that in addition to our other
dangers we run the risk of coming in contact with poachers?"

"Well, then, sir, if I don't mistake they're out to-night. However,
don't let us alarm one another. God forbid that I'd say a single word to
frighten you; but still, you know yourself that there's many a man not
a hundred miles from us that 'ud be glad to mistake you for a target, a
mallard, or any other wild-fowl or that description."

"In the meantime we are both well armed," replied his master; "but what
I fear most is the risk we run of falling down precipices, or walking
into lakes or quagmires. What's to be done? This fog is so cursedly cold
that it has chilled my very blood into ice."

"Our best plan, sir, is to dismount, and keep ourselves warm by taking
a pleasant stroll across the country. The horses will take care of
themselves. In the meantime keep up your spirits--we'll both want
something to console us; but this I can tell you, that devil a bit of
tombstone ever will go over either of us, barrin' the sky in heaven; and
for our coffins, let us pray to the coffin-maker, bekaise, you see, it's
the _maddhu ruah_ * (the foxes), and ravens, and other civilized animals
that will coffin us both by instalments in their hungry guts, until
our bones will be beautiful to look at--afther about six months'
bleaching--and a sharp eye 'twould be that 'ud know the difference
between masther and man then, I think."

We omitted to say that a piercing and most severe hoar frost had set in
with the fog, and that Cummiskey's master felt the immediate necessity
of dismounting, and walking about, in order to preserve some degree of
animal heat in his body.

"I cannot bear this, Andy," said he, "and these two gallant animals
will never recover it after the severe day's hunting they've had. Poor
Fiddler and Piper," he exclaimed, "this has proved a melancholy day to
you both. What is to be done, Andy? I am scarcely able to stand, and
feel as if my strength had utterly left me."

"What, sir," replied his servant, who was certainly deeply attached to
his master, "is it so bad with you as all that comes to? Sure I only
thought to amuse you, sir. Come, take courage; I'll whistle, and maybe
somebody will come to our relief."

He accordingly put his two fingers into his mouth, and uttered a loud
and piercing whistle, after which both stood still for a time, but no
reply was given.

"Stop, sir," proceeded Andrew; "I'll give them another touch that'll make
them spake, if there's any one near enough to hear us."

He once more repeated the whistle, but with two or three peculiar shakes
or variations, when almost instantly one of a similar character was
given in reply.

"Thank God," he exclaimed, "be they friends or foes, we have human
creatures not far from us. Take courage, sir. How do you feel?"

"Frozen and chilled almost to death," replied his master; "I'll give
fifty pounds to any man or party of men that will conduct us safely
home."

"I hope in the Almighty," said Andrew to himself in an anxious and
apprehensive tone of voice, "that it's not Parrah Ruah (Red Patrick),
the red Rapparee, that's in it, and I'm afeered it is, for I think I
know his whistle. There's not a man in the three baronies could give
such a whistle as that, barring himself. If it is, the masther's a gone
man, and I'll not be left behind to tell the story, God protect us!

"What are you saying, Andy?" asked his master: "What were you muttering
just now?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing; but there can be no harm, at all events, to look
to our pistols. If there should be danger, let us sell our lives like
men."

"And so we will, Andy. The country I know is in a disturbed and lawless
state, and ever since that unfortunate affair of the priest, I know I am
not popular with a great many. I hope we won't come across his Rapparee
nephew."

"Whether we do or not, sir, let us look to our firearms. Show me yours
till I settle the powdher in them. Why, God bless me, how you are
tremblin'."

"It is not from fear, sir," replied the intrepid old man, "but from
cold. If any thing should happen me, Andy, let my daughter know that my
will is in the oaken cabinet; that is to say, the last I made. She is
my heiress--but that she is by the laws of the land. However, as I had
disposed of some personal property to other persons, which disposition
I have revoked in the will I speak of--my last, as I said--I wish you to
let her know where she may find it. Her mother's jewels are also in
the same place--but they, too, are hers by right of law--her mother
bequeathed them to her."

"All! sir, you are right to remember and think well of that daughter.
She has been a guardian angel to you these five years. But why, sir, do
you give me this message? Do you think I won't sell my life in defence
of yours? If you do you're mistaken."

"I believe it, Andrew; I believe it, Andy," said he again, familiarizing
the word; "but if this red Rapparee should murder me, I don't, wish you
to sacrifice your life on my account. Make your escape if he should be
the person who is approaching us, and convey to my daughter the message
I have given you."

At this moment another whistle proceeded from a quarter of the moor much
nearer them, and Andy, having handed back the pistols to his master,
asked him should he return it.

"Certainly," replied the other, who during all this time was pacing to
and fro, in order to keep himself from sinking; "certainly, let us see
whether these persons are friends or enemies."

His servant then replied to the whistle, and in a few minutes it was
answered again, whilst at the same time a strong but bitter wind
arose which cleared away the mist, and showed them with considerable
distinctness the position which they occupied.

Within about ten yards of them, to the left, the very direction in
which they had been proceeding, was a small deep lake' or tarn, utterly
shoreless, and into which they unquestionably would have walked and
perished, as neither of them knew how to swim. The clearing away of
the mist, and the light of the stars (for the moon had not yet risen),
enabled the parties to see each other, and in a few minutes Andrew and
his master were joined by four men, the principal person among them
being the identical individual whom they both had dreaded--the Red
Rapparee.

"Master," said Cummiskey, in a whisper, on seeing them approach, "we
must fight for it, I'm afeered, but let us not be rash; there may be a
friend or two among them, and it is better to come off peaceably if we
can."

"I agree with you," replied his master. "There is no use in shedding
unnecessary blood; but, in any event, let us not permit them to disarm
us, should they insist on doing so. They know I never go three yards
from my hall-door without arms, and it is not improbable they may make
a point of taking them from us. I, however, for one, will not trust to
their promises, for I know their treachery, as I do their cowardice,
when their numbers are but few, and an armed opponent or two before
them, determined to give battle. Stand, therefore, by me, Andy, and, by
King William, should they have re-course to violence, we shall let them
see, and feel too, that we are not unprepared."

"I have but one life, sir," replied his faithful follower; "it was
spent--at least its best days were--in your service, and sooner than any
danger should come to you, it will be lost in your defence. If it was
only for the sake of her, that is not here, the _Cooleen Bawn_, I would
do it."

"Who goes there?" asked a deep and powerful voice when the parties had
come within about twenty yards of each other.

"By the powers!" exclaimed Andrew in a whisper, "it's himself the Red
Rapparee!"

"We are friends," he replied, "and have lost our way."

The other party approached, and, on joining our travellers, the Rapparee
started, exclaiming, "What, noble Squire, is it possible that this is
you? Hut! it can't be--let me look at you closer, till I make sure of
you."

"Keep your distance, sir," replied the old man with courage and dignity;
"keep your distance; you see that I and my servant are both well armed,
and determined to defend ourselves against violence."

An ominous and ferocious glance passed from the Rapparee to his
comrades, who, however, said nothing, but seemed to be resolved to guide
themselves altogether by his conduct. The Red Rapparee was a huge man
of about forty, and the epithet of "Red" had been given to him in
consequence of the color of his hair. In expression his countenance was
by no means unhandsome, being florid and symmetrical, but hard, and
with scarcely any trace of feeling. His brows were far asunder, arguing
ingenuity and invention, but his eyes, which were small and treacherous,
glared--whenever he became excited--with the ferocity of an enraged
tiger. His shoulders were broad, his chest deep and square, his arms
long and powerful, but his lower limbs were somewhat light in proportion
to the great size of his upper figure. This, however, is generally
the case when a man combines in his own person the united qualities of
activity and strength. Even at the period we are describing, when this
once celebrated character was forty years of age, it was well known that
in fleetness of foot there was no man in the province able to compete
with him. In athletic exercises that required strength and skill he
never had a rival, but one--with whom the reader will soon be made
acquainted. He was wrapped loosely in a gray frieze big-coat, or
_cothamore_, as it is called in Irish--wore a hat of two colors, and so
pliant in texture that he could at any time turn it inside out. His coat
was--as indeed were all his clothes--made upon the time principle, so
that when hard pressed by the authorities he could in a minute or two
transmute himself into the appearance of a nun very different from the
individual described to them. Indeed he was such a perfect Proteus that
no vigilance of the Executive was ever a match for his versatility of
appearance, swiftness of foot, and caution. These frequent defeats of
the authorities of that day made him extremely popular with the people,
who were always ready to afford him shelter and means of concealment,
in return for which he assisted them with food, money, and the spoils
of his predatory life. This, indeed, was the sagacious principle of the
Irish Robbers and Rapparees from the beginning to _rob from the rich and
give to the poor_ being their motto.

The persons who accompanied him on this occasion were three of his own
gang, who usually constituted his body-guard, and acted as videttes,
either for his protection or for the purpose of bringing him information
of such travellers as from their known wealth or external appearance
might be supposed worth attacking. They were well-made, active, and
athletic men, in whom it would not be easy to recognise any particular
character at variance with that of the peasantry around them. It is
unnecessary to say that they were all armed. Having satisfied himself as
to the identity of master and man, with a glance at his companions, the
Rapparee said,

"What on earth brought you and Andy Cummiskey here, noble squire? Oh!
you lost your way Andy says. Well now," he proceeded, "you know I have
been many a day and night on the lookout for you; aye, could have
put daylight through you many and many a time; and what do you think
prevented me?"

"Fear of God, or of the gallows, I hope," replied the intrepid old man.

"Well," returned the Rapparee, with a smile of scorn, "I'm not a man--as
I suppose you may know--that ever feared either of them much--God
forgive me for the one, I don't ask his forgiveness for the other. No,
Squire Folliard, it was the goodness, the kindness, the generosity, and
the charity of the _Cooleen Bawn_, your lovely daughter, that held my
hand. You persecuted my old uncle, the priest, and you would a' hanged
him too, for merely marryin' a Protestant and a Catholic together. Well,
sir, your fair daughter, and her good mother--that's now in heaven,
I hope--went up to Dublin to the Lord Lieutenant, and before him the
_Cooleen Bawn_, went on her two knees and begged my uncle's life, and
got it; for the Lord Lieutenant said that no one could deny her any
thing. Now, sir, for her sake, go home in peace. Boys, get their
horses."

Andy Cummiskey would have looked upon all this as manly and generous,
but he could not help observing a particular and rather sinister meaning
in the look which the Rapparee turned on his companions as he spoke. He
had often heard, too, of his treacherous disposition and his unrelenting
cruelty whenever he entertained a feeling of vengeance. In his present
position, however, all he could do was to stand on his guard; and with
this impression strong upon him he resolved to put no confidence in the
words of the Rapparee. In a few minutes the horses were brought up, and
Randy (Randall) Ruah having wiped Mr. Folliard's saddle--for such was
his name--with the skirt of his _cothamore_, and removed the hoar frost
or rime which had gathered on it, he brought the animal over to him, and
said, with a kind of rude courtesy,

"Come, sir, trust me; I will help you to your saddle."

"You have not the reputation of being trustworthy," replied Mr.
Folliard; "keep back, sir, at your peril; I will not trust you. My own
servant will assist me."

This seemed precisely the arrangement which the Rapparee and his men had
contemplated. The squire, in mounting, was obliged, as every man is, to
use both his hands, as was his servant also, while assisting him.
They consequently put up their pistols until they should get into the
saddles, and, almost in an instant, found themselves disarmed, and
prisoners in the hands of these lawless and unscrupulous men.

"Now, Squire Folliard," exclaimed the Rapparee, "see what it is not to
trust an honest man; had you done so, not a hair of your head would
be injured. As it is, I'll give you five minutes to do three things;
remember my uncle, the priest, that you transported."

"He acted most illegally, sir," replied the old man indignantly; "and,
in my opinion, I say that, in consequence of his conduct, the country
had a good riddance of him. I only wish I could send you after him;
perhaps I shall do so yet. I believe in Providence, sirra, and that God
can protect me from your violence even here."

"In the next place," proceeded the Rapparee, "think of your daughter,
that you will never see again, either in this world or the next."

"I know I am unworthy of having such an angel," replied the old man,
"but unless you were a cruel and a heartless ruffian, you would not
at this moment mention her, or bring the thoughts of her to my
recollection."

"In the last place," continued the other, "if you have any thing to say
in the shape of a prayer, say it, for in five minutes' time there will
be a bullet through your heart, and in five more you will be snug and
warm at the bottom of the loch there below--that's your doom."

"O'Donnel," said Andy, "think that there's a God above you. Surely
you wouldn't murdher this ould man and make the sowl within your body
redder--if the thing's possible--than the head that's on the top of
it, though in throth I don't think it's by way of ornament it's there
either. Come, come, Randal, my man, this is all _feastalagh_ (nonsense).
You only want to frighten the gentleman. As for your uncle, man alive,
all I can say is that he was a friend to your family, and to religion
too, that sent him on his travels."

"Take off your gallowses" (braces)! said the Rapparee; "take them off,
a couple of you--for, by all the powers of darkness, they'll both go to
the bottom of the loch together, back to back. Down you'll go, Andy."

"By my soul, then," replied the unflinching servant, "if we go down
you'll go up; and we have those belongin' to us that will see you kiss
the hangman yet. Yerra, now, above all words in the alphabet what could
put a gallows into your mouth? Faith, Randal, it's about your neck
it'll go, and you'll put out your tongue at the daicent people that will
attend your own funeral yet--that is, if you don't let us off."

"Put them both to their knees," said the Rapparee in a voice of thunder,
"to their knees with them. I'll take the masther, and, Kineely, do you
take the man."

The companions of the Rapparee could not avoid laughing at the comic
courage displayed by Cummiskey, and were about to intercede for him,
when O'Donnel, which was his name, stamped with fury on the ground and
asked them if they dared to disobey him. This sobered them at once,
and in less than a minute Mr. Folliard and Andy were placed upon their
knees, to await the terrific sentence which was about to be executed
on them, in that wild and lonely moor, and under such appalling
circumstances. When placed in the desired posture, to ask that mercy
from God which they were not about to experience at the hands of man,
Squire Folliard spoke:

"Red Rapparee," said he, "it is not that I am afraid of death as such,
but I feel that I am not prepared to die. Suffer my servant and myself
to go home without harm, and I shall engage not only to get you a pardon
from the Government of the country, but I shall furnish you with money
either to take you to some useful calling, or to emigrate to some
foreign country, where nobody will know of your misdeeds, or the life
you have led here."

"Randal, my man," added Andy, "listen to what the gentleman says, and
you may escape what you know yet. As for my master, Randal, let him
pass, and take me in his place. I may as well die now, maybe, as another
time. I was an honest, faithful servant, at all times. I have neither
chick nor child to cry for me. No wife, thank God, to break my heart
afther. My conscience is light and airy, like a beggarmans blanket,
as they say; and, barrin' that I once got drunk wid your uncle in Moll
Flanagan's sheebeen house, I don't know that I have much to trouble me.
Spare _him_, then, and take _me_, if it must come to that. He has the
_Cooleen Bawn_ to think for. Do you think of her, too; and remember that
it was she who saved your uncle from the gallows."

This unlucky allusion only deepened the vengeance of the Red Rapparee,
who looked to the priming of his gun, and was in the act of preparing
to perpetrate this most in-human and awful murder, when all interruption
took place for which neither party was prepared.

Now, it so happened that within about eight or ten yards of where they
stood there existed the walls and a portion of the arched roof of one
of those old ecclesiastical ruins, which our antiquarians denominate
Cyclopean, like _lucus a non lucendo_, because scarcely a dozen men
could kneel in them. Over this sad ruin was what sportsmen term "a pass"
for duck and widgeon, and, aided by the shelter of the building, any
persons who stationed themselves there could certainly commit great
havoc among the wild-fowl in question. The Red Rapparee then had his gun
in his hand, and was in the very act of adjusting it to his shoulder,
when a powerful young man sprung forward, and dashing it aside,
exclaimed:

"What is this, Randal? Is it a double murder you are about to execute,
you inhuman ruffian?"

[Illustration: PAGE 11--Is it a double murder you are about to execute?]

The Rapparee glared at him, but with a quailing and subdued, yet sullen
and vindictive, expression.

"Stand up, sir," proceeded this daring and animated young man,
addressing Mr. Folliard; "and you, Cummiskey, get to your legs.
No person shall dare to injure either of you while I am here.
O'Donnel--stain and disgrace to a noble name--begone, you and your
ruffians. I know the cause of your enmity against this gentleman; and I
tell you now, that if you were as ready to sustain your religion as you
are to disgrace it by your conduct, you would not become a curse to it
and the country, nor give promise of feeding a hungry gallows some day,
as you and your accomplices will do."

Whilst the young stranger addressed these miscreants with such energy
and determination, Mr. Folliard, who, as well as his servant, had now
got to his legs, asked the latter in a whisper who he was.

"By all that's happy, sir," he replied, "it's himself, the only man
living that the Red Rapparee is afraid of; it's 'Willy Reilly.'"




CHAPTER II. _The Cooleen Baum_.

The old man became very little wiser by the information of his servant,
and said in reply, "I hope, Andy, he's not a Papist;" but checking the
unworthy prejudice--and in him such prejudices were singularly strong in
words, although often feeble in fact he added, "it matters not--we owe
our lives to him--the deepest and most important obligation that one
man can owe to another. I am, however, scarcely able to stand; I feel
be-numbed and exhausted, and wish to get home as soon as possible."

"Mr. Reilly," said Andy, "this gentleman is very weak and ill; and as
you have acted so much like a brave man and a gentleman, maybe you'd
have no objection to see us safe home."

"It is my intention to do so," replied Reilly. "I could not for a moment
think of leaving either him or you to the mercy of this treacherous
man, who dishonors a noble name. Randal," he proceeded, addressing the
Rapparee, "mark my words!--if but a single hair of this gentleman's
head, or of any one belonging to him, is ever injured by you or your
gang, I swear that you and they will swing, each of you, from as many
gibbets, as soon as the course of the law can reach you. You know me,
sir, and my influence over those who protect you. As for you, Fergus,"
he added, addressing one of the Rapparee's followers, "you are, thank
God! the only one of my blood who has ever disgraced it by leading
such a lawless and guilty life. Be advised by me--leave that man of
treachery,rapine, and murder--abandon him and re-form your life--and if
you are disposed to become a good and an industrious member of society,
go to some other country, where the disgrace you have incurred in this
may not follow you. Be advised by me, and you shall not want the means
of emigrating. Now begone; and think, each of you, of what I have said."

The Rapparee glanced at the noble-looking young fellow with the
vindictive ferocity of an enraged bull, who feels a disposition
to injure you, but is restrained by terror; or, which is quite as
appropriate, a cowardly but vindictive mastiff, who eyes you askance,
growls, shows his teeth, but has not the courage to attack you.

"Do not look at me so, sir," said Reilly; "you know I fear you not."

"But the meantime," replied the Rapparee, "what's to prevent me from
putting a bullet into you this moment, if I wish to do it?"

"There are ten thousand reasons against it," returned Reilly. "If you
did so, in less than twenty-four hours you would find yourself in Sligo
jail--or, to come nearer the truth, in less than five minutes you would
find yourself in hell."

"Well, now, suppose I should make the trial," said the Rapparee. "You
don't know, Mr. Reilly, how you have crossed me to-night. Suppose now I
should try--and suppose, too, that not one of you three should leave the
spot you stand on only as corpses--wouldn't I have the advantage of you
then?"

Reilly turned towards the ruined chapel, and simply raising his right
hand, about eight or ten persons made their appearance; but, restrained
by signal from him, they did not advance.

"That will do," said he. "Now, Randal, I hope you understand your
position. Do not provoke me again; for if you do I will surround you
with toils from which you could as soon change your fierce and brutal
nature as escape. Yes, and I will take you in the midst of your ruffian
guards, and in the deepest of your fastnesses, if ever you provoke me as
you have done on other occasions, or if you ever injure this gentleman
or any individual of his family. Come, sir," he proceeded, addressing
the old man, "you are now mounted--my horse is in this old ruin--and in
a moment I shall be ready to accompany you."

Reilly and his companions joined our travellers, one of the former
having offered the old squire a large frieze great-coat, which he gladly
accepted, and having thus formed a guard of safety for him and his
faithful attendant, they regained the old road we I have described, and
resumed their journey.

When they had gone, the Rapparee and his companions looked after them
with blank faces for some minutes.

"Well," said their leader, "Reilly has knocked up our game for this
night. Only for him I'd have had a full and sweet revenge. However,
never mind: it'll go hard with me, or I'll have it yet. In the mane time
it won't be often that such another opportunity will come in our way."

"Well, now that it is over, what was your intention, Randal?" asked the
person to whom Reilly had addressed himself.

"Why," replied the miscreant, "after the deed was done, what was to
prevent us from robbing the house to-night, and taking away his daughter
to the mountains. I have long had my eye on her, I can tell you, and
it'll cost me a fall, or I'll have her yet."

"You had better," replied Fergus Reilly, for such was his name, "neither
make nor meddle with that family afther this night. If you do, that
terrible relation of mine will hang you like a dog."

"How will he hang me like a dog?" asked the Rapparee, knitting his
shaggy eyebrows, and turning upon him a fierce and gloomy look.

"Why, now, Randal, you know as well as I do," replied the other, "that
if he only raised his finger against you in the country, the very people
that harbor both you and us would betray us, aye, seize us, and bind us
hand and foot, like common thieves, and give us over to the authorities.
But as for himself, I believe you have sense enough to let him alone.
When you took away Mary Traynor, and nearly kilt her brother, the young
priest--you know they were Reilly's tenants--I needn't tell you what
happened: in four hours' time he had the country up, followed you
and your party--I wasn't with you then, but you know it's truth I'm
spakin'--and when he had five to one against you, didn't he make them
stand aside until he and you should decide it between you? Aye, and you
know he could a' brought home every man of you tied neck and heels, and
would, too, only that there was a large reward offered for the takin'
of you livin' or dead, and he scorned to have any hand in it on that
account."

"It was by a chance blow he hit me," said the Rapparee--"by a chance
blow."

"By a couple dozen chance blows," replied the other; "you know he
knocked you down as fast as ever you got up--I lave it to the boys here
that wor present."

"There's no use in denyin' it, Randal," they replied; "you hadn't a
chance wid him."

"Well, at all events," observed the Rapparee, "if he did beat me, he's
the only man in the country able to do it; but it's not over, curse
him--Ill have another trial with him yet."

"If you take my advice," replied Reilly, "you'll neither make nor meddle
with him. He's the head o' the Catholics in this part of the country,
and you know that; aye, and he's their friend, and uses the friendship
that the Protestants have towards him for their advantage, wherever he
can. The man that would injure Willy Reilly is an enemy to our religion,
as well as to every thing that's good and generous; and mark me, Randal,
if ever you cross him in what he warned you against this very night,
I'll hang you myself, if there wasn't another livin' man to do it, and
to the back o' that again I say you must shed no blood so long as I am
with you."

"That won't be long, then," replied the Rapparee, pulling out a purse;
"there's twenty guineas for you, and go about your business; but take
care, no treachery."

"No," replied the other, "I'll have none of your money; there's blood in
it. God forgive me for ever joinin' you. When I want money I can get
it; as for treachery, there's none of it in my veins; good-night, and
remember my words."

Having thus spoken, he took his way along the same road by which the old
squire and his party went.

"That fellow will betray us," said the Rapparee.

"No," replied his companions firmly, "there never was treachery in his
part of the family; he is not come from any of the Queen's O'Reillys.*
We wish you were as sure of every man you have as you may be of him."

     * Catholic families who were faithful and loyal to Queen
     Elizabeth during her wars in Ireland were stigmatized by the
     nickname of the Queen's friends, to distinguish them from
     others of the same name who had opposed her, on behalf of
     their religion, in the wars which desolated Ireland during
     her reign; a portion of the family of which we write were on
     this account designated as the Queen's O'Reillys.

"Well, now," observed their leader, "a thought strikes me; this ould
squire will be half dead all night. At any rate he'll sleep like a top.
Wouldn't it be a good opportunity to attack the house--aise him of his
money, for he's as rich as a Jew--and take away the _Colleen Bawn_?
We'll call at Shane Bearna's** stables on our way and bring the other
boys along wid us. What do you say?"

     ** Shane Bearna was a celebrated Rapparee, who, among his
     other exploits, figured principally as a horse-stealer. He
     kept the stolen animals concealed in remote mountain caves,
     where he trimmed and dyed them in such a way as made it
     impossible to recognize them. These caves are curiosities at
     the present day, and are now known as Shane Bearna's
     Stables. He was a chief in the formidable gang of the
     celebrated Redmond O'Manion. It is said of him that he was
     called Bearna because he never had any teeth; but tradition
     tells us that he could, notwithstanding, bite a piece out of
     a thin plate of iron with as much ease as if it were
     gingerbread.

"Why, that you'll hang yourself, and every man of us."

"Nonsense, you cowardly dogs," replied their leader indignantly; "can't
we lave the country?"

"Well, if you're bent on it," replied his followers, "we won't be your
hindrance."

"We can break up, and be off to America," he added.

"But what will you do with the _Cooleen Bawn_, if you take her?" they
asked.

"Why, lave her behind us, afther showin' the party creature the inside
of Shane Bearea's stables. She'll be able to find her way back to her
father's, never fear. Come, boys, now or never. To say the truth, the
sooner we get out of the country, at all events, the better."

The Rapparee and his men had moved up to the door of the old chapel
already alluded to, whilst this conversation went on; and now that their
dreadful project had been determined on, they took a short cut
across the moors, in order to procure additional assistance for its
accomplishment.

No sooner had they gone, however, than an individual, who had been
concealed in the darkness within, came stealthily to the door, and
peeping cautiously out, at length advanced a few steps and looked
timidly about him. Perceiving that the coast was clear, he placed
himself under the shadow of the old walls--for there was now sufficient
light to cast a shadow from any prominent object; and from thence having
observed the direction which the Rapparee and his men took, without
any risk of being seen himself, he appeared satisfied. The name of
this individual--who, although shrewd and cunning in many things,
was nevertheless deficient in reason--or rather the name by which he
generally went, was Tom Steeple, a _sobriquet_ given to him on account
of a predominant idea which characterized and influenced his whole
conversation. The great delight of this poor creature was to be
considered the tallest individual in the kingdom, and indeed nothing
could be more amusing than to witness the manner in which he held up his
head while he walked, or sat, or stood. In fact his walk was a complete
strut, to which the pride, arising from the consciousness of, or rather
the belief in, his extraordinary height gave an extremely ludicrous
appearance. Poor Tom was about five feet nine in height, but imagined
himself to be at least a foot higher. His whole family were certainly
tall, and one of the greatest calamities of the poor fellow's life was
a bitter reflection that he himself was by several inches the lowest of
his race. This was the only exception he made with respect to height,
but so deeply did it affect him that he could scarcely ever allude to it
without shedding tears. The life he had was similar in most respects
to that of his unhappy class. He wandered about through the country,
stopping now at one farmer's house, and now at another's, where he
always experienced a kind reception, because he was not only amusing
and inoffensive, but capable of making himself useful as a messenger and
drudge. He was never guilty of a dishonest act, nor ever known to commit
a breach of trust; and as a quick messenger, his extraordinary speed of
foot rendered him unrivalled. His great delight, however, was to attend
sportsmen, to whom he was invaluable as a guide and director. Such
was his wind and speed of foot that, aided by his knowledge of what is
termed the lie of the country, he was able to keep up with any pack of
hounds that ever went out. As a _soho_ man he was unrivalled. The form
of every hare for miles about was known to him, and if a fox or a covey
of partridges were to be found at all, he was your man. In wild-fowl
shooting he was infallible. No pass of duck, widgeon, barnacle, or
curlew, was unknown to him. In fact, his principal delight was to attend
the gentry of the country to the field, either with harrier, foxhound,
or setter. No coursing match went right if Torn were not present; and
as for night shooting, his eye and ear were such as, for accuracy of
observation, few have ever witnessed. It is true he could subsist a
long time without food, but, like the renowned Captain Dalgetty, when an
abundance of it happened to be placed before him, he displayed the most
indefensible ignorance as to all knowledge of the period when he ought
to stop, considering it his bounden duty on all occasions to clear off
whatever was set before him--a feat which he always accomplished with
the most signal success.

"Aha" exclaimed Tom, "dat Red Rapparee is tall man, but not tall as Tom;
him no steeple like Tom; but him rogue and murderer, an' Tom honest;
him won't carry off _Cooleen Bawn_ dough, nor rob her fader avder.
Come, Tom, Steeple Tom, out with your two legs, one afore toder, and
put Rapparee's nose out o' joint. _Cooleen Bawn_ dats good to everybody,
Catlieks (Catholics) an' all, an' often ordered Tom many a bully dinner.
Hicko! hicko! be de bones of Peter White--off I go!"

Tom, like many other individuals of his description, was never able
to get over the language of childhood--a characteristic which is often
appended to the want of reason, and from which, we presume, the term
"innocent" has been applied in an especial manner to those who are
remarkable for the same defect.

Having uttered the words we have just recited, he started off at a gait,
peculiar to fools, which is known by the name of "a sling trot," and
after getting out upon the old road he turned himself in the direction
which Willy Reilly and his party had taken, and there we beg to leave
him for the present.

The old squire felt his animal heat much revived by the warmth of the
frieze coat, and his spirits, now that the dreadful scene into which he
had been so unexpectedly cast had passed away without danger, began to
rise so exuberantly that his conversation became quite loquacious and
mirthful, if not actually, to a certain extent, incoherent.

"Sir," said he, "you must come home with me--confound me, but you
must, and you needn't say nay, now, for I shall neither take excuse nor
apology. I am a hospitable man, Mr.--what's this your name is?"

"My name, sir," replied the other, "is Reilly--William Reilly, or, as
I am more generally called, Willy Reilly. The name, sir, though an
honorable one, is, in this instance, that of an humble man, but one who,
I trust, will never disgrace it."

"You must come home with me, Mr. Reilly. Not a word now."

"Such is my intention, sir," replied Reilly. "I shall not leave you
until I see that all risk of danger is past--until I place you safely
under your own roof."

"Well, now," continued the old squire, "I believe a Papist can be a
gentleman--a brave man--a man of honor, Mr. Reilly."

"I am not aware that there is any thing in his religion to make him
either dishonorable or cowardly, sir," replied Reilly with a smile.

"No matter," continued the other, who found a good deal of difficulty
in restraining his prejudices on that point, no matter, sir, no
matter, Mr.--a--a--oh, yes, Reilly, we will have nothing to do with
religion--away with it--confound religion, sir, if it prevents one man
from being thankful, and grateful too, to another, when that other
has saved his life. What's your state and condition in society, Mr.--?
confound the scoundrel! he'd have shot me. We must hang that fellow--the
Red Rapparee they call him--a dreadful scourge to the country; and,
another thing, Mr.--Mr. Mahon--you must come to my daughter's wedding.
Not a word now--by the great Boyne, you must. Have you ever seen my
daughter, sir?"

"I have never had that pleasure," replied Reilly, "but I have heard
enough of her wonderful goodness and beauty."

"Well, sir, I tell you to your teeth that I deny your words--you have
stated a falsehood, sir--a lie, sir."

"What do you mean, sir?" replied Reilly, somewhat indignantly. "I am not
in the habit of stating a falsehood, nor of submitting tamely to such an
imputation."

"Ha, ha, ha, I say it's a lie still, my friend. What did you say? Why,
that you had heard enough of her goodness and beauty. Now, sir, by the
banks of the Boyne, I say you didn't hear half enough of either one or
other. Sir, you should know her, for although you are a Papist you are
a brave man, and a gentleman. Still, sir, a Papist is not--curse it,
this isn't handsome of me, Willy. I beg your pardon. Confound all
religions if it goes to that. Still at the same time I'm bound to say
as a loyal man that Protestantism is my forte, Mr. Reilly--there's where
I'm strong, a touch of Hercules about me there, Mr. Reilly--Willy,
I mean. Well, you are a thorough good fellow, Papist and all, though
you--ahem!--never mind though, you shall see my daughter, and you shall
hear my daughter; for, by the great Boyne, she must salute the man that
saved her father's life, and prevented her from being an orphan. And yet
see, Willy, I love that girl to such a degree that if heaven was open
for me this moment, and that Saint Peter--hem!--I mean the Apostle
Peter, slid to me, 'Come, Folliard, walk in, sir,' by the great
Deliverer that saved us from Pope and Popery, brass money, and--ahem! I
beg your pardon--well, I say if he was to say so, I wouldn't leave her.
There's affection for you; but she deserves it. No, if ever a girl was
capable of keeping an old father from heaven she is."

"I understand your meaning, sir," replied Reilly with a smile, "and
I believe she is loved by every one who has the pleasure of knowing
her--by rich and poor."

"Troth, Mr. Reilly," observed Andy, "it's a sin for any one to let
their affections, even for one of their own childer, go between them and
heaven. As for the masther, he makes a god of her. To be sure if ever
there was an angel in this world she is one."

"Get out, you old whelp," exclaimed his master; "what do you know about
it?--you who never had wife or child? isn't she my only child?--the
apple of my eye? the love of my heart?"

"If you loved her so well you wouldn't make her unhappy then."

"What do you mean, you despicable old Papist?"

"I mean that you wouldn't marry her to a man she doesn't like, as you're
goin' to do. That's a bad way to make her happy, at any rate."

"Overlook the word Papist, Mr. Reilly, that I applied to that old
idolater--the fellow worships images; of course you know, as a Papist,
he does--ahem!--but to show you that I don't hate the Papist without
exception, I beg to let you know, sir, that I frequently have the Papist
priest of our parish to dine with me; and if that isn't liberality the
devil's in it. Isn't that true, you superstitious old Padareen? No, Mr.
Reilly, Mr. Mahon--Willy, I mean--I'm a liberal man, and I hope we'll
be all saved yet, with the exception of the Pope--ahem! yes, I hope we
shall all be saved."

"Throth, sir," said Andy, addressing himself to Reilly, "he's a quare
gentleman, this. He's always abusing the Papists, as he calls us, and
yet for every Protestant servant undher his roof he has three Papists,
as he calls us. His bark, sir, is worse than his bite, any day."

"I believe it," replied Reilly in a low voice, "and it's a pity that
a good and benevolent man should suffer these idle prejudices to sway
him."

"Divil a bit they sway him, sir," replied Andy; "he'll damn and abuse
them and their religion, and yet he'll go any length to serve one o'
them, if they want a friend, and has a good character. But here, now
we're at the gate of the avenue, and you'll soon see the _Cooleen Bawn_"

"Hallo!" the squire shouted out, "what the devil! are you dead or asleep
there? Brady, you Papist scoundrel, why not open the gate?"

The porter's wife came out as he uttered the words, saying, "I beg your
honor's pardon. Ned is up at the Castle;" and whilst speaking she opened
the gate.

"Ha, Molly!" exclaimed her master in a tone of such bland good nature as
could not for a moment be mistaken; "well, Molly, how is little Mick? Is
he better, poor fellow?"

"He is, thank God, and your honor."

"Hallo, Molly," said the squire, laughing, "that's Popery again. You are
thanking God and me as if we were intimate acquaintances. None of that
foolish Popish nonsense. When you thank God, thank him; and when you
thank me, why thank me; but don't unite us, as you do him and your
Popish saints, for I tell you, Molly, I'm no saint; God forbid! Tell the
doctorman to pay him every attention, and to send his bill to me when
the child is properly recovered; mark that--properly recovered."

A noble avenue, that swept along with two or three magnificent bends,
brought them up to a fine old mansion of the castellated style, where
the squire and his two equestrian attendants dismounted, and were
ushered into the parlor, which they found brilliantly lighted up with
a number of large wax tapers. The furniture of the room was exceedingly
rich, but somewhat curious and old-fashioned. It was such, however, as
to give ample proof of great wealth and comfort, and, by the heat of a
large peat fire which blazed in the capacious hearth, it communicated
that sense of warmth which was in complete accordance with the general
aspect of the apartment. An old gray-haired butler, well-powdered,
together with two or three other servants in rich livery, now entered,
and the squire's first inquiry was after his daughter.

"John," said he to the butler, "how is your mistress?" but, without
waiting for a reply, he added, "here are twenty pounds, which you will
hand to those fine fellows at the hall-door."

"Pardon me, sir," replied Reilly, "those men are my tenants, and the
sons of my tenants: they have only performed towards you a duty, which
common humanity would require at their hands towards the humblest person
that lives."

"They must accept it, Mr. Reilly--they must have it--they are humble
men--and as it is only the reward of a kind office, I think it is justly
due to them. Here, John, give them the money."

It was in vain that Reilly interposed; the old squire would not listen
to him. John was, accordingly, dispatched to the hall steps, but found
that they had all gone.

At this moment our friend Toni Steeple met the butler, whom he
approached with a kind of wild and uncouth anxiety.

"Aha! Mista John," said he, "you tall man too, but not tall as
Tom Steeple--ha, ha--you good man too, Mista John--give Tom bully
dinners--Willy Reilly, Mista John, want to see Willy Reilly."

"What do you want with him, Tom? he's engaged with the master."

"Must see him, Mista John; stitch in time saves nine. Hicko! hicko!
God's sake, Mista John: God's sake! Up dere;" and as he spoke he pointed
towards the sky.

"Well, but what is your business, then? What have you to say to him?
He's engaged, I tell you."

Tom, apprehensive that he might not get an opportunity of communicating
with Reilly, bolted in, and as the parlor door stood open, he saw him
standing near the large chimney-piece.

"Willy Reilly!" he exclaimed in a voice that trembled with earnestness,
"Willy Reilly, dere's news for you--for de squire too--bad news--God's
sake come wid Tom--you tall too, Willy Reilly, but not tall as Tom is."

"What is the matter, Tom?" asked Reilly; "you look alarmed."

"God's sake, here, Willy Reilly," replied the kind-hearted fool, "come
wid Tom. Bad news."

"Hallo!" exclaimed the squire, "what is the matter? Is this Tom Steeple?
Go to the kitchen, Tom, and get one of your 'bully dinners'--my poor
fellow--off with you--and a pot of beer, Tom."

An expression of distress, probably heightened by his vague and
unconscious sense of the squire's kindness, was depicted strongly on his
countenance, and ended in a burst of tears.

"Ha!" exclaimed Reilly, "poor Tom, sir, was with us to-night on our
duck-shooting excursion, and, now that I remember, remained behind us
in the old ruin--and then he is in tears. What can this mean? I will go
with you, Tom--excuse me, sir, for a few minutes--there can be no harm
in hearing what he has to say."

He accompanied the fool, with whom he remained for about six or eight
minutes, after which he re-entered the parlor with a face which strove
in vain to maintain its previous expression of ease and serenity.

"Well, Willy?" said the squire--"you see, by the way, I make an old
acquaintance of you--"

"You do me honor, sir," replied Reilly. "Well, what was this mighty
matter? Not a fool's message, I hope? eh!"

"No, sir," said the other, "but a matter of some importance."

"John," asked his master, as the butler entered, "did you give those
worthy fellows the money?"

"No, your honor," replied the other, they were gone before I went out."

"Well, well," replied his master, "it can't be helped. You will excuse
me, Mr.--a--a--yes--Mr. Reilly--Willy--Willy--ay, that's it--you will
excuse me, Willy, for not bringing you to the drawing room. The fact is,
neither of us is in a proper trim to go there--both travel-soiled, as
they say--you with duck-shooting and I with a long ride--besides, I
am quite too much fatigued to change my dress--John, some Madeira. I'm
better than I was--but still dreadfully exhausted and afterwards, John,
tell your mistress that her father wishes to see her here. First, the
Madeira, though, till I recruit myself a little. A glass or two will do
neither of us any harm, Willy, but a great deal of good. God bless me!
what an escape I've had! what a dreadful fate you rescued me from, my
young friend and preserver--for as such I will ever look upon, you."

"Sir," replied Reilly, "I will not deny that the appearance of myself
and my companions, in all probability, saved your life."

"There was no probability in it, Willy--none at all; it would have
been a dead certainty in every sense. My God! here, John--put it down
here--fill for that gentleman and me--thank you, John--Willy," he said
as he took the glass in his trembling hand--"Willy--John, withdraw and
send down, my daughter--Willy"--the old man looked at him, but was too
full to utter a word. At this moment his daughter entered the room,
and her father, laying down the glass, opened his arms, and said in a
choking voice, "Helen, my daughter--my child--come to me;" and as she
threw herself into them he embraced her tenderly and wept aloud.

"Dear papa!" she exclaimed, after the first burst of his grief was over,
"what has affected you so deeply? Why are you so agitated?"

"Look at that noble young man," he exclaimed, directing her attention to
Reilly, who was still standing. "Look at him, my life, and observe him
well; there he stands who has this night saved your loving father from
the deadly aim of an assassin--from being murdered by O'Donnel, the Red
Rapparee, in the lonely moors."

Reilly, from the moment the far-famed _Cooleen Dawn_ entered the room,
heard not a syllable the old man had said. He was absorbed, entranced,
struck with a sensation of wonder, surprise, agitation, joy, and
confusion, all nearly at the same moment. Such a blaze of beauty,
such elegance of person, such tenderness and feeling as chastened
the radiance of her countenance into something that might be termed
absolutely divine; such symmetry of form; such harmony of motion; such
a seraphic being in the shape of woman, he had, in fact, never seen or
dreamt of. She seemed as if surrounded by an atmosphere of light, of
dignity, of goodness, of grace; but that which, above all, smote
him, heart on, the moment was the spirit of tenderness and profound
sensibility which seemed to predominate in her whole being. Why did his
manly and intrepid heart palpitate? Why did such a strange confusion
seize upon him? Why did the few words which she uttered in her father's
arms fill his ears with a melody that charmed him out of his strength?
Alas! is it necessary to ask? To those who do not understand this
mystery, no explanation could be of any avail; and to those who do, none
is necessary.

[Illustration: PAGE 18--Looked with her dark eyes upon Reilly]

After her father had spoken, she raised herself from his arms, and
assuming her full height--and she was tall--looked for a moment with
her dark, deep, and terrible eyes upon Reilly, who in the meantime felt
rapt, spell-bound, and stood, whilst his looks were riveted upon these
irresistible orbs, as if he had been attracted by the influence of some
delightful but supernatural power, under which he felt himself helpless.

That mutual gaze and that delightful moment! alas! how many hours of
misery--of sorrow--of suffering--and of madness did they not occasion!

"Papa has imposed a task upon me, sir," she said, advancing gracefully
towards him, her complexion now pale, and again over-spread with deep
blushes. "What do I say? Alas--a task! to thank the preserver of my
father's life--I know not what I say: help me, sir, to papa--I am
weak--I am--"

Reilly flew to her, and caught her in his arms just in time to prevent
her from falling.

"My God!" exclaimed her father, getting to his feet, "what is the
matter? I was wrong to mention the circumstance so abruptly; I ought to
have prepared her for it. You are strong, Reilly, you are strong, and I
am too feeble--carry her to the settee. There, God bless you!--God bless
you!--she will soon recover. Helen! my child! my life! What, Helen!
Come, dearest love, be a woman. I am safe, as you may see, dearest. I
tell you I sustained no injury in life--not a hair of nay head was hurt;
thanks to Mr. Reilly for it thanks to this gentleman. Oh! that's right,
bravo, Helen--bravo, my girl! See that, Reilly, isn't she a glorious
creature? She recovers now, to set her old loving father's heart at
ease."

The weakness, for it did not amount altogether to insensibility, was
only of brief duration.

"Dear papa," said she, raising herself, and withdrawing gently and
modestly from Reilly's support, "I was unprepared for the account of
this dreadful affair. Excuse me, sir; surely you will admit that a
murderous attack on dear papa's life could not be listened to by his only
child with indifference. But do let me know how it happened, papa."

"You are not yet equal to it, darling; you are too much agitated."

"I am equal to it now, papa! Pray, let me hear it, and how this
gentleman--who will be kind enough to imagine my thanks, for, indeed,
no language could express them--and how this gentleman was the means of
saving you."

"Perhaps, Miss Folliard," said Reilly, "it would be better to defer the
explanation until you shall have gained more strength."

"Oh, no, sir," she replied; "my anxiety to hear it will occasion me
greater suffering, I am sure, than the knowledge of it, especially now
that papa is safe."

Reilly bowed in acquiescence, but not in consequence of her words; a
glance as quick as the lightning, but full of entreaty and gratitude,
and something like joy--for who does not know the many languages which
the single glance of a lovely woman can speak?--such a glance, we say,
accompanied her words, and at once won him to assent.

"Miss Folliard may be right, sir," he observed, "and as the shock has
passed, perhaps to make her briefly acquainted with the circumstances
will rather relieve her."

"Right," said her father, "so it will, Willy, so it will, especially,
thank God, as there has been no harm done. Look at this now! Get away,
you saucy baggage! Your poor loving father has only just escaped being
shot, and now he runs the risk of being strangled."

"Dear, dear papa," she said, "who could have thought of injuring
you--you with your angry tongue, but your generous and charitable and
noble heart?" and again she wound her exquisite and lovely arms about
his neck and kissed him, whilst a fresh gush of tears came to her eyes.

"Come, Helen--come, love, be quiet now, or I shall not tell you any
thing more about my rescue by that gallant young fellow standing before
you."

This was followed, on her part, by another glance at Reilly, and
the glance was as speedily followed by a blush, and again a host of
tumultuous emotions crowded around his heart.

The old man, placing her head upon his bosom, kissed and patted her,
after which he related briefly, and in such a way as not, if possible,
to excite her afresh, the circumstances with which the reader is already
acquainted. At the close, however, when he came to the part which Reilly
had borne in the matter, and dwelt at more length on his intrepidity and
spirit, and the energy of character and courage with which the quelled
the terrible Rapparee, he was obliged to stop for a moment, and say,

"Why, Helen, what is the matter, my darling? Are you getting ill again?
Your little heart is going at a gallop--bless me, how it pit-a-pats.
There, now, you've heard it all--here I am, safe--and there stands the
gentleman to whom, under God, we are both indebted for it. And now let
us have dinner, darling, for we have not dined?"

Apologies on the part of Reilly, who really had dined, were flung to the
winds by the old squire.

"What matter, Willy? what matter, man?--sit at the table, pick
something--curse it, we won't eat you. Your dress? never mind your
dress. I am sure Helen here will not find fault with it. Come, Helen,
use your influence, love. And you, sir, Willy Reilly, give her your
arm." This he added in consequence of dinner having been announced while
he spoke; and so they passed into the dining-room.




CHAPTER III.--Daring Attempt of the Red Rapparee

--Mysterious Disappearance of His Gang--The Avowal


We must go back a little. When Helen sank under the dreadful
intelligence of the attempt made to assassinate her father, we stated at
the time that she was not absolutely insensible; and this was the fact.
Reilly, already enraptured by such wonderful grace and beauty as the
highest flight of his imagination could never have conceived, when
called upon by her father to carry her to the sofa, could scarcely
credit his senses that such a lovely and precious burden should ever be
entrusted to him, much less borne in his very arms. In order to prevent
her from falling, he was literally obliged to throw them around her,
and, to a certain extent, to press her--for the purpose of supporting
her--against his heart, the pulsations of which were going at a
tremendous speed. There was, in fact, something so soft, so pitiable,
so beautiful, and at the same time so exquisitely pure and fragrant, in
this lovely creature, as her head lay drooping on his shoulder, her pale
cheek literally lying against his, that it is not at all to be wondered
at that the beatings of his heart were accelerated to an unusual degree.
Now she, from her position upon his bosom, necessarily felt this rapid
action of its tenant; when, therefore, her father, after her recovery,
on reciting for her the fearful events of the evening, and dwelling upon
Reilly's determination and courage, expressed alarm at the palpitations
of her heart, a glance passed between them which each, once and forever,
understood. She had felt the agitation of him who had risked his life in
defence of her father, for in this shape the old man had truly put it;
and now she knew from her father's observation, as his arm lay upon her
own, that the interest which his account of Reilly's chivalrous conduct
throughout the whole affair had excited in it were discovered. In this
case heart spoke to heart, and by the time they sat down to dinner,
each felt conscious that their passion, brief as was the period of their
acquaintance, had become, whether for good or evil, the uncontrollable
destiny of their lives.

William Reilly was the descendant of an old and noble Irish family. His
ancestors had gone through all the vicissitudes and trials, and been
engaged in most of the civil broils and wars, which, in Ireland, had
characterized the reign of Elizabeth. As we are not disposed to enter
into a disquisition upon the history of that stormy period, unless to
say that we believe in our souls both parties were equally savage and
inhuman, and that there was not, literally, a toss up between them, we
have only to add that Reilly's family, at least that branch of it to
which he belonged, had been reduced by the ruin that resulted from the
civil wars, and the confiscations peculiar to the times. His father
had made a good deal of money abroad in business, but feeling that
melancholy longing for his native soil, for the dark mountains and the
green fields of his beloved country, he returned to it, and having taken
a large farm of about a thousand acres, under a peculiar tenure, which
we shall mention ere we close, he devoted himself to pasturage and
agriculture. Old Reilly had been for some years dead, and his eldest
son, William, was now not only the head of his immediate family, but
of that great branch of it to which he belonged, although he neither
claimed nor exercised the honor. In Reilly, many of those irreconcilable
points of character, which scarcely ever meet in the disposition of any
but an Irishman, were united. He was at once mild and impetuous; under
peculiar circumstances, humble and unassuming, but in others, proud
almost to a fault; a bitter foe to oppression in every sense, and to
bigotry in every creed. He was highly educated, and as perfect a master
of French, Spanish, and German, as he was of either English or Irish,
both of which he spoke with equal fluency and purity. To his personal
courage we need not make any further allusion. On many occasions it
had been well tested on the Continent. He was an expert and unrivalled
swordsman, and a first-rate shot, whether with the pistol or
fowling-piece.

At every athletic exercise he was matchless; and one great cause of his
extraordinary popularity among the peasantry was the pleasure he took in
promoting the exercise of such manly sports among them. In his person
he combined great strength with remarkable grace and ease. The wonderful
symmetry of his form took away apparently from his size; but on looking
at and examining him closely, you felt surprised at the astonishing
fulness of his proportions and the prodigious muscular power which lay
under such deceptive elegance. As for his features, they were replete
with that manly expression which changes with, and becomes a candid
exponent of, every feeling that influences the heart. His mouth was
fine, and his full red lips exquisitely chiselled; his chin was full of
firmness; and his large dark eyes, though soft, mellow, and insinuating,
had yet a sparkle in them that gave evidence of a fiery spirit when
provoked, as well as of a high sense of self-respect and honor. His
complexion was slightly bronzed by residence in continental climates, a
circumstance that gave a warmth and mellowness to his features, which,
when taken into consideration with his black, clustering locks, and the
snowy whiteness of his forehead, placed him in the very highest order of
handsome men.

Such was our hero, the fame of whose personal beauty, as well as that of
the ever-memorable _Cooleen Bawn_, is yet a tradition in the country.

On this occasion the dinner-party consisted only of the squire, his
daughter, and Reilly. The old man, on reflecting that he was now
safe, felt his spirits revive apace. His habits of life were jolly and
convivial, but not actually intemperate, although it must be admitted
that on some occasions he got into the debatable ground. To those who
did not know him, and who were acquainted through common report
only with his unmitigated abuse of Popery, he was looked upon as an
oppressive and overbearing tyrant, who would enforce, to the furthest
possible stretch of severity, the penal enactments then in existence
against Roman Catholics. And this, indeed, was true, so far as any one
was concerned from whom he imagined himself to have received an
injury; against such he was a vindictive tyrant, and a most implacable
persecutor. By many, on the other hand, he was considered as an
eccentric man, with a weak head, but a heart that often set all his
anti-Catholic prejudices at complete defiance.

At dinner the squire had most of the conversation to himself, his
loquacity and good-humor having been very much improved by a few
glasses of his rich old Madeira. His daughter, on the other hand, seemed
frequently in a state of abstraction, and, on more than one occasion,
found herself incapable of answering several questions which he put to
her. Ever and anon the timid, blushing glance was directed at Reilly,
by whom it was returned with a significance that went directly to her
heart. Both, in fact, appeared to be influenced by some secret train
of thought that seemed quite at variance with the old gentleman's
garrulity.

"Well," said he, "here we are, thank God, all safe; and it is to you,
Willy, we owe it. Come, man, take off your wine. Isn't he a fine young
fellow, Helen?"

Helen's heart, at the moment, had followed her eyes, and she did not
hear him.

"Hello! what the deuce! By the banks of the Boyne, I believe the girl
has lost her hearing. I say, Helen, isn't Willy Reilly here, that
prevented you from being an orphan, a fine young fellow?"

A sudden rosy blush suffused her whole neck and face on hearing this
blunt and inconsiderate question.

"What, darling, have you not heard me?"

"If Mr. Reilly were not present, papa, I might give an opinion on that
subject; but I trust you will excuse me now."

"Well, I suppose so; there's no getting women to speak to the point.
At all events, I would give more than I'll mention that Sir Hobert
Whitecraft was as good-looking a specimen of a man; I'll engage, if he
was, you would have no objection to say yes, my girl."

"I look to the disposition, papa, to the moral feelings and principles,
more than to the person.

"Well, Helen, that's right too--all right, darling, and on that account
Sir Robert must and ought to be a favorite. He is not yet forty, and for
this he is himself my authority, and forty is the prime of life; yet,
with an immense fortune and strong temptations, he has never launched
out into a single act of imprudence or folly. No, Helen, he never sowed
a peck of wild oats in his life. He is, on the contrary, sober, grave,
silent--a little too much so, by the way--cautious, prudent, and saving.
No man knows the value of money better, nor can contrive to make it go
further. Then, as for managing a bargain--upon my soul, I don't think he
treated me well, though, in the swop of 'Hop-and-go-constant' against my
precious bit of blood, 'Pat the Spanker.' He made me pay him twenty-five
pounds boot for an old--But you shall see him, Reilly, you shall see
him, Willy, and if ever there was a greater take in--you needn't smile,
He en, nor look at Willy. By the good King William that saved us from
Pope, and--ahem--I beg pardon, Willy, but, upon my soul, he took me
completely in. I say, I shall show you 'Hop-and-go-constant', and when
you see him you'll admit the 'Hop,' but the devil a bit you will find of
the 'Go-constant.'"

"I suppose the gentleman's personal appearance, sir," observed Reilly,
glancing at Miss Folliard, "is equal to his other qualities."

"Why--a--ye-s. He's tall and thin and serious, with something about him,
say, of a philosopher. Isn't that true, Helen?"

"Perfectly, papa," she replied, with a smile of arch humor, which, to
Reilly, placed her character in a new light.

"Perfectly true, papa, so far as you have gone; but I trust you will
finish the portrait for Mr. Reilly."

"Well, then, I will. Where was I? Oh, yes--tall, thin, and serious; like
a philosopher. I'll go next to the shoulders, because Helen seems to
like them--they are a little round or so. I, myself, wish to goodness
they were somewhat straighter, but Helen says the curve is delightful,
being what painters and glaziers call the line of beauty."

A sweet light laugh, that rang with the melody of a musical bell, broke
from Helen at this part of the description, in which, to tell the truth,
she was joined by Reilly. The old man himself, from sheer happiness and
good-humor, joined them both, though utterly ignorant of the cause of
their mirth.

"Aye, aye," he exclaimed, "you may laugh--by the great Boyne, I knew I
would make you laugh. Well, I'll go on; his complexion is of a--a--no
matter--of a good standing color, at all events; his nose, I grant you,
is as thin, and much of the same color, as pasteboard, but as a set-off
to that it's a thorough Williamite. Isn't that true, Helen?"

"Yes, papa; but I think King William's nose was the worst feature in his
face, although that certainly cannot be said of Sir Robert."

"Do you hear that, Reilly? I wish Sir Robert heard it, but I'll tell
him--there's a compliment, Helen--you're a good girl--thank you, Helen."

Helen's face was now radiant with mirthful enjoyment, whilst at the same
time Reilly could perceive that from time to time a deep unconscious
sigh would escape from her, such a sigh as induced him to infer that
some hidden care was at work with her heart. This he at once imputed to
her father's determination to force her into a marriage with the worthy
baronet, whom in his simplicity he was so ludicrously describing.

"Proceed, papa, and finish as you have begun it."

"I will, to oblige and gratify you, Helen. He is a little close about
the knees, Mr. Reilly--a little close about the knees, Willy."

"And about the heart, papa," added his daughter, who, for the life of
her, could not restrain the observation.

"It's no fault to know the value of money, my dear child. However, let
me go on--close about the knees, but that's a proof of strength, because
they support one another: every one knows that."

"But his arms, papa?"

"You see, Reilly, you see, Willy," said the squire, nodding in the
direction of his daughter, "not a bad sign that, and yet she pretends
not to care about him. She is gratified, evidently. Ah, Helen, Helen!
it's hard to know women."

"But his arms, papa?"

"Well, then, I wish to goodness you would allow me to skip that part of
the subject--they are an awful length, Willy, I grant. I allow the fact,
it cannot be denied, they are of an awful length."

"It will give him the greater advantage in over-reaching, papa."

"Well, as to his arms, upon my soul Willy, I know no more what to do
with them--"

"Than he does himself, papa."

"Just so, Helen; they hang about him like those of a skeleton on wires;
but, on the other hand, he has a neck that always betokens true
blood, long and thin like that of a racer. Altogether he's a devilish
interesting man, steady, prudent, and sober. I never saw him drink a
third glass of--"

"In the meantime, papa," observed Helen, "in the enthusiasm of your
description you are neglecting Mr. Reilly."

Ah, love, love! in how many minute points can you make yourself
understood!

"By the great William, and so I am. Come, Willy, help yourself"--and he
pushed the bottle towards him as he spoke.

And why, gentle reader, did Reilly fill his glass on that particular
occasion until it became literally a brimmer? We know--but if you are
ignorant of it we simply beg you to remain so; and why, on putting the
glass to his lips, did his large dark eyes rest upon her with that
deep and melting glance? Why, too, was that glance returned with the
quickness of thought before her lids dropped, and the conscious blush
suffused her face? The solution of this we must also leave to your own
ingenuity.

"Well," proceeded the squire, "steady, prudent, sober--of a fine old
family, and with an estate of twelve thousand a year--what do you think
of that, Willy? Isn't she a fortunate girl?"

"Taking his virtues and very agreeable person into consideration, sir,
I think so," replied Reilly in a tone of slight sarcasm, which was only
calculated to reach one of his audience.

"You hear that, Helen--you hear what Mr. Reilly--what Willy-says. The
fact is, I'll call you nothing but Willy in future, Willy--you hear what
he says, darling?"

"Indeed I do, papa--and understand it perfectly."

"That's my girl. Twelve thousand a year--and has money lent out at every
rate of interest from six per cent. up."

"And yet I cannot consider him as interesting on that account, papa."

"You do, Helen--nonsense, my love--you do, I tell you--it's all
make-believe when you speak to the contrary--don't you call the curve
on his shoulders the line of beauty? Come--come--you know I only want to
make you happy."

"It is time, papa, that I should withdraw," she replied, rising.

Reilly rose to open the door.

"Good-night, papa-dear, dear papa," she added, putting her snowy arms
about his neck and kissing him tenderly. "I know," she added, "that the
great object of your life is to make your _Cooleen Bawn_ happy--and in
doing so, dear papa--there now is another kiss for you--a little bribe,
papa--in doing so, consult her heart as well as your own. Good-night."

"Good-night, my treasure."

During this little scene of affectionate tenderness Reilly stood holding
the door open, and as she was going out, as if recollecting herself, she
turned to him and said, "Pardon me, Mr. Reilly, I fear you must think
me ungrateful; I have not yet thanked you for the service--the service
indeed so important that no language could find expression for it--which
you have rendered to dear papa, and to me. But, Mr. Reilly, I pray you
do not think me ungrateful, or insensible, for, indeed, I am neither.
Suffer me to feel what I owe you, and do not blame me if I cannot
express it."

"If it were not for the value of the life which it is probable I have
saved, and if it were not that your happiness was so deeply involved
in it," replied Reilly, "I would say that you overrate what I have done
this evening. But I confess I am myself now forced to see the value of
my services, and I thank heaven for having made me the humble instrument
of saving your father's life, not only for his own sake, Miss Folliard,
but for yours. I now feel a double debt of gratitude to heaven for it."

The _Cooleen Bawn_ did not speak, but the tears ran down her cheeks.
"Good-night, sir," she said. "I am utterly incapable of thanking you as
you deserve, and as I ought to thank you. Good-night!"

She extended her small snowy hand to him as she spoke. Reilly took it
in his, and by some voluntary impulse he could not avoid giving
it a certain degree of pressure. The fact is, it was such a
hand--so white--so small--so soft--so warm--so provocative of a
squeeze--that he felt his own pressing it, he knew not how nor
wherefore, at least he thought so at the time; that is to say, if he
were capable of thinking distinctly of any thing. But heaven and earth!
Was it true! No delusion? No dream? The pressure returned! the
slightest, the most gentle, the most delicate pressure--the barely
perceptible pressure! Yes! it was beyond all doubt; for although the act
itself was light as delicacy and modesty could make it, yet the
spirit--the lightening spirit--which it shot into his bounding and
enraptured heart could not be for a moment mistaken.

As she was running up the stairs she returned, however, and again
approaching her father, said--whilst Reilly could observe that her cheek
was flushed with a feeling that seemed to resemble ecstasy--"Papa,"
said she, "what a stupid girl I am! I scarcely know what I am saying or
doing."

"By the great Boyne," replied her father, "I'll describe him to you
every night in the week. I knew the curve--the line of beauty--would get
into your head; but what is it, darling?"

"Will you and Mr. Reilly have tea in the drawing-room, or shall I send
it down to you?"

"I am too comfortable in my easy chair, dear Helen: no, send it down."

"After the shock you have received, papa, perhaps you might wish to have
it from the hand of your own Cooleen Bawn?"

As the old man turned his eyes upon her they literally danced with
delight. "Ah, Willy!" said he, "is it any wonder I should love her?"

"I have often heard," replied Reilly, "that it is impossible to know
her, and not to love her. I now believe it."

"Thank you, Reilly; thank you, Willy; shake hands. Come, Helen, shake
hands with him. That's a compliment. Shake hands with him, darling.
There, now, that's all right. Yes, my love, by all means, come down and
give us tea here."

Innocent old man--the die is now irrevocably cast! That mutual pressure,
and that mutual glance. Alas! alas! how strange and incomprehensible is
human destiny!

After she had gone upstairs the old man said, "You see, Willy, how my
heart and soul are in that angelic creature. The great object, the great
delight of her life, is to anticipate all my wants, to study whatever
is agreeable to me--in fact, to make me happy. And she succeeds. Every
thing she does pleases me. By the grave of Schomberg, she's beyond all
price. It is true we never had a baronet in the family, and it would
gratify me to hear her called Lady Whitecraft; still, I say, I don't
care for rank or ambition; nor would I sacrifice my child's happiness
to either. And, between you and me, if she declines to have him, she
shan't, thats all that's to be said about it. He's quite round in
the shoulders; and yet so inconsistent are women that she calls a
protuberance that resembles the letter C the line of beauty. Then again
he bit me in 'Hop-and-go-constant;' and you know yourself, Willy, that
no person likes to be bit, especially by the man he intends for his
son-in-law. If he gives me the bite before marriage, what would he not
do after it?"

"This, sir, is a subject," replied Reilly, "on which I must decline
to give an opinion; but I think that no father should sacrifice the
happiness of his daughter to his own inclinations. However, setting this
matter aside, I have something of deep importance to mention to you."

"To me! Good heavens! What is it?"

"The Red Rapparee, sir, has formed a plan to rob, possibly to murder,
you, and what is worse--"

"Worse! Why, what the deuce--worse! Why, what could be worse?"

"The dishonor of your daughter. It is his intention to carry her off to
the mountains; but pardon me, I cannot bear to dwell upon the diabolical
project."

The old man fell back, pale, and almost insensible, in his chair.

"Do not be alarmed, sir," proceeded Keilly, "he will be disappointed. I
have taken care of that."

"But, Mr. Reilly, what--how--for heaven's sake tell me what you know
about it. Are you sure of this? How did you come to hear of it? Tell
me--tell me every thing about it! We must prepare to receive the
villains--we must instantly get assistance. My child--my life--my Helen,
to fall into the hands of this monster!"

"Hear me, sir," said Reilly, "hear me, and you will perceive I have
taken measures to frustrate all his designs, and to have him a prisoner
before to-morrow's sun arises."

He then related to him the plan laid by the Red Rapparee, as overheard
by Tom Steeple, and as it was communicated to himself by the same
individual subsequently, after which he proceeded:

"The fact is, sir, I have sent the poor fool, who is both faithful and
trustworthy, to summon here forty or fifty of my laborers and tenants.
They must be placed in the out-houses, and whatever arms and ammunition
you can spare, in addition to the weapons which they shall bring along
with them, must be made available. I sent orders that they should be
here about nine o'clock. I, myself, will remain in this house, and you
may rest assured that your life, your property, and your child shall be
all safe. I know the strength of the ruffian's band; it only consists
of about twelve men, or rather twelve devils, but he and they will find
themselves mistaken."

Before Miss Folliard came down to make tea, Reilly had summoned the
servants, and given them instructions as to their conduct during the
expected attack. Having arranged this, he went to the yard, and found
a large body of his tenants armed with such rude weapons as they could
procure; for, at this period, it was a felony for a Roman Catholic to
have or carry arms at all. The old squire, however, was well provided in
that respect, and, accordingly, such as could be spared from the house
were distributed among them. Mr. Folliard himself felt his spirit
animated by a sense of the danger, and bustled about with uncommon
energy and activity, considering what he had suffered in the course of
the evening. At all events, they both resolved to conceal the matter
from Helen till the last moment, in order to spare her the terror and
alarm which she must necessarily feel on hearing of the contemplated
violence. At tea, however, she could not avoid observing that something
had disturbed her father, who, from his naturally impetuous character,
ejaculated, from time to time, "The bloodthirsty scoundrel!--murdering
ruffian! We shall hang him, though; we can hang him for the conspiracy.
Would the fool's, Tom Steeples', evidence be taken, do you think?"

"I fear not, sir," replied Reilly. "In the meantime, don't think of it,
don't further distress yourself about it."

"To think of attacking my house, though; and if it were only I myself
that--however, we are prepared, that's one comfort; we are prepared, and
let them--hem!--Helen, my darling, now that we've had our tea, will
you retire to your own room. I wish to talk to Mr. Reilly here, on
a particular and important subject, in which you yourself are deeply
concerned. Withdraw, my love, but don't go to bed until I see you
again."

Helen went upstairs with a light foot and a bounding heart. A certain
hope, like a dream of far-off and unexpected happiness, rushed into
and filled her bosom with a crowd of sensations so delicious that, on
reaching her own room, she felt completely overpowered by them, and was
only relieved by a burst of tears. There was now but one image before
her imagination, but one image impressed upon her pure and fervent
heart; that image was the first that love had ever stamped there, and
the last that suffering, sorrow, madness, and death were ever able to
tear from it.

When the night had advanced to the usual hour for retiring to rest,
it was deemed necessary to make Helen acquainted with the meditated
outrage, in order to prevent the consequences of a nocturnal alarm for
which she might be altogether unprepared. This was accordingly done, and
her natural terrors were soothed and combated by Reilly and her
father, who succeeded in reviving her courage, and in enabling her to
contemplate what was to happen with tolerable composure.

Until about the hour of two o'clock every thing regained silent. Nobody
went to bed--the male servants were all prepared--the females, some
in tears, and others sustaining and comforting those who were more
feeble-hearted. Miss Folliard was in her own room, dressed. At about
half past two she heard a stealthy foot, and having extinguished the
light in her apartment, with great presence of mind she rang the bell,
whilst at the same moment her door was broken in, and a man, as she knew
by his step, entered. In the meantime the house was alarmed; the man
having hastily projected his arms about in several directions, as if
searching for her, instantly retreated, a scuffle was heard outside on
the lobby, and when lights and assistance appeared, there were found
eight or ten men variously armed, all of whom proved to be a portion of
the guard selected by Reilly to protect the house and family. These men
maintained that they had seen the Red Rapparee on the roof of the house,
through which he had descended, and that having procured a ladder from
the farmyard, they entered a back window, at a distance of about forty
feet from the ground, in hope of securing his person--that they came in
contact with some powerful man in the dark, who disappeared from among
them--but by what means he had contrived to escape they could not guess.
This was the substance of all they knew or understood upon the subject.

The whole house was immediately and thoroughly searched, and no trace of
him could be found until they came to the skylight, which was discovered
to be opened--wrenched off the hinges--and lying on the roof at a
distance of two or three yards from its place.

It soon became evident that the Rapparee and his party had taken the
alarm. In an instant those who were outside awaiting to pounce upon them
in the moment of attack got orders to scour the neighborhood, and if
possible to secure the Rapparee at every risk; and as an inducement the
squire himself offered to pay the sum of five hundred pounds to any
one who should bring him to Corbo Castle, which was the name of his
residence. This was accordingly attempted, the country far and wide was
searched, pursuit given in every direction, but all to no purpose. Not
only was the failure complete, but, what was still more unaccountable
and mysterious, no single mark or trace of them could be found. This
escape, however, did not much surprise the inhabitants of the country
at large, as it was only in keeping with many of a far more difficult
character which the Rapparee had often effected. The only cause to which
it could be ascribed was the supposed fact of his having taken such
admirable precautions against surprise as enabled his gang to disappear
upon a preconcerted plan the moment the friendly guards were discovered,
whilst he himself daringly attempted to secure the squire's cash and his
daughter.

Whether the supposition was right or wrong will appear subsequently;
but, in the meantime, we may add here, that the event in question, and
the disappearance of the burglars, was fatal to the happiness of our
lovers, for such they were in the tenderest and most devoted sense of
that strange and ungovernable passion.

Early the next morning the squire was so completely exhausted by the
consequences of watching, anxiety, and want of rest, that he felt
himself overcome by sleep, and was obliged to go to bed. Before he
went, however, he made Reilly promise that he would not go until he had
breakfasted, then shook him cordially by the hand, thanked him again and
again for the deep and important obligations he had imposed upon him
and his child, and concluded by giving him a general invitation to his
house, the doors of which, he said, as well as the heart of its owner,
should be ever ready to receive him.

"As for Helen, here," said he, "I leave her to thank you herself,
which I am sure she will do in a manner becoming the services you have
rendered her, before you go."

She then kissed him tenderly and he retired to rest.

At breakfast, Reilly and Miss Folliard were, of course, alone, if we may
say so. Want of rest and apprehension had given a cast of paleness to
her features that, so far from diminishing, only added a new and tender
character to her beauty. Reilly observed the exquisite loveliness of her
hand as she poured out the tea; and when he remembered the gentle but
significant pressure which it had given to his, more than once or twice,
on the preceding night, he felt as if he experienced a personal interest
in her fate--as if their destinies were to be united--as if his growing
spirit could enfold hers, and mingle with it forever. The love he felt
for her pervaded and softened his whole being with such a feeling of
tenderness, timidity, and ecstasy, that his voice, always manly and
firm, now became tremulous in its tones; such, in truth, as is always
occasioned by a full and overflowing heart when it trembles at the very
opportunity of pouring forth the first avowal of its affection.

"Miss Folliard," said he, after a pause, and with some confusion, "do
you believe in Fate?"

The question appeared to take her somewhat by surprise, if one could
judge by the look she bestowed upon him with her dark, flashing eyes.

"In Fate, Mr. Reilly? that is a subject, I fear, too deep for a girl
like me. I believe in Providence."

"All this morning I have been thinking of the subject. Should it be Fate
that brought me to the rescue of your father last night, I cannot but
feel glad of it; but though it be a Fate that has preserved him--and I
thank Almighty God for it--yet it is one that I fear has destroyed my
happiness."

"Destroyed your happiness, Mr. Reilly! why, how could the service you
rendered papa last night have such an effect?"

"I will be candid, and tell you, Miss Folliard. I know that what I am
about to say will offend you--it was by making me acquainted with his
daughter, and by bringing me under the influence of beauty which has
unmanned--distracted me--beauty which I could not resist--which has
overcome me--subdued me--and which, because it is beyond my reach and my
deserts, will occasion me an unhappy life--how long soever that life my
last."

"Mr. Reilly," exclaimed the _Cooleen Bawn_, "this--this--is--I am quite
unprepared for--I mean--to hear that such noble and generous conduct to
my father should end in this. But it cannot be. Nay, I will not pretend
to misunderstand you. After the service you have rendered to him and to
myself, it would be uncandid in me and unworthy of you to conceal the
distress which your words have caused me."

"I am scarcely in a condition to speak reasonably and calmly," replied
Reilly, "but I cannot regret that I have unconsciously sacrificed my
happiness, when that sacrifice has saved you from distress and grief and
sorrow. Now that I know you, I would offer--lay down--my life, if the
sacrifice could save yours from one moment's care. I have often heard of
what love--love in its highest and noblest sense--is able to do and to
suffer for the good and happiness of its object, but now I know it."

She spoke not, or rather she was unable to speak; but as she pulled
out her snow-white handkerchief, Reilly could observe the extraordinary
tremor of her hands; the face, too, was deadly pale.

"I am not making love to you, Miss Folliard," he added. "No, my
religion, my position in life, a sense of my own unworthiness, would
prevent that; but I could not rest unless you knew that there is one
heart which, in the midst of unhappiness and despair, can understand,
appreciate, and love you. I urge no claim. I am without hope."

The fair girl (_Cooleen Bawn_) could not restrain her tears; but
wept--yes, she wept. "I was not prepared for this," she replied. "I did
not think that so short an acquaintance could have--Oh, I know not what
to say--nor how to act. My father's prejudices. You are a Catholic."

"And will die one, Miss Folliard."

"But why should you be unhappy? You do not deserve to be so."

"That is precisely what made me ask you just now if you believed in
fate."

"Oh, I know not. I cannot answer such a question; but why should you be
unhappy, with your brave, generous, and noble heart? Surely, surely, you
do not deserve it."

"I said before that I have no hope, Miss Folliard. I shall carry with
me my love of you through life; it is my first, and I feel it will be my
last--it will be the melancholy light that will burn in the sepulchre
of my heart to show your image there. And now, Miss Folliard, I will bid
you farewell. Your father has proffered me hospitality, but I have not
strength nor resolution to accept it. You now know my secret--a hopeless
passion."

"Reilly," she replied, weeping bitterly, "our acquaintance has been
short--we have not seen much of each other, yet I will not deny that
I believe you to be all that any female heart could--pardon me, I am
without experience--I know not much of the world. You have travelled,
papa told me last night; I do not wish that you should be unhappy, and,
least of all, that I, who owe you so much, should be the occasion of it.
No, you talk of a hopeless passion. I know not what I ought to say--but
to the preserver of my father's life, and, probably my own honor, I
will say, be not--but why should love be separated from truth?" she
said--"No, Reilly, be not hopeless."

"Oh," replied Reilly, who had gone over near her, "but my soul will not
be satisfied without a stronger affirmation. This moment is the great
crisis of my life and happiness. I love you beyond all the power of
language or expression. You tremble, dear Miss Folliard, and you weep;
let me wipe those precious tears away. Oh, would to God that you loved
me!"

He caught her hand--it was not withdrawn--he pressed it as he had done
the evening before. The pressure was returned--his voice melted into
tenderness that was contagious and irresistible: "Say, dearest Helen,
star of my life and of my fate, oh, only say that I am not indifferent
to you."

They were both standing near the chimney-piece as he spoke--"only say,"
he repeated, "that I am not indifferent to you."

"Well, then," she replied, "you are not indifferent to me."

"One admission more, my dearest life, and I am happy forever. You love
me? say it, dearest, say it--or, stay, whisper it, whisper it--you love
me!"

"I do," she whispered in a burst of tears.




CHAPTER IV.--His Rival makes his Appearance, and its Consequences

--A Sapient Project for our Hero's Conversion

We will not attempt to describe the tumult of delight which agitated
Reilly's heart on his way home, after this tender interview with the
most celebrated Irish beauty of that period. The term _Cooleen Bawn_,
in native Irish, has two meanings, both of which were justly applied to
her, and met in her person. It signifies _fair locks_, or, as it may be
pronounced _fair girl_; and in either sense is peculiarly applicable to
a blonde beauty, which she was. The name of _Cooleen Bawn_ was applied
to her by the populace, whose talent for finding out and bestowing
epithets indicative either of personal beauty or deformity, or of
the qualities of the mind or character, be they good or evil, is, in
Ireland, singularly felicitous. In the higher ranks, however, she was
known as "The Lily of the Plains of Boyne," and as such she was toasted
by all parties, not only in her own native county, but throughout
Ireland, and at the viceregal entertainments in the Castle of Dublin. At
the time of which we write, the penal laws were in operation against the
Roman Catholic population of the country, and her father, a good-hearted
man by nature, was wordy and violent by prejudice, and yet secretly kind
and friendly to many of that unhappy creed, though by no means to all.
It was well known, however, that in every thing that was generous and
good in his character, or in the discharge of his public duties as a
magistrate, he was chiefly influenced by the benevolent and liberal
principles of his daughter, who was a general advocate for the
oppressed, and to whom, moreover, he could deny nothing. This accounted
for her popularity, as it does for the extraordinary veneration and
affection with which her name and misfortunes are mentioned down to the
present day. The worst point in her father's character was that he never
could be prevailed on to forgive an injury, or, at least, any act that
he conceived to be such, a weakness or a vice which was the means of all
his angelic and lovely daughter's calamities.

Reilly, though full of fervor and enthusiasm, was yet by no means
deficient in strong sense. On his way home he began to ask himself
in what this overwhelming passion for _Cooleen Bawn_ must end. His
religion, he was well aware, placed an impassable gulf between them.
Was it then generous or honorable in him to abuse the confidence and
hospitality of her father by engaging the affections of a daughter, on
whose welfare his whole happiness was placed, and to whom, moreover, he
could not, without committing an act of apostasy that he abhorred, ever
be united as a husband? Reason and prudence, moreover, suggested to
him the danger of his position, as well as the ungenerous nature of his
conduct to the grateful and trusting father. But, away with reason
and prudence--away with everything but love. The rapture of his heart
triumphed over every argument; and, come weal or woe, he resolved to
win the far-famed "Star of Connaught," another epithet which she derived
from her wonderful and extraordinary beauty.

On approaching his own house he met a woman named Mary Mahon, whose
character of a fortune-teller was extraordinary in the country, and
whose predictions, come from what source they might, had gained her a
reputation which filled the common mind with awe and fear.

"Well, Mary," said he, "what news from futurity? And, by the way, where
is futurity? Because if you don't know," he proceeded, laughing, "I
think I could tell you."

"Well," replied Mary, "let me hear it. Where is it, Mr. Reilly?"

"Why," he replied, "just at the point of your own nose, Mary, and you
must admit it is not a very long one; pure Milesian, Mary; a good deal
of the saddle in its shape."

The woman stood and looked at him for a few moments.

"My nose may be short," she replied, "but shorter will be the course of
your happiness."

"Well, Mary," he said, "I think as regards my happiness that you know as
little of it as I do myself. If you tell me any thing that has passed, I
may give you some credit for the future, but not otherwise."

"Do you wish to have your fortune tould, then," she asked, "upon them
terms?"

"Come, then, I don't care if I do. What has happened me, for instance,
within the last forty-eight hours?"

"That has happened you within the last forty-eight hours that will make
her you love the pity of the world before her time. I see how it will
happen, for the complaint I speak of is in the family. A living death
she will have, and you yourself during the same time will have little
less."

"But what has happened me, Mary?"

"I needn't tell you--you know--it. A proud heart, and a joyful heart,
and a lovin' heart, you carry now, but it will be a broken heart before
long."

"Why, Mary, this is an evil prophecy; have you nothing good to
foretell?"

"If it's a satisfaction to you to know, I will tell you: her love
for you is as strong, and stronger, than death itself; and it is the
suffering of what is worse than death, Willy Reilly, that will unite you
both at last."

Reilly started, and after a pause, in which he took it for granted that
Mary spoke merely from one of those shrewd conjectures which practised
impostors are so frequently in the habit of hazarding, replied, "That
won't do, Mary; you have told me nothing yet that has happened within
the last forty-eight hours. I deny the truth of what you say."

"It won't be long so, then, Mr. Reilly; you saved the life of the old
half-mad squire of Corbo. Yes, you saved his life, and you have taken
his daughter's! for indeed it would be better for her to die at wanst
than to suffer what will happen to you and her."

"Why, what is to happen?"

"You'll know it too soon," she replied, "and there's no use in making
you unhappy. Good-by, Mr. Reilly; if you take a friend's advice you'll
give her up; think no more of her. It may cost you an aching heart to
do so, but by doin' it you may save her from a great deal of sorrow, and
both of you from a long and heavy term of suffering."

Reilly, though a young man of strong reason in the ordinary affairs of
life, and of a highly cultivated intellect besides, yet felt himself
influenced by the gloomy forebodings of this notorious woman. It is true
he saw, by the force of his own sagacity, that she had uttered nothing
which any person acquainted with the relative position of himself and
_Cooleen Bawn_, and the political circumstances of the country, might
not have inferred as a natural and probable consequence. In fact he had,
on his way home, arrived at nearly the same conclusion. Marriage, as the
laws of the country then stood, was out of the question, and could
not be legitimately effected. What, then, must the consequence of this
irresistible but ill-fated passion be? An elopement to the Continent
would not only be difficult but dangerous, if not altogether impossible.
It was obviously evident that Mary Mahon had drawn her predictions from
the same circumstances which led himself to similar conclusions;
yet, notwithstanding all this, he felt that her words had thrown a
foreshadowing of calamity and sorrow over his spirit, and he passed up
to his own house in deep gloom and heaviness of heart. It is true he
remembered that this same Mary Mahon belonged to a family that had been
inimical to his house. She was a woman who had, in her early life,
been degraded by crime, the remembrance of which had been by no means
forgotten. She was, besides, a paramour to the Red Rapparee, and he
attributed much of her dark and ill-boding prophecy to a hostile and
malignant spirit.

On the evening of the same day, probably about the same hour, the
old squire having recruited himself by sleep, and felt refreshed and
invigorated, sent for his daughter to sit with him as was her wont; for
indeed, as the reader may now fully understand, his happiness altogether
depended upon her society, and those tender attentions to him which
constituted the chief solace of his life.

"Well, my girl," said he, when she entered the dining-room, for he
seldom left it unless when they had company, "Well, darling, what do you
think of this Mr. Mahon--pooh!--no--oh, Reilly--he who saved my life,
and, probably, was the means of rescuing you from worse than death?
Isn't he a fine--a noble young fellow?"

"Indeed, I think so, papa; he appear's to be a perfect gentleman."

"Hang perfect gentlemen, Helen! they are, some of them, the most
contemptible whelps upon earth. Hang me, but any fellow with a
long-bodied coat, tight-kneed breeches, or stockings and pantaloons,
with a watch in each fob, and a frizzled wig, is considered a perfect
gentleman--a perfect puppy, Helen, an accomplished trifle. Reilly,
however, is none of these, for he is not only a perfect gentleman, but a
brave man, who would not hesitate to risk his life in order to save
that of a fellow-creature, even although he is a Papist, and that
fellow-creature a Protestant."

"Well, then, papa, I grant you," she replied with a smile, which our
readers will understand, "I grant you that he is a--ahem!--all you
say."

"What a pity, Helen that he is a Papist."

"Why so, papa?"

"Because, if he was a staunch Protestant, by the great Deliverer that
saved us from brass money, wooden shoes, and so forth, I'd marry you and
him together. I'll tell you what, Helen, by the memory of Schomberg, I
have a project, and it is you that must work it out."

"Well, papa," asked his daughter, putting the question with a smile and
a blush, "pray what is this speculation?"

"Why, the fact is, I'll put him into your hands to convert him--make him
a staunch Protestant, and take him for your pains. Accomplish this, and
let long-legged, knock-kneed Whitecraft, and his twelve thousand a year,
go and bite some other fool as he bit me in 'Hop-and-go-constant.'"

"What are twelve thousand a year, papa, when you know that they could
not secure me happiness with such a wretch? Such a union, sir, could
not be--cannot be--must not be, and I will add, whilst I am in the
possession of will and reason, shall not be."

[Illustration: PAGE 28 (and Frontispiece)--You must endeavor to convert
him from Popery]

"Well, Helen," said her father, "if you are obstinate, so am I; but I
trust we shall never have to fight for it. We must have Reilly here, and
you must endeavor to convert him from Popery. If you succeed, I'll give
long-shanks his _nunc dimittis_, and send him home on a trot."

"Papa," she replied, "this will be useless--it will be ruin--I know
Reilly."

"The devil you do! When, may I ask, did you become acquainted?"

"I mean," she replied, blushing, "that I have seen enough of him during
his short stay here to feel satisfied that no earthly persuasion, no
argument, could induce him, at this moment especially, to change his
religion. And, sir, I will add myself--yes, I will say for myself, dear
papa, and for Reilly too, that if from any unbecoming motive--if for the
sake of love itself, I felt satisfied that he could give up and abandon
his religion, I would despise him. I should feel at once that his heart
was hollow, and that he was unworthy either of my love or my respect."

"Well, by the great Boyne, Helen, you have knocked my intellects up. I
hope in God you have no Papist predilections, girl. However, it's only
fair to give Reilly a trial; long-legs is to dine with us the day after
tomorrow--now, I will ask Reilly to meet him here--perhaps, if I get
an opportunity, I will sound him on the point myself--or, perhaps, you
will. Will you promise to make the attempt? I'll take care that you and
he shall have an opportunity."

"Indeed, papa, I shall certainly mention the subject to him."

"By the soul of Schomberg, Helen, if you do you'll convert him."

Helen was about to make some good-natured reply, when the noise of
carriage wheels was heard at the hall-door, and her father, going to
the window, asked, "What noise is that? A carriage!--who can it be?
Whitecraft, by the Boyne! Well, it can't be helped."

"I will leave you, papa," she said; "I do not wish to see this unfeeling
and repulsive man, unless when it is unavoidable, and in your presence."

She then withdrew.

Before we introduce Sir Robert Whitecraft, we must beg our readers to
accompany us to the residence of that worthy gentleman, which was not
more than three miles from that of Reilly. Sir Robert had large estates
and a sumptuous residence in Ireland, as well as in England, and had
made the former principally his place of abode since he became enamored
of the celebrated _Cooleen Bawn_. On the occasion in question he was
walking about through his grounds when a female approached him; whom
we beg the reader to recognize as Mary Mahon. This mischievous woman,
implacable and without principle, had, with the utmost secrecy, served
Sir Robert, and many others, in a capacity discreditable alike to virtue
and her sex, by luring the weak or the innocent within their toils.

"Well, Mary," said he, "what news in the country? You, who are always on
the move, should know."

"No very good news for you, Sir Robert," she replied.

"How is that, Mary?"

"Why, sir, Willy Reilly--the famous Willy Reilly--has got a footing in
the house of old Squire Folliard."

"And how can that be bad news to me, Mary?"

"Well, I don't know," said she, with a cunning leer; "but this I know,
that they had a love scene together this very morning, and that he
kissed her very sweetly near the chimney-piece."

Sir Robert Whitecraft did not get into a rage; he neither cursed nor
swore, nor even looked angrily, but he gave a peculiar smile, which
should be seen in order to be understood. "Where is your--ahem--your
friend now?" he asked; and as he did so he began to whistle.

"Have you another job for him?" she inquired, in her turn, with a
peculiar meaning. "Whenever I fail by fair play, he tries it by foul."

"Well, and have not I often saved his neck, as well by my influence
as by allowing him to take shelter under my roof whenever he was hard
pressed?"

"I know that, your honor; and hasn't he and I often sarved you, on the
other hand?"

"I grant it, Molly; but that is a matter known only to ourselves. You
know I have the reputation of being very correct and virtuous."

"I know you have," said Molly, "with most people, but not with all."

"Well, Molly, you know, as far as we are concerned, one good turn
deserves another. Where is your friend now, I ask again?"

"Why, then, to tell you the truth, it's more than I know at the present
speaking."

"Follow me, then," replied the wily baronet; "I wish you to see him; he
is now concealed in my house; but first, mark me, I don't believe a word
of what you have just repeated."

"It's as true as Gospel for all that," she replied; "and if you wish to
hear how I found it out I'll tell you."

"Well," said the baronet calmly, "let us hear it."

"You must know," she proceeded, "that I have a cousin, one Betty Beatty,
who is a housemaid in the squire's. Now, this same Betty Beatty was in
the front parlor--for the squire always dines in the back--and, from a
kind of natural curiosity she's afflicted with, she puts her ear to the
keyhole, and afterwards her eye. I happened to be at the squire's at
the time, and, as blood is thicker that wather, and as she knew I was
a friend of yourrs, she tould me what she had both heard and seen, what
they said, and how he kissed her."

Sir Robert seemed very calm, and merely said, "Follow me into the
house," which she accordingly did, and remained in consultation with him
and the Red Rapparee for nearly an hour, after which Sir Robert ordered
his carriage, and went to pay a visit, as we have seen, at Corbo Castle.

Sir Robert Whitecraft, on entering the parlor, shook hands as a matter
of course with the squire. At this particular crisis the vehement but
whimsical old man, whose mind was now full of another project with
reference to his daughter, experienced no great gratification from this
visit, and, as the baronet shook hands with him, he exclaimed somewhat
testily.

"Hang it, Sir Robert, why don't you shake hands like a man? You put that
long yellow paw of yours, all skin and bones, into a man's hand, and
there you let it lie. But, no matter, every one to his nature. Be
seated, and tell me what news. Are the Papists quiet?"

"There is little news stirring, sir; at least if there be, it does not
come my way, with the exception of this report about yourself, which I
hope is not true; that there was an attempt made on your life yesterday
evening?"

Whilst Sir Robert spoke he approached a looking-glass, before which he
presented himself, and commenced adjusting his dress, especially his
wig, a piece of vanity which nettled the quick and irritable feelings
of the squire exceedingly. The inference he drew was, that this wealthy
suitor of his daughter felt more about his own personal appearance
before her than about the dreadful fate which he himself had so narrowly
escaped.

"What signifies that, my dear fellow, when your wig is out of balance?
it's a little to the one side, like the ear of an empty jug, as they
say."

"Why, sir," replied the baronet, "the fact is, that I
felt--hum!--hum--so much--so much--a--anxiety--hum!--to see you
and--a--a--to know all about it--that--a--I didn't take time to--a--look
to my dress. And besides, as I--hum!--expect to have--a--the pleasure
of an interview with Miss Folliard--a--hum!--now that I'm here--I feel
anxious to appear to the best advantage--a--hum!"

[Illustration: PAGE 29--Readjustment of his toilet, at the large mirror]

While speaking he proceeded with the readjustment of his toilet at the
large mirror, an operation which appeared to constitute the great object
on which his mind was engaged, the affair of the squire's life or
death coming in only parenthetically, or as a consideration of minor
importance.

In height Sir Robert Whitecraft was fully six feet two; but being
extremely thin and lank, and to all appearance utterly devoid of
substance, and of every thing like proportion, he appeared much taller
than even nature had made him. His forehead was low, and his whole
character felonious; his eyes were small, deep set, and cunning; his
nose was hooked, his mouth was wide, but his lips thin to a miracle,
and such as always--are to be found under the nose of a miser; as for a
chin, we could not conscientiously allow him any; his under-lip sloped
off until it met the throat with a curve not larger than that of
an oyster-shell, which when open to the tide, his mouth very much
resembled. As for his neck, it was so long that no portion of dress at
that time discovered was capable of covering more than one third of it;
so that there were always two parts out of three left stark naked, and
helplessly exposed to the elements. Whenever he smiled he looked as
if he was about to weep. As the squire said, he was dreadfully
round-shouldered--had dangling arms, that kept napping about him as
if they were moved by some machinery that had gone out of order--was
close-kneed--had the true telescopic leg--and feet that brought a very
large portion of him into the closest possible contact with the earth.

"Are you succeeding, Sir Robert?" inquired the old man sarcastically,
"because, if you are, I swear you're achieving wonders, considering the
slight materials you have to work upon."

"Ah! sir," replied the baronet, "I perceive you are in one of your
biting humors to-day."

"Biting!" exclaimed the other. "Egad, it's very well for most of your
sporting acquaintances that you're free from hydrophobia; if you were
not, I'd have died pleasantly between two feather beds, leaving my child
an orphan long before this. Egad, you bit me to some purpose."

"Oh, ay, you allude to the affair of 'Hop-and-go-constant' and 'Pat the
Spanker;' but you know, my dear sir, I gave you heavy boot;" and as he
spoke, he pulled up the lapels of his coat, and glanced complacently at
the profile of his face and person in the glass.

"Pray, is Miss Folliard at home, sir?"

"Again I'm forgotten," thought the squire. "Ah, what an affectionate
son-in-law he'd make! What a tender husband for Helen! Why, hang the
fellow, he has a heart for nobody, but himself. She is at home, Sir
Robert, but the truth is, I don't think it would become me, as a father
anxious for the happiness of his child, and that child, an only one, to
sacrifice her happiness--the happiness of her whole life--to wealth or
ambition. You know she herself entertains a strong prejudice--no, that's
not the word--"

"I beg your pardon, sir; that is the word; her distaste to me is a
prejudice, and nothing else."

"No, Sir Robert; it is not the word. Antipathy is the word. Now I tell
you, once for all, that I will not force my child."

"This change, Mr. Folliard," observed the baronet, "is somewhat of the
suddenest. Has any thing occurred on my part to occasion it?"

"Perhaps I may have other views for her, Sir Robert."

"That may be; but is such conduct either fair or honorable towards me,
Mr. Folliard? Have I got a rival, and if so, who is he?"

"Oh, I wouldn't tell you that for the world."

"And why not, pray?"

"Because," replied the squire, "if you found out who he was, you'd be
hanged for cannibalism."

"I really don't understand you, Mr. Folliard. Excuse me, but it would
seem to me that something has put you into no very agreeable humor
to-day."

"You don't understand me! Why, Sir Robert," replied the other, "I know
you so well that if you heard the name of your rival you would first
kill him, then powder him, and, lastly, eat him. You are such a terrible
fellow that you care about no man's life, not even about mine."

Now it was to this very point that the calculating baronet wished to
bring him. The old man, he knew, was whimsical, capricious, and in the
habit of taking all his strongest and most enduring resolutions from
sudden contrasts produced by some mistake of his own, or from some
discovery made to him on the part of others.

"As to your life, Mr. Folliard, let me assure you," replied Sir Robert,
"that there is no man living prizes it, and, let me add, you character
too, more highly than I do; but, my dear sir, your life was never in
danger."

"Never in danger! what do you mean, Sir Robert? I tell you, sir, that
the murdering miscreant, the Red Rapparee, had a loaded gun levelled at
me last evening, after dark."

"I know it," replied the other; "I am well aware of it, and you were
rescued just in the nick of time."

"True enough," said the squire, "just in the nick of time; by that
glorious young fellow--a--a--yes--Reilly--Willy Reilly."

"This Willy Reilly, sir, is a very accomplished person, I think."

"A gentleman, Sir Robert, every inch of him, and as handsome and
fine-looking a young fellow as ever I laid my eyes upon."

"He was educated on the Continent by the Jesuits."

"No!" replied the squire, dreadfully alarmed at this piece of
information, "he was not; by the great Boyne, he wasn't."

This mighty asseveration, however, was exceedingly feeble in moral
strength and energy, for, in point of fact, it came out of the squire's
lips more in the shape of a question than an oath.

"It is unquestionably true, sir," said the baronet; "ask himself, and he
will admit it."

"Well, and granting that he was," replied the squire, "what else could
he do, when the laws would not permit of his being educated here? I
speak not against the laws, God forbid, but of his individual case."

"We are travelling from the point, sir," returned the baronet. "I was
observing that Reilly is an accomplished person, as indeed every Jesuit
is. Be that as it may, I again beg to assure you that your life stood in
no risk."

"I don't understand you, Sir Robert. You're a perfect oracle; by the
great Deliverer from Pope and Popery, wooden shoes, and so forth, only
that Reilly made his appearance at that moment I was a dead man."

"Not the slightest danger, Mr. Folliard. I am aware of that, and of
the whole Jesuitical plot from the beginning, base, ingenious, but
diabolical as it was."

The squire rose up and looked at him for a minute, without speaking,
then sat down again, and, a second time, was partially up, but resumed
his seat.

"A plot!" he exclaimed; "a plot, Sir Robert! What plot?"

"A plot, Mr. Folliard, for the purpose of creating an opportunity to
make your acquaintance, and of ingratiating himself into the good
graces and affections of your lovely daughter; a plot for the purpose of
marrying her."

The Squire seemed for a moment thunderstruck, but in a little time he
recovered. "Marrying her!" he exclaimed; "that, you know, could not be
done, unless he turned Protestant."

It was now time for the baronet to feel thunderstricken.

"He turn Protestant! I don't understand you, Mr. Folliard. Could any
change on Reilly's part involve such a probability as a marriage between
him and your daughter?"

"I can't believe it was a plot, Sir Robert," said the squire, shifting
the question, "nor I won't believe it. There was too much truth and
sincerity in his conduct. And, what is more, my house would have been
attacked last night; I myself robbed and murdered, and my daughter-my
child, carried off, only for him. Nay, indeed, it was partially
attacked, but when the villainy found us prepared they decamped; but, as
for marriage, he could not marry my daughter, I say again, so long as he
remains a Papist."

"Unless he might prevail on her to turn Papist."

"By the life of my body, Sir Robert, I won't stand this. Did you come
here, sir, to insult me and to drive me into madness? What devil could
have put it into your head that my daughter, sir, or any one with a drop
of my blood in their veins, to the tenth generation, could ever, for a
single moment, think of turning Papist? Sir, I hoped that you would have
respected the name both of my daughter and myself, and have foreborne to
add this double insult both to her and me. The insolence even to dream
of imputing such an act to her I cannot overlook. You yourself, if you
could gain a point or feather your nest by it, are a thousand times much
more likely to turn Papist than either of us. Apologize instantly, sir,
or leave my house."

"I can certainly apologize, Mr. Folliard," replied the baronet, "and
with a good conscience, inasmuch as I had not the most remote intention
of offending you, much less Miss Folliard--I accordingly do so promptly
and at once; but as for my allegations against Reilly, I am in a
position to establish their truth in the clearest manner, and to prove
to you that there wasn't a. single robber, nor Rapparee either, at or
about your house last night, with the exception of Reilly and his gang.
If there were, why were they neither heard nor seen?"

"One of them was--the Red Rapparee himself."

"Do not be deceived, Mr. Folliard; did you yourself, or any of your
family or household, see him?"

"Why, no, certainly, we did not; I admit that."

"Yes, and you will admit more soon. I shall prove the whole conspiracy."

"Well, why don't you then?"

"Simply because the matter must be brought about with great caution.
You--must allow me a few days, say three or four, and the proofs shall
be given."

"Very well, Sir Robert, but in the meantime I shall not throw Reilly
overboard."

"Could I not be permitted to pay my respects to Miss Folliard before I
go, sir?" asked Sir Robert.

"Don't insist upon it," replied her father; "you know perfectly well
that she--that you are no favorite with her."

"Nothing on earth, sir, grieves me so much," said the baronet, affecting
a melancholy expression of countenance, which was ludicrous to look at.

"Well, well," said the old man, "as you can't see her now, come and meet
Reilly here at dinner the day after to-morrow, and you shall have that
pleasure."

"It will be with pain, sir, that I shall force myself into that person's
society; however, to oblige you, I shall do it."

"Consider, pray consider, Sir Robert," replied the old squire, all his
pride of family glowing strong within him, "just consider that my table,
sir, and my countenance, sir, and my sense of gratitude, sir, are a
sufficient guarantee to the worth and respectability of any one whom I
may ask to my house. And, Sir Robert, in addition to that, just reflect
that I ask him to meet my daughter, and, if I don't mistake, I think I
love, honor, and respect her nearly as much as I do you. Will you come
then, or will you not?"

"Unquestionably, sir, I shall do myself the honor."

"Very well," replied the old squire, clearing up at once--undergoing, in
fact, one of those rapid and unaccountable changes which constituted
so prominent a portion of his character. "Very well, Bobby; good-by, my
boy; I am not angry with you; shake hands, and curse Popery."

Until the morning of the day on which the two rivals were to meet, Miss
Folliard began to entertain a dreadful apprehension that the fright into
which the Red Rapparee had thrown her father was likely to terminate,
ere long, in insanity. The man at best was eccentric, and full of the
most unaccountable changes of temper and purpose, hot, passionate,
vindictive, generous, implacable, and benevolent. What he had seldom
been accustomed to do, he commenced soliloquizing aloud, and talking to
himself in such broken hints and dark mysterious allusions, drawing from
unknown premises such odd and ludicrous inferences; at one time brushing
himself up in Scripture; at another moment questioning his daughter
about her opinion on Popery--sometimes dealing about political and
religious allusions with great sarcasm, in which he was a master when he
wished, and sometimes with considerable humor of illustration, so far,
at least, as he could be understood.

"Confound these Jesuits," said he; "I wish they were scourged out of
Europe. Every man of them is sure to put his finger in the pie and then
into his mouth to taste what it's like; not so the parsons--Hallo! where
am I? Take care, old Folliard; take care, you old dog; what have you to
say in favor of these same parsons--lazy, negligent fellows, who snore
and slumber, feed well, clothe well, and think first of number one?
Egad, I'm in a mess between them. One makes a slave of you, and the
other allows you to play the tyrant. A plague, as I heard a fellow say
in a play once, a plague o' both your houses: if you paid more attention
to your duties, and scrambled less for wealth and power, and this
world's honors, you would not turn it upside down as you do. Helen!"

"Well, papa."

"I have doubts whether I shall allow you to sound Reilly on. Popery."

"I would rather decline it, sir."

"I'll tell you what; I'll see Andy Cummiskey--Andy's opinion is good
on any thing." And accordingly he proceeded to see his confidential
old servant. With this purpose, and in his own original manner, he went
about consulting every servant under his roof upon their respective
notions of Popery, as he called it, and striving to allure them, at one
time by kindness, and at another by threatening them, into an avowal
of its idolatrous tendency. Those to whom he spoke, however, knew very
little about it, and, like those of all creeds in a similar predicament,
he found that, in proportion to their ignorance of its doctrines, arose
the vehemence and sincerity of their defence of it. This, however, is
human nature, and we do not see how the learned can condemn it. Upon the
day appointed for dinner only four sat down to it--that is to say, the
squire, his daughter, Sir Robert Whitecraft, and Reilly. They had met in
the drawing-room some time before its announcement, and as the old man
introduced the two latter, Reilly's bow was courteous and gentlemanly,
whilst that of the baronet, who not only detested Reilly with the hatred
of a demon, but resolved to make him feel the superiority of rank and
wealth, was frigid, supercilious, and offensive. Reilly at once saw
this, and, as he knew not that the baronet was in possession of his
secret, he felt his ill-bred insolence the more deeply. He was too much
of a gentleman, however, and too well acquainted with the principles and
forms of good breeding, to seem to notice it in the slightest degree.
The old squire at this time had not at all given Reilly up, but still
his confidence in him was considerably shaken. He saw, moreover, that,
notwithstanding what had occurred at their last interview, the baronet
had forgotten the respect due both to himself and his daughter; and, as
he had, amidst all his eccentricities, many strong touches of the
old Irish gentleman about him, he resolved to punish him for his
ungentlemanly deportment. Accordingly, when dinner was announced, he
said:

"Mr. Reilly, you will give Miss Folliard your arm."

We do not say that the worthy baronet squinted, but there was a bad,
vindictive look in his small, cunning eyes, which, as they turned upon
Reilly, was ten times more repulsive than the worst squint that ever
disfigured a human countenance. To add to his chagrin, too, the squire
came out with a bit of his usual sarcasm.

"Come, baronet," said he, "here's my arm. I am the old man, and you are
the old lady; and now for dinner."

In the meantime Reilly and the Cooleen Bawn had gone far enough in
advance to be in a condition to speak without being heard.

"That," said she, "is the husband my father intends for me, or, rather,
did intend; for, do you know, that you have found such favor in his
sight that--that--" she hesitated, and Reilly, looking into her face,
saw that she blushed deeply, and he felt by her arm that her whole frame
trembled with emotion.

"Proceed, dearest love," said he; "what is it?"

"I have not time to tell you now," she replied, "but he mentioned a
project to me which, if it could be accomplished, would seal both your
happiness and mine forever. Your religion is the only obstacle."

"And that, my love," he replied, "is an insurmountable one."

"Alas! I feared as much," she replied, sighing bitterly as she spoke.

The old squire took the head of the table, and requested Sir Robert to
take the foot; his daughter was at his right hand, and Reilly opposite
her, by which means, although denied any confidential use of the tongue,
their eyes enjoyed very gratifying advantages, and there passed between
them occasionally some of those rapid glances which, especially when
lovers are under surveillance, concentrate in their lightning flash more
significance, more hope, more joy, and more love, than ever was
conveyed by the longest and tenderest gaze of affection under other
circumstances.

"Mr. Reilly," said the squire, "I'm told that you are a very well
educated man; indeed, the thing is evident. What, let me ask, is your
opinion of education in general?"

"Why, sir," replied Reilly, "I think there can be but one opinion about
it. Without education a people can never be moral, prosperous, or happy.
Without it, how are they to learn the duties of this life, or those
still more important ones that prepare them for a better?"

"You would entrust the conduct and control of it, I presume, sir, to the
clergy?" asked Sir Robert insidiously.

"I would give the priest such control in education as becomes his
position, which is not only to educate the youth, but to instruct the
man, in all the duties enjoined by religion."

The squire now gave a triumphant look at the baronet, and a very kind
and gracious one at Reilly.

"Pray, sir," continued the baronet, in his cold, supercilious manner,
"from the peculiarity of your views, I feel anxious, if you will pardon
me, to ask where you yourself have received your very accomplished
education."

"Whether my education, sir, has been an accomplished one or otherwise,"
replied Reilly, "is a point, I apprehend, beyond the reach of any
opportunity you ever had to know. I received my education, sir, such as
it is, and if it be not better the fault is my own, in a Jesuit seminary
on the Continent."

It was now the baronet's time to triumph; and indeed the bitter glancing
look he gave at the squire, although it was intended for Reilly,
resembled that which one of the more cunning and ferocious beasts of
prey makes previous to its death-spring upon its victim. The old man's
countenance instantly fell. He looked with surprise, not unmingled with
sorrow and distrust, at Reilly, a circumstance which did not escape his
daughter, who could not, for the life of her, avoid fixing her eyes,
lovelier even in the disdain they expressed, with an indignant look at
the baronet.

The latter, however, felt resolved to bring his rival still further
within the toils he was preparing for him, an object which Reilly's
candor very much facilitated.

"Mr. Reilly," said the squire, "I was not prepared to
hear--a--a--hem--God bless me, it is very odd, very deplorable, very
much to be regretted indeed!"

"What is, sir?" asked Reilly.

"Why, that you should be a Jesuit. I must confess I was not--ahem!--God
bless me. I can't doubt your own word, certainly."

"Not on this subject," observed the baronet coolly.

"On no subject, sir," replied Reilly, looking him sternly, and with
an indignation that was kept within bounds only by his respect for the
other parties, and the roof that covered him; "On no subject, Sir Robert
Whitecraft, is my word to be doubted."

"I beg your pardon, sir," replied the other, "I did not say so."

"I will neither have it said, sir, nor insinuated," rejoined Reilly. "I
received my education on the Continent because the laws of this country
prevented me from receiving it here. I was placed in a Jesuit seminary,
not by my own choice, but by that of my father, to whom I owed
obedience. Your oppressive laws, sir, first keep us ignorant, and then
punish us for the crimes which that ignorance produces."

"Do you call the laws of the country oppressive?" asked the baronet,
with as much of a sneer as cowardice would permit him to indulge in.

"I do, sir, and ever will consider them so, at least so long as they
deprive myself and my Catholic fellow-countrymen of their civil and
religious rights."

"That is strong language, though," observed the other, "at this time of
day."

"Mr. Reilly," said the squire, "you seem to be very much attached to
your religion."

"Just as much as I am to my life, sir, and would as soon give up the one
as the other."

The squire's countenance literally became pale, his last hope was gone,
and so great was his agitation that, in bringing a glass of wine to his
lips, his hand trembled to such a degree that he spilled a part of it.
This, however, was not all. A settled gloom--a morose, dissatisfied
expression--soon overshadowed his features, from which disappeared all
trace of that benignant, open, and friendly hospitality towards Reilly
that had hitherto obtained from them. He and the baronet exchanged
glances of whose import, if Reilly was ignorant, not so his beloved
_Cooleen Bawn_. For the remainder of the evening the squire treated
Reilly with great coolness; always addressing him as Mister, and
evidently contemplating him in a spirit which partook of the feeling
that animated Sir Robert Whitecraft.

Helen rose to withdraw, and contrived, by a sudden glance at the door,
and another as quick in the direction of the drawing-room, to let her
lover know that she wished him to follow her soon. The hint was not
lost, for in less than half an hour Reilly, who was of very temperate
habits, joined her as she had hinted.

"Reilly," said she, as she ran to him, "dearest Reilly! there is little
time to be lost. I perceive that a secret understanding respecting
you exists between papa and that detestable baronet. Be on your guard,
especially against the latter, who has evidently, ever since we sat down
to dinner, contrived to bring papa round to his own way of thinking, as
he will ultimately, perhaps, to worse designs and darker purposes. Above
all things, speak nothing that can be construed against the existing
laws. I find that danger, if not positive injury, awaits you. I shall,
at any risk, give you warning."

"At no risk, beloved!"

"At every risk--at all risks, dearest Reilly! Nay, more--whatever danger
may encompass you shall be shared by me, even at the risk of my life, or
I shall extricate you out of it. But perhaps you will not be faithful to
me. If so, I shudder to think what might happen."

"Listen," said Reilly, taking her by the hand, "In the presence of
heaven, I am yours, and yours only, until death!"

She repeated his words, after which they had scarcely taken their seats
when the squire and Sir Eobert entered the drawing-room.



CHAPTER V.--The Plot and the Victims.


Sir Robert, on entering the room along with the squire, found the
_Cooleen Bawn_ at the spinnet. Taking his place at the end of it, so as
that he could, gain a full view of her countenance, he thought he could
observe her complexion considerably heightened in color, and from her
his glance was directed to Reilly. The squire, on the other hand, sat
dull, silent, and unsociable, unless when addressing himself to the
baronet, and immediately his genial manner returned to him.

With his usual impetuosity, however, when laboring under what he
supposed to be a sense of injury, he soon brought matters to a crisis.

"Sir Robert," said he, "are the Papists quiet now?"

"They are quiet, sir," replied the other, "because they dare not be
otherwise."

"By the great Deliverer, that saved us from Pope and Popery, brass money
and wooden shoes, I think the country will never be quiet till they are
banished out of it."

"Indeed, Mr. Folliard, I agree with you."

"And so do I, Sir Robert," said Reilly. "I wish from my soul there was
not a Papist, as you call them, in this unfortunate country! In any
other country beyond the bounds of the British dominions they could
enjoy freedom. But I wish it for another reason, gentlemen; if they were
gone, you would then be taught to your cost the value of your estates
and the source of your incomes. And now, Mr. Folliard, I am not
conscious of having given you any earthly offence, but I cannot
possibly pretend to misunderstand the object of your altered conduct and
language. I am your guest, at your own express invitation. You know I am
a Roman Catholic--Papist, if you will--yet, with the knowledge of this,
you have not only insulted me personally, but also in the creed to which
I belong. As for that gentleman, I can only say that this roof and the
presence of those who are under it constitute his protection. But I envy
not the man who could avail himself of such a position, for the
purpose of insinuating an insult which he dare not offer under other
circumstances. I will not apologize for taking my departure, for I feel
that I have been too long here."

_Cooleen Bawn_ arose in deep agitation. "Dear papa, what is this?"
she exclaimed. "What can be the cause of it? Why forget the laws of
hospitality? Why, above all things, deliberately insult the man to whom
you and I both owe so much? Oh, I cannot understand it. Some demon,
equally cowardly and malignant, must have poisoned your own naturally
generous mind. Some villain, equally profligate and hypocritical, has,
for some dark purpose, given this unworthy bias to your mind."

"You know nothing of it, Helen. You're altogether in the dark, girl; but
in a day or two it will all be made clear to you."

"Do not be discomposed, my dear Miss Folliard," said Sir Robert,
striding over to her. "Allow me to prevail upon you to suspend your
judgment for a little, and to return to the beautiful air you were
enchanting us with."

As he spoke he attempted to take her hand. Reilly, in the meantime, was
waiting for an opportunity to bid his love goodnight.

[Illustration: PAGE 35--Touch me not, sir]

"Touch me not, sir," she replied, her glorious eyes flashing with
indignation. "I charge you as the base cause of drawing down the
disgrace of shame, the sin of ingratitude, on my father's head. But here
that father stands, and there you, sir, stand; and sooner than become
the wife of Sir Robert Whitecraft I would dash myself from the
battlements of this castle. William Reilly, brave and generous young
man, goodnight! It matters not who may forget the debt of gratitude
which this family owe you--I will not. No cowardly slanderer shall
instil his poisonous calumnies against you into my ear. My opinion of
you is unchanged and unchangeable. Farewell! William Relly!"

We shall not attempt to describe the commotions of love, of happiness,
of rapture, which filled Reilly's bosom as he took his departure. As
for _Cooleen Bawn_, she had now passed the Rubicon, and there remained
nothing for her but constancy to the truth of her affection, be the
result what it might. She had, indeed, much of the vehemence of her
father's character in her; much of his unchangeable purpose, when she
felt or thought she was right; but not one of his unfounded whims or
prejudices; for she was too noble-minded and sensible to be influenced
by unbecoming or inadequate motives. With an indignant but beautiful
scorn, that gave grace to resentment, she bowed to the baronet, then
kissed her father affectionately and retired.

The old man, after she had gone, sat for a considerable time silent.
In fact, the superior force of his daughter's character had not only
surprised, but overpowered him for the moment. The baronet attempted to
resume the conversation, but he found not his intended father-in-law in
the mood for it. The light of truth, as it flashed from the spirit of
his daughter, seemed to dispel the darkness of his recent suspicions; he
dwelt upon the possibility of ingratitude with a temporary remorse.

"I cannot speak to you, Sir Robert," he said; "I am confused, disturbed,
distressed. If I have treated that young man ungratefully, God may
forgive me, but I will never forgive myself."

"Take care, sir," said the baronet, "that you are not under the spell of
the Jesuit and your daughter too. Perhaps you will find, when it is too
late, that she is the more spellbound of the two. If I don't mistake,
the spell begins to work already. In the meantime, as Miss Folliard will
have it, I withdraw all claims upon her hand and affections. Good-night,
sir;" and as he spoke he took his departure.

For a long time the old man sat looking into the fire, where he began
gradually to picture to himself strange forms and objects in the glowing
embers, one of whom he thought resembled the Red Rapparee about to shoot
him; another, Willy Reilly making love to his daughter; and behind
all, a high gallows, on which he beheld the said Reilly hanging for his
crime.

In about an hour afterwards Miss Folliard returned to the drawing-room,
where she found her father asleep in his arm-chair. Having awakened him
gently from what appeared a disturbed dream, he looked about him, and,
forgetting for a moment all that had happened, inquired in his usual
eager manner where Reilly and Whitecraft were, and if they had gone. In
a few moments, however, he recollected the circumstances that had
taken place, and after heaving a deep sigh, he opened his arms for his
daughter, and as he embraced her burst into tears.

"Helen," said he, "I am unhappy; I am distressed; I know not what
to do!--may God forgive me if I have treated this young man with
ingratitude. But, at all events, a few days will clear it all up."

His daughter was melted by the depth of his sorrow, and the more so as
it was seldom she had seen him shed tears before.

"I would do every thing--anything to make you happy, my dear treasure,"
said he, "if I only knew how."

"Dear papa," she replied, "of that I am conscious; and as a proof that
the heart of your daughter is incapable of veiling a single thought that
passes in it from a parent who loves her so well, I will place its most
cherished secret in your own keeping. I shall not be outdone even by
you, dear papa, in generosity, in confidence, in affection. Papa," she
added, placing her head upon his bosom, whilst the tears flowed fast
down her cheeks, "papa, I love William Reilly--love him with a pure
and disinterested passion!--with a passion which I feel constitutes my
destiny in this life--either for happiness or misery. That passion is
irrevocable. It is useless to ask me to control or suppress it, for I
feel that the task is beyond my power. My love, however, is not base nor
selfish, papa, but founded on virtue and honor. It may seem strange that
I should make such a confession to you, for I know it is un--usual in
young persons like me to do so; but remember, dear papa, that except
yourself I have no friend. If I had a mother, or a sister, or a cousin
of my own sex, to whom I might confide and unburden my feelings, then
indeed it is not probable I would make to you the confession which I
have made; but we are alone, and you are the only being left me on whom
can rest my sorrow--for indeed my heart is full of sorrow."

"Well, well, I know not what to say. You are a true girl, Helen, and
the very error, if it be one, is diminished by the magnanimity and truth
which prompted you to disclose it to me. I will go to bed, dearest, and
sleep if I can. I trust in God there is no calamity about to overshadow
our house or destroy our happiness."

He then sought his own chamber; and _Cooleen Bawn_, after attending him
thither, left him to the care of his attendant and retired herself to
her apartment.

On reaching home Reilly found Fergus, one of his own relatives, as we
have said, the same who, warned by his remonstrances, had abandoned the
gang of the Red Rapparee, waiting to see him.

"Well, Fergus," said he, "I am glad that you have followed my advice.
You have left the lawless employment of that blood-stained man?"

"I have," replied the other, "and I'm here to tell you that you can now
secure him if you like. I don't look upon sayin' this as treachery to
him, nor would I mention it only that Pavideen, the smith, who shoes and
doctors his horses, tould me something that you ought to know."

"Well, Fergus, what is it?"

"There's a plot laid, sir, to send you out o' the country, and the Red
Rapparee has a hand in it. He is promised a pardon from government, and
some kind of a place as thief-taker, if he'll engage in it against you.
Now, you know, there's a price upon his head, and, if you like, you can
have it, and get an enemy put out of your way at the same time."

"No, Fergus," replied Keilly; "in a moment of indignation I threatened
him in order to save the life of a fellow-creature. But let the laws
deal with him. As for me, you know what he deserves at my hands, but
I shall never become the hound of a government which oppresses me
unjustly. No, no, it is precisely because a price is laid upon the
unfortunate miscreant's head that I would not betray him."

"He will betray you, then."

"And let him. I have never violated any law, and even though he should
betray me, Fergus, he cannot make me guilty. To the laws, to God, and
his own conscience, I leave him. No, Fergus, all sympathy between me and
the laws that oppress us is gone. Let them vindicate themselves against
thieves and robbers and murderers, with as much vigilance and energy
as they do against the harmless forms of religion and the rights of
conscience, and the country will soon be free from such licentious pests
as the Red Rapparee and his gang."

"You speak warmly, Mr. Reilly."

"Yes," replied Keilly, "I am warm, I am indignant at my degradation.
Fergus, Fergus, I never felt that degradation and its consequences so
deeply as I do this unhappy night."'

"Well, will you listen to me?"

"I will strive to do so; but you know not the--you know not--alas! I
have no language to express what I feel. Proceed, however," he added,
attempting to calm the tumult that agitated his heart; "what about this
plot or plan for putting me out of the country?"

"Well, sir, it's determined on to send you, by the means of the same
laws you speak of, out of the country. The red villain is to come in
with a charge against you and surrender himself to government as
a penitent man, and the person who is to protect him is Sir Robert
Whitecraft."

"It's all time, Fergus," said Reilly; "I see it at a glance, and
understand it a great deal better than you do. They may, however, be
disappointed. Fergus, I have a friend--friend--oh, such a friend! and it
will go hard with that friend, or I shall hear of their proceedings. In
the meantime, what do you intend to do?"

"I scarcely know," replied the other. "I must lie quiet for a while, at
any rate."

"Do so," said Reilly; "and listen, Fergus. See Paudeen, the smith, from
time to time, and get whatever he knows out of him. His father was a
tenant of ours, and he ought to remember our kindness to him and his."

"Ay," said Fergus, "and he does too."

"Well, it is clear he does. Get from him all the information you can,
and let me hear it. I would give you shelter in my house, but that now
would be dangerous both to you and me. Do you want money to support
you?"

"Well, indeed, Mr. Reilly, I do and I do not. I can--"

"That's enough," said Reilly; "you want it. Here, take this. I would
recommend you, as I did before, to leave this unhappy country; but as
circumstances have turned out, you may for some time yet be useful to
me. Good-night, then, Fergus. Serve me in this matter as far as you can,
for I stand in need of it."

As nothing like an organized police existed in Ireland at the period of
which we speak, an outlaw or Rapparee might have a price laid upon his
head for months--nay, for years--and yet continue his outrages and defy
the executive. Sometimes it happened that the authorities, feeling the
weakness of their resources and the inadequacy of their power, did not
hesitate to propose terms to the leaders of these banditti, and, by
affording them personal protection, succeeded in inducing them to betray
their former associates. Now Reilly was well aware of this, and our
readers need not be surprised that the communication made to him by his
kinsman filled him not only with anxiety but alarm. A very slight charge
indeed brought forward by a man of rank and property--such a charge, for
instance, as the possession of firearms--was quite sufficient to get a
Roman Catholic banished the country.

On the third evening after this our friend Tom Steeple was met by its
proprietor in the avenue leading to Corbo Castle.

"Well, Tom," said the squire, "are you for the Big House?" for such is
the general term applied to all the ancestral mansions of the country.

Tom stopped and looked at him--for we need scarcely observe here that
with poor Tom there was no respect of persons; he then shook his head
and replied, "Me don't know whether you tall or not. Tom tall--will Tom
go to Big House--get bully dinnel--and Tom sleep under the stairs--eh?
Say aye, an' you be tall too."

"To be sure, Tom; go into the house, and your cousin Larry Lanigan, the
cook, will give you a bully dinner; and sleep where you like."

The squire walked up and down the avenue in a thoughtful mood for some
moments until another of our characters met him on his way towards the
entrance gate. This person was no other than Molly Mahon.

"Ha!" said he, "here is another of them--well, poor devils, they must
live. This, though, is the great fortune-teller. I will try her."

"God save your honor," said Molly, as she approached him and dropped a
courtesy.

"Ah, Molly," said he, "you can see into the future, they say. Well,
come now, tell me my fortune; but they say one must cross your palm with
silver before you can manage the fates; here's a shilling for you, and
let us hear what you have to say."

"No, sir," replied Molly, putting back his hand, "imposthors may do
that, because they secure themselves first and tell you nothing worth
knowin' afterwards. I take no money till I first tell the fortune."

"Well, Molly, that's honest at all events; let me hear what you have to
tell me."

"Show me your hand, sir," said she, and taking it, she looked into it
with a solemn aspect. "There, sir," she said, "that will do. I am sorry
I met you this evening."

"Why so, Molly?"

"Because I read in your hand a great deal of sorrow."

"Pooh, you foolish woman--nonsense!"

"There's a misfortune likely to happen to one of your family; but I
think it may be prevented."

"How will it be prevented?"

"By a gentleman that has a title and great wealth, and that loves the
member of your family that the misfortune is likely to happen to."

The squire paused and looked at the woman, who seemed to speak
seriously, and even with pain.

"I don't believe a word of it, Molly; but granting that it be true, how
do you know it?"

"That's more than I can tell myself, sir," she replied. "A feelin' comes
over me, and I can't help speakin' the words as they rise to my lips."

"Well, Molly, here's a shilling for you now; but I want you to see my
daughter's hand till I hear what you have to say for her. Are you a
Papist, Molly?"

"No, your honor, I was one wanst; but the moment we take to this way of
life we mustn't belong to any religion, otherwise we couldn't tell the
future."

"Sell yourself to the devil, eh?"

"Oh, no, sir; but--"

"But what? Out with it."

"I can't, sir; if I did, I never could tell a fortune agin."

"Well--well; come up; I have taken a fancy that you shall tell my
daughter's for all that."

"Surely there can be nothing but happiness before her, sir; she that is
so good to the poor and distressed; she that has all the world admirin'
her wonderful beauty. Sure, they say, her health was drunk in the Lord
Lieutenant's house in the great Castle of Dublin, as the Lily of the
Plains of Boyle and the Star of Ireland."

"And so it was, Molly, and so it was; there's another shilling for
you. Come now, come up to the house, and tell her fortune; and mark me,
Molly, no flattery now--nothing but the truth, if you know it."

"Did I flatter you, sir?"

"Upon my honor, any thing but that, Molly; and all I ask is that you
won't flatter her. Speak the truth, as I said before, if you know it."

Miss Folliard, on being called down by her father to have her fortune
told, on seeing Molly, drew back and said, "Do not ask me to come in
direct contact with this woman, papa. How can you, for one moment,
imagine that a person of her life and habits could be gifted with that
which has never yet been communicated to mortal (the holy prophets
excepted)--a knowledge of futurity?"

"No matter, my darling, no matter; give her your hand; you will oblige
and gratify me."

"Here, then, dear papa, to please you--certainly."

Molly took her lovely hand, and having looked into it, said, turning to
the squire, "It's very odd, sir, but here's nearly the same thing that I
tould to you awhile ago."

"Well, Molly," said he, "let us hear it."

Miss Folliard stood with her snowy hand in that of the fortune-teller,
perfectly indifferent to her art, but not without strong feelings of
disgust at the ordeal to which she submitted.

"Now, Molly," said the squire, "what have you to say?"

"Here's love," she replied, "love in the wrong direction--a false step
is made that will end in misery--and--and--and--"

"And what, woman?" asked Miss Folliard, with an indignant glance at the
fortune-teller. "What have you to add?"

"No!" said she, "I needn't speak it, for it won't come to pass. I see a
man of wealth and title who will just come in in time to save you from
shame and destruction, and with him you will be happy."

"I could prove to you," replied the _Cooleen Dawn_, her face mantling
with blushes of indignation, "that I am a better prophetess than you
are. Ask her, papa, where she last came from."

"Where did you come from last, Molly?" he asked.

"Why, then," she replied, "from Jemmy Hamilton's at the foot of
Cullaniore."

"False prophetess," replied the _Cooleen Bawn_, "you have told an
untruth. I know where you came from last."

"Then where did I come from, Miss Folliard?" said the woman, with
unexpected effrontery.

"From Sir Robert Whitecraft," replied Miss Folliard, "and the wages of
your dishonesty and his corruption are the sources of your inspiration.
Take the woman away, papa."

"That will do, Molly--that will do," exclaimed the squire, "there is
something' additional for you. What you have told us is very odd--very
odd, indeed. Go and get your dinner in the kitchen."

Miss Folliard then withdrew to her own room.

Between eleven and twelve o'clock that night a carriage drew up at
the grand entrance of Corbo Castle, out of which stepped Sir Robert
Whitecraft and no less a personage than the Red Rapparee. They
approached the hall door, and after giving a single knock, it was opened
to them by the squire himself, who it would seem had been waiting to
receive them privately. They followed him in silence to his study.

Mr. Folliard, though a healthy-looking man, was, in point of fact, by
no means so. Of a nervous and plethoric habit, though brave, and even
intrepid, yet he was easily affected by anything or any person that
was disagreeable to him. On seeing the man whose hand had been raised
against his life, and what was still more atrocious, whose criminal
designs upon the honor of his daughter had been proved by his violent
irruption into her chamber, he felt a suffocating sensation of rage and
horror that nearly overcame him.

"Sir Robert," he said, "excuse me; the sight of this man has sickened
me. I got your note, and in your society and at your request I have
suffered him to come here; under your protection, too. May God forgive
me for it! The room is too close--I feel unwell--pray open the door."

"Will there be no risk, sir, in leaving the door open?" said the
baronet.

"None in the world! I have sent the servants all to bed nearly an hour
ago. Indeed, the fact is, they are seldom up so late, unless when I have
company."

Sir Robert then opened the door--that is to say, he left it a little
more than ajar, and returning again took his seat.

"Don't let the sight of me frighten you, sir," said the Rapparee. "I
never was your enemy nor intended you harm."

"Frighten me!" replied the courageous old squire; "no, sir, I am not a
man very easily frightened; but I will confess that the sight of you has
sickened me and filled me with horror."

"Well, now, Mr. Folliard," said the baronet, "let this matter, this
misunderstanding, this mistake, or rather this deep and diabolical plot
on the part of the Jesuit, Reilly, be at once cleared up. We wish, that
is to say I wish, to prevent your good nature from being played upon by
a designing villain. Now, O'Donnel, relate, or rather disclose, candidly
and truly, all that took place with respect to this damnable plot
between you and Reilly."

"Why, the thing, sir," said the Rapparee, addressing himself to the
squire, "is very plain and simple; but, Sir Robert, it was not a plot
between me and Reilly--the plot was his own. It appears that he saw your
daughter and fell desperately in love with her, and knowin' your strong
feeling against Catholics, he gave up all hopes of being made acquainted
with Miss Folliard, or of getting into her company. Well, sir, aware
that you were often in the habit of goin' to the town of Boyle, he comes
to me and says in the early part of the day, 'Randal, I will give you
fifty goolden guineas if you help me in a plan I have in my head.' Now,
fifty goolden guineas isn't easily earned; so I, not knowing what the
plan was at the time, tould him I could not say nothing till I heard
it. He then tould me that he was over head and ears in love with your
daughter, and that have her he should if it cost him his life. 'Well,'
says I, 'and how can I help you?' 'Why,' said he, 'I'll show you that:
her ould persecuting scoundrel of a father'--excuse me, sir--I'm givin'
his own words--"

"I believe it, Mr. Folliard," said the baronet, "for these are
the identical terms in which he told me the story before; proceed,
O'Donnel."

"'The ould scoundrel of a father,' says he, 'on his return from Boyle,
generally comes by the ould road, because it is the shortest cut. Do you
and your men lie in wait in the ruins of the ould chapel, near Loch na
Garran'--it is called so, sir, because they say there's a wild horse in
it that comes out of moonlight nights to feed on the patches of green
that are here and there among the moors--'near Loch na Gaitan,' says
he; 'and when he gets that far turn out upon him, charge him with
transportin' your uncle, and when you are levellin' your gun at him, I
will come, by the way, and save him. You and I must speak angry to one
another, you know; then, of course, I must see him home, and he can't do
less than ask me to dine with him. At all events, thinkin' that I saved
his life, we will become acquainted.'"

The squire paused and mused for some time, and then asked, "Was there no
more than this between you and him?"

"Nothing more, sir."

"And tell me, did he pay you the money?"

"Here it is," replied the Rapparee, pulling out a rag in which were the
precise number of guineas mentioned.

"But," said the squire, "we lost our way in the fog."

"Yes, sir," said the Rapparee. "Everything turned out in his favor. That
made very little difference. You would have been attacked in or about
that place, whether or not."

"Yes, but did you not attack my house that night? Did not you yourself
come down by the skylight, and enter, by violence, into my daughter's
apartment?"

"Well, when I heard of that, sir, I said, 'I give Reilly up for
ingenuity.' No, sir, that was his own trick; but afther all it was a bad
one, and tells aginst itself. Why, sir, neither I nor any of my men have
the power of makin' ourselves invisible. Do you think, sir--I put it to
your own common-sense--that if we had been there no one would have seen
us? Wasn't the whole country for miles round searched and scoured, and I
ask you, sir, was there hilt or hair of me or any one of my men seen
or even heard of? Sir Robert, I must be going now," he added. "I hope
Squire Folliard understands what kind of a man Reilly is. As for myself,
I have nothing more to say."

"Don't go yet, O'Donnel," said Whitecraft; "let us determine what is to
be done with him. You see clearly it is necessary, Mr. Folliard, that
this deep-designing Jesuit should be sent out of the country."

"I would give half my estate he was fairly out of it," said the squire.
"He has brought calamity and misery into my family. Created world! how I
and mine have been deceived and imposed upon! Away with him--a thousand
leagues away with him! And that quickly too! Oh, the plausible,
deceitful villain! My child! my child!" and here the old man burst into
tears of the bitterest indignation. "Sir Robert, that cursed villain was
born, I fear, to be the shame and destruction of my house and name."

"Don't dream of such a thing," said the baronet. "On the day he dined
here--and you cannot forget my strong disinclination to meet him--but
even on that day you will recollect the treasonable language he used
against the laws of the realm. After my return home I took a note of
them, and I trust that you, sir, will corroborate, with respect to this
fact, the testimony which it is my purpose to give against him. I say
this the rather, Mr. Folliard, because it might seriously compromise
your own character with the Government, and as a magistrate, too, to
hear treasonable and seditious language at your own table, from a Papist
Jesuit, and yet decline to report it to the authorities."

"The laws, the authorities, and you be hanged, sir!" replied the squire;
"my table is, and has been, and ever shall be, the altar of confidence
to my guests; I shall never violate the laws of hospitality. Treat
the man fairly, I say, concoct no plot against him, bribe no false
witnesses, and if he is justly amenable to the law I will spend ten
thousand pounds to have him sent anywhere out of the country."

"He keeps arms," observed Sir Robert, "contrary to the penal
enactments."

"I think not," said the squire; "he told me he was on a duck-shooting
expedition that night, and when I asked him where he got his arms, he
said that his neighbor, Bob Gosford, always lent him his gun whenever
he felt disposed to shoot, and, to my own knowledge, so did many other
Protestant magistrates in the neighborhood, for this wily Jesuit is a
favorite with most of them."

"But I know where he has arms concealed," said the Rapparee, looking
significantly at the baronet, "and I will be able to find them, too,
when the proper time comes."

"Ha! indeed, O'Donnel," said Sir Robert, with well-feigned surprise;
"then there will be no lack of proof against him, you may rest assured,
Mr. Folliard; I charge myself with the management of the whole affair.
I trust, sir, you will leave it to me, and I have only one favor to ask,
and that is the hand of your fair daughter when he is disposed of."

"She shall be yours, Sir Robert, the moment that this treacherous
villain can be removed by the fair operation of the laws; but I will
never sanction any dishonorable treatment towards him. By the laws of
the land let him stand or fall."

At this moment a sneeze of tremendous strength and loudness was heard
immediately outside the door; a sneeze which made the hair of the
baronet almost stand on end.

"What the devil is that?" asked the squire. "By the great Boyne, I fear
some one has been listening after all."

The Rapparee, always apprehensive of the "authorities," started behind
a screen, and the baronet, although unconscious of any cause for terror,
stood rather undecided. The sneeze, however, was repeated, and this time
it was a double one.

"Curse it, Sir Robert," said the squire, "have you not the use of your
legs? Go and see whether there has been an eavesdropper"

"Yes, Mr. Folliard," replied the doughty baronet, "but your house has
the character of being haunted; and I have a terror of ghosts."

The squire himself got up, and, seizing a candle, went outside the door,
but nothing in human shape was visible.

"Come here, Sir Robert," said he, "that sneeze came from no ghost, I'll
swear. Who ever heard of a ghost sneezing? Never mind, though; for the
curiosity of the thing I will examine for myself, and return to you in a
few minutes."

He accordingly left them, and in a short time came back, assuring them
that every one in the house was in a state of the most profound repose,
and that it was his opinion it must have been a cat.

"I might think so myself," observed the baronet, "were it not for
the double sneeze. I am afraid, Mr. Folliard, that the report is too
true--and that the house is haunted. O'Donnel, you must come home with
me to-night."

O'Donnel, who entertained no apprehension of ghosts, finding that the
"authorities" were not in question, agreed to go with him, although he
had a small matter on hand which required his presence in another part
of the country.

The baronet, however, had gained his point. The heart of the hasty
and unreflecting squire had been poisoned, and not one shadow of doubt
remained on his mind of Reilly's treachery. And that which convinced him
beyond all arguments or assertions was the fact that on the night of the
premeditated attack on his house not one of the Red Rapparee's gang was
seen, or any trace of them discovered.




CHAPTER VI.--The Warning--an Escape


Reilly, in the meantime, was not insensible to his danger. About eleven
o'clock the next day, as he was walking in his garden, Tom Steeple
made his appearance, and approached him with a look of caution and
significance.

"Well, Tom," said he, "what's the news?"

Tom made no reply, but catching him gently by the sleeve of his coat,
said, "Come wid Tom; Tom has news for you. Here it is, in de paper;" and
as he spoke, he handed him a letter, the contents of which we give:

"Dearest Reilly: The dreadful discovery I have made, the danger and
treachery and vengeance by which you are surrounded, but, above all,
my inexpressible love for you, will surely justify me in not losing a
moment to write to you; and I select this poor creature as my messenger
because he is least likely to be suspected. It is through him that the
discovery of the accursed plot against you has been made. It appears
that he slept in the castle last night, as he often does, and having
observed Sir Thomas Whitecraft and that terrible man, the Red Rapparee,
coming into the house, and going along with papa into his study,
evidently upon some private business, he resolved to listen. He did so,
and overheard the Rapparee stating to papa that every thing which took
place on the evening you saved his life and frustrated his other designs
upon the castle, was a plan preconceived by you for the purpose of
making papa's acquaintance and getting introduced to the family in order
to gain my affections. Alas! if you have resorted to such a plan, you
have but too well succeeded. Do not, however, for one moment imagine
that I yield any credit to this atrocious falsehood. It has been
concocted by your base and unmanly rival, Whitecraft, by whom all the
proceedings against you are to be conducted. Some violation of the penal
laws, in connection with carrying or keeping arms, is to be brought
against you, and unless you are on your guard you will be arrested
and thrown into prison, and if not convicted of a capital offence and
executed like a felon, you will at least be sent forever out of the
country. What is to be done? If you have arms in or about your house let
them be forthwith removed to some place of concealment. The Rapparee
is to get a pardon from government, at least he is promised it by
Sir Robert, if he turns against you. In one word, dearest Reilly, you
cannot, with safety to your life, remain in this country. You must fly
from it, and immediately too. I wish to see you. Come this night, at
half-past ten, to the back gate of our garden, which you will find shut,
but unlocked. Something--is it my heart?--tells me that our fates are
henceforth inseparable, whether for joy or sorrow. I ought to tell you
that I confessed my affection for you to papa on the evening you dined
here, and he was not angry; but this morning he insisted that I should
never think of you more, nor mention your name; and he says that if the
laws can do it he will lose ten thousand pounds or he will have you
sent out of the country. Lanigan, our cook, from what motive I know
not, mentioned to me the substance of what I have now written. He is, it
seems, a cousin to the bearer of this, and got the information from him
after having had much difficulty, he says, in putting it together.
I know not how it is, but I can assure you that every servant in the
castle seems to know that I am attached to you.

"Ever, my dearest Reilly, yours, and yours only, until death,

"Helen Folliard."


We need not attempt to describe the sensations of love and indignation
produced by this letter. But we shall state the facts.

"Here, Tom," said Reilly, "is the reward for your fidelity," as he
handed him some silver; "and mark me, Tom, don't breathe to a human
being that you have brought me a letter from the _Cooleen Bawn_. Go into
the house and get something to eat; there now--go and get one of your
bully dinners."

"It is true," said he, "too true I am doomed-devoted. If I remain in
this country I am lost. Yes, my life, my love, my more than life--I feel
as you do, that our fates, whether for good or evil, are inseparable.
Yes, I shall see you this night if I have life."

He had scarcely concluded this soliloquy when his namesake, Fergus
Reiliy, disguised in such a way as prevented him from being recognized,
approached him, in the lowly garb of a baccah or mendicant.

"Well, my good fellow," said he, "what do you want? Go up to the house
and you will get food."

"Keep quiet," replied the other, disclosing himself, "keep quiet; get
all your money into one purse, settle your affairs as quickly as you
can, and fly the country this night, or otherwise sit down and make
your will and your peace with God Almighty, for if you are found here
by to-morrow night you sleep in Sligo jail. Throw me a few halfpence,
making as it were charity. Whitecraft has spies among your own
laborers, and you know the danger I run in comin' to you by daylight.
Indeed, I could not do it without this disguise. To-morrow night you are
to be taken upon a warrant from Sir Robert Whitecraft; but never mind;
as to Whitecraft, leave him to me--I have a crow to pluck with him."

"How is that, Fergus?"

"My sister, man; did you not hear of it?"

"No, Fergus, nor I don't wish to hear of it, for your sake; spare your
feelings, my poor fellow; I know perfectly well what a hypocritical
scoundrel he is."

"Well," replied Fergus, "it was only yesterday I heard of it myself; and
are we to bear this?--we that have hands and eyes and limbs and hearts
and courage to stand nobly upon the gallows-tree for striking down the
villain who does whatever he likes, and then threatens us with the laws
of the land if we murmur? Do you think this is to be borne?"

"Take not vengeance into your own hand, Fergus," replied Reilly, "for
that is contrary to the laws of God and man. As for me, I agree with you
that I cannot remain in this country. I know the vast influence which
Whitecraft possesses with the government. Against such a man I have no
chance; this, taken in connection with my education abroad, is quite
sufficient to make me a marked and suspected man. I will therefore leave
the country, and ere to-morrow night, I trust, I shall be beyond his
reach. But, Fergus, listen: leave Whitecraft to God; do not stain your
soul with human blood; keep a pure heart, and whatever may happen be
able to look up to the Almighty with a clear conscience."

Fergus then left him, but with a resolution, nevertheless, to have
vengeance upon the baronet very unequivocally expressed on his
countenance.

Having seriously considered his position and all the circumstances' of
danger connected with it, Reilly resolved that his interview that night
with his beloved _Cooleen Bawn_ should be his last. He accordingly
communicated his apprehensions to an aged uncle of his who resided with
him, and entrusted the management of his property to him until some
change for the better might take place. Having heard from Fergus Reilly
that there were spies among his own laborers, he kept moving about and.
making such observations as he could for the remainder of the day.
When the night came he prepared himself for his appointment, and at, or
rather before, the hour of half-past ten, he had reached the back
gate, or rather door of the garden attached to Corbo Castle. Having
ascertained that it was unlocked, he entered with no difficulty, and
traversed the garden without being able to perceive her whose love
was now, it might be said, all that life had left him. After having
satisfied himself that she was not in the garden, he withdrew to an
arbor or summer-house of evergreens, where he resolved to await until
she should come. He did not wait long. The latch of the entrance gate
from the front made a noise; ah, how his heart beat! what a commotion
agitated his whole frame! In a few moments she was with him.

"Reilly," said _Cooleen Bawn_, "I have dreadful news to communicate."

"I know all," said he; "I am to be arrested to-morrow night."

"To-night, dearest Reilly, to-night. Papa told me this evening, in one
of his moods of anger, that before to-morrow morning you would be in
Sligo jail."

"Well, dearest Helen," he replied, "that is certainly making quick work
of it. But, even so, I am prepared this moment to escape. I have settled
my affairs, left the management of them to my uncle, and this interview
with you, my beloved girl, must be our last."

As he uttered these melancholy words the tears came to his eyes.

"The last!" she exclaimed. "Oh, no; it must not be the last. You shall
not go alone, dearest William. My mind is made up. Be it for life or for
death, I shall accompany you."

"Dearest life," he replied, "think of the consequences."

"I think of nothing," said Cooleen Bawn, "but my love for you. If you
were not surrounded by danger as you are, if the whoop of vengeance were
not on your trail, if death and a gibbet were not in the background,
I could part with you; but now that danger, vengeance, and death, are
hovering about you, I shall and must partake of them with you. And
listen, Reilly; after all it is the best plan. Papa, if I accompany
you--supposing that we are taken--will relent for my sake. I know his
love for me. His affection for me will overcome all his prejudices
against you. Then let us fly. To-night you will be taken. Your rival
will triumph over both of us; and I--I, oh! I shall not survive it. Save
me, then, Reilly, and let me fly with you."

"God knows," replied Reilly, with deep emotion, "if I suffered myself to
be guided by the impulse of my heart, I would yield to wishes at once
so noble and disinterested. I cannot, however, suffer my affection,
absorbing and inexpressible as it is, to precipitate your ruin. I speak
not of myself, nor of what I may suffer. When we reflect, however,
my beloved girl, upon the state of the country, and of the law, as it
operates against the liberty and property of Catholics, we must both
admit the present impossibility of an elopement without involving you
in disgrace. You know that until some relaxation of the laws affecting
marriage between Catholics and Protestants takes place, an union between
us is impossible; and this fact it is which would attach disgrace to
you, and a want of honor, principle, and gratitude to me. We should
necessarily lead the lives of the guilty, and seek the wildest
fastnesses of the mountain solitudes and the oozy caverns of the bleak
and solitary hills."

"But I care not. I am willing to endure it all for your sake."

"What!--the shame, the misinterpretation, the imputed guilt?"

"Neither care I for shame or imputed guilt, so long as I am innocent,
and you safe."

"Concealment, my dearest girl, would be impossible. Such a hue and
cry would be raised after us as would render nothing short of positive
invisibility capable of protecting us from our enemies. Then your
father!--such a step might possibly break his heart; a calamity which
would fill your mind with remorse to the last day of your life!"

She burst again into tears, and replied, "But as for you, what can
be done to save you from the toils of your unscrupulous and powerful
enemies?"

"To that, my beloved Helen, I must forthwith look. In the meantime, let
me gather patience and await some more favorable relaxation in the penal
code. At present, the step you propose would be utter destruction to us
both, and an irretrievable stain upon our reputation. You will return to
your father's house, and I shall seek some secure place of concealment
until I can safely reach the continent, from whence I shall contrive to
let you hear from me, and in due time may possibly be able to propose
some mode of meeting in a country where the oppressive laws that
separate us here shall not stand in the way of our happiness. In the
meanwhile let our hearts be guided by hope and constancy." After a
mournful and tender embrace they separated.

It would be impossible to describe the agony of the lovers after a
separation which might probably be their last. Our readers, however, may
very well conceive it, and it is not our intention to describe it
here. At this stage of our story, Reilly, who was, as we have said,
in consequence of his gentlemanly manners and liberal principles,
a favorite with all classes and all parties, and entertained no
apprehensions from the dominant party, took his way homewards deeply
impressed with the generous affections which his _Cooleen Bawn_ had
expressed for him. He consequently looked upon himself as perfectly safe
in his own house. The state of society in Ireland, however, was at that
melancholy period so uncertain that no Roman Catholic, however popular,
or however innocent, could for one week calculate upon safety either to
his property or person, if he happened to have an enemy who possessed
any influence in the opposing Church. Religion thus was made the
stalking-horse, not only of power, but of persecution, rapacity, and
selfishness, and the unfortunate Roman Catholic who considered himself
safe to-day might find himself ruined tomorrow, owing to the cupidity
of some man who turned a lustful eye upon his property, or who may have
entertained a feeling of personal ill-will against him. Be this as it
may, Reilly wended his melancholy way homewards, and had got within less
than a quarter of a mile of his own house when he was met by Fergus in
his mendicant habit, who startled him by the information he disclosed.

"Where are you bound for, Mr. Reilly?" said the latter.

"For home," replied Reilly, "in order to secure my money and the papers
connected with the family property."

"Well, then," said the other, "if you go home now you are a lost man."

"How is that?" asked Reilly.

"Your house at this moment is filled with sogers, and surrounded by them
too. You know that no human being could make me out in this disguise;
I had heard that they were on their way to your place, and afeered that
they might catch you at home, I was goin' to let you know, in ordher
that you might escape them, but I was too late; the villains were there
before me. I took heart o' grace, however, and went up to beg a little
charity for the love and honor of God. Seem' the kind of creature I was,
they took no notice of me; for to tell you the truth, they were too much
bent on searchin' for, and findin' you. God protect us from such men,
Mr. Reilly," and the name he uttered in alow and cautious voice; "but
at all events this is no country for you to live in now. But who do you
think was the busiest and the bittherest man among them?"

"Why Whitecraft, I suppose."

"No; he wasn't there himself--no; but that double distilled traitor and
villain, the Red Rapparee, and bad luck to him. You see, then, that if
you attempt to go near your own house you're a lost man, as I said."

"I feel the truth of what you say," replied Reilly, "but are you aware
that they committed any acts of violence? Are you aware that they
disturbed my property or ransacked my house?"

"Well, that's more than I can say," replied Fergus, "for to tell you the
truth, I was afraid to trust myself inside, in regard of that scoundrel
the Rapparee, who, bein' himself accustomed to all sorts of disguises, I
dreaded might find me out."

"Well, at all events," said Reilly, "with respect to that I disregard
them. The family papers and other available property are too well
secreted for them to secure them. On discovering Whitecraft's jealousy,
and knowing, as I did before, his vindictive spirit and power in the
country, I lost no time in putting them in a safe place. Unless they
burn the house they could never come at them. But as this fact is not
at all an improbable one--so long as Whitecraft is my unscrupulous and
relentless enemy--I shall seize upon the first opportunity of placing
them elsewhere."

"You ought to do so," said Fergus, "for it is not merely Whitecraft you
have to deal wid, but ould Folliard himself, who now swears that if he
should lose half his fortune he will either hang or transport you."

"Ah! Fergus," replied the other, "there is an essential difference
between the characters of these two men. The father of _Cooleen Bawn_
is, when he thinks himself injured, impetuous and unsparing in his
resentment; but then he is an open foe, and the man whom he looks upon
as his enemy always knows what he has to expect from him. Not so
the other; he is secret, cautious, cowardly, and consequently doubly
vindictive. He is a combination of the fox and the tiger, with all the
treacherous cunning of the one, and the indomitable ferocity of the
other, when he finds that he can make his spring with safety."

This conversation took place as Reilly and his companion bent their
steps towards one of those antiquated and obsolete roads which we have
described in the opening portion of this narrative.

"But now," asked Fergus, "where do you intend to go, or what do you
intend to do with yourself?"

"I scarcely know," replied Reilly, "but on one thing my mind is
determined--that I will not leave this country until I know the ultimate
fate of the _Cooleen Bawn_. Rather than see her become the wife of that
diabolical scoundrel, whom she detests as she does hell, I would lose
my life. Let the consequences then be what they may, I will not for the
present leave Ireland. This resolution I have come to since I saw her
to-night. I am her only friend, and, so help me God, I shall not suffer
her to be sacrificed--murdered. In the course of the night we shall
return to my house and look about us. If the coast be clear I will
secure my cash and papers as I said. It is possible that a few
stragglers may lurk behind, under the expectation of securing me while
making a stolen visit. However, we shall try. We are under the scourge
of irresponsible power, Fergus; and if Whitecraft should burn my house
to-night or to-morrow, who is to bring him to an account for it? or if
they should, who is to convict him?"

The night had now become very dark, but they knew the country well, and
soon found themselves upon the old road they were seeking.

"I will go up," said Reilly, "to the cabin of poor widow Buckley, where
we will stop until we think those blood-hounds have gone home. She has
a free cottage and garden from me, and has besides been a pensioner of
mine for some time back, and I know I can depend upon her discretion
and fidelity. Her little place is remote and solitary, and not more than
three quarters of a mile from us."

They accordingly kept the old road for some time, until they reached a
point of it where there was an abrupt angle, when, to their utter alarm
and consternation, they found themselves within about twenty or thirty
yards of a military party.

"Fly," whispered Fergus, "and leave me to deal with them--if you don't
it's all up with you. They won't know me from Adam, but they'll know you
at a glance."

"I cannot leave you in danger," said Reilly.

"You're mad," replied the other. "Is it an ould beggar man they'd
meddle with? Off with you, unless you wish to sleep in Sligo jail before
mornin."

Reilly, who felt too deeply the truth of what he said, bounded across
the bank which enclosed the road on the right-hand side, and which, by
the way, was a tolerably high one, but fortunately without bushes. In
the meantime a voice cried out, "Who goes there? Stand at your peril, or
you will have a dozen bullets in your carcass."

Fergus advanced towards them, whilst they themselves approached him at a
rapid pace, until they met. In a moment they were all about him.

"Come, my customer," said their leader, "who and what are you?
Quick--give an account of yourself."

"A poor creature that's lookin' for my bit, sir, God help me."

"What's your name?"

"One Paddy Brennan, sir, please your honor."

"Ay--one Paddy Brennan (hiccough), and--and--one Paddy Brennan, where do
you go of a Sunday?"

"I don't go out at all, sir, of a Sunda'; whenever I stop of a Saturday
night I always stop until Monday mornin'."

"I mean, are you a Papish?"

"Troth, I oughtn't to say I am, your honor--or at least a very bad one."

"But you are, a Papish."

"A kind of one, sir."

"Curse me, the fellow's humbug-gin' you, sergeant," said one of the men;
"to be sure he's a Papish."

"To be sure," replied several of the others--"doesn't he admit he's a
Papish?"

"Blow me, if--if--I'll bear this," replied the sergeant. "I'm a
senior off--off--officer conductin' the examination, and I'll suffer
no--no--man to intherfare. I must have subor--or--ordination, or I'll
know what for. Leave him to me, then, and I'll work him up, never fear.
George Johnston isn't the blessed babe to be imposed upon--that's what I
say. Come, my good fellow, mark--mark me now. If you let but a quarter
of--of--an inch of a lie out of your lips, I you're a dead man. Are you
all charged, gentlemen?"

"All charged, sergeant, with loyalty and poteen at any rate; hang the
Pope."

"Shoulder arms--well done. Present arms. Where is--is--this rascal? Oh,
yes, here he is. Well, you are there--are you?"

"I'm here, captain."

"Well blow me, that's not--not--bad, my good fellow; if I'm not a
captain, worse men have been so (hiccough); that's what I say."

"Hadn't we better make a prisoner of him at once, and bring him to Sir
Robert's?" observed another.

"Simpson, hold--old--your tongue, I say. Curse me if I'll suffer any man
to in--intherfere with me in the discharge of my duty."

"How do we know," said another, "but I he's a Rapparee in disguise?--for
that matter, he may be Reilly himself."

"Captain and gentlemen," said Fergus, "if you have any suspicion of me,
I'm willin' to go anywhere you like; and, above all things, I'd like to
go to Sir Robert's, bekaise they know me there--many a good bit and sup
I got in his kitchen."

"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the sergeant; "now I have you--now I know whether
you can tell truth or not. Answer me this. Did ever Sir Robert himself
give you charity? Come, now."

Fergus perceived the drift of the question at once. The penurious
character of the baronet was so well known throughout the whole barony
that if he had replied in the affirmative every man of them would have
felt that the assertion was a lie, and he would consequently have been
detected. He was prepared, however.

"Throth then, gintlemen," he replied, "since you must have the truth,
and although maybe what I'm goin' to say won't be plaisin' to you, as
Sir Robert's friends, I must come out wid it; devil resave the color
of his money ever I seen yet, and it isn't but I often axed him for it.
No--but the sarvints often sind me up a bit from the kitchen below."

"Well, come," said the sergeant, "if you have been lyin' all your life,
you've spoke the truth now. I think we may let him go."

"I don't think we ought," said one of them, named Steen, a man of about
fifty years of age, and of Dutch descent; "as Bamet said, 'we don't know
what he is,' and I agree with him. He may be a Rapparee in disguise, or,
what is worse, Reilly himself."

"What Reilly do yez mane, gintlemen, wid submission?" asked Fergus.

"Why, Willy Reilly, the famous Papish," replied the sergeant. (We don't
wish to fatigue the reader with his drunken stutterings.) "It has been
sworn that he's training the Papishes every night to prepare them for
rebellion, and there's a warrant out for his apprehension. Do you know
him?"

"Throth I do, well; and to tell yez the truth, he doesn't stand very
high wid his own sort."

"Why so, my good fellow?"

"Bekaise they think that he keeps too much company wid Prodestans, an'
that he's half a Prodestan himself, and that it's only the shame that
prevents him from goin' over to them altogether. Indeed, it's the
general opinion among the Catholics--"

"Papishes! you old dog."

"Well, then, Papishes--that he will--an' throth, I don't think the
Papishes would put much trust in the same man."

"Where are you bound for now? and what brings you out at an illegal hour
on this lonely road?" asked Steen.

"Troth, then, I'm on my way to Mr. Graham's above; for sure, whenever
I'm near him, poor Paddy Brennan never wants for the good bit and sup,
and the comfortable straw bed in the barn. May God reward him and his
for it!"

Now, the truth was, that Graham, a wealthy and respectable Protestant
farmer, was uncle to the sergeant; a fact which Fergus well knew, in
consequence of having been a house servant with him for two or three
years.

"Sergeant," said the Williamite settler, "I think this matter may be
easily settled. Let two of the men go back to your uncle's with him, and
see whether they know him there or not."

"Very well," replied the sergeant, "let you and Simpson go back with
him--I have no objection. If my uncle's people don't know him, why then
bring him down to Sir Roberts'."

"It's not fair to put such a task upon a man of my age," replied Steen,
"when you know that you have younger men here."

"It was you proposed it, then," said the sergeant, "and I say, Steen, if
you be a true man you have a right to go, and no right at all to shirk
your duty. But stop--I'll settle it in a word's speaking: here you--you
old Papish, where are you?--oh, I see--you're there, are you? Come now,
gentlemen, shoulder arms--all right--present anns. Now, you confounded
Papish, you say that you have often slept in my uncle's barn?"

"Is Mr. Graham your uncle, sir?--bekaise, if he is, I know that I'm in
the hands of a respectable man."

"Come now--was there anything particular in the inside of that
barn?--Gentlemen, are you ready to slap into him if we find him to be an
imposther?"

"All ready, sergeant."

"Come now, you blasted Papish, answer me--"

"Troth, and I can do that, sargin'. You say Mr. Graham's your uncle,
an' of coorse you have often been in that barn yourself. Very well, sir,
don't you know that there's a prop on one side to keep up one of the
cupples that gave way one stormy night, and there's a round hole in the
lower part of the door to let the cats in to settle accounts wid the
mice and rats."

"Come, come, boys, it's all right. He has described the barn to a hair.
That will do, my Papish old cock. Come, I say, as every man must have
a religion, and since the Papishes won't have ours, why the devil
shouldn't they have one of their own?"

"That's dangerous talk," said Steen, "to proceed from your lips,
sergeant. It smells of treason, I tell you; and if you had spoken these
words in the days of the great and good King William, you might have
felt the consequences."

"Treason and King William be hanged!" replied the sergeant, who was
naturally a good-natured, but out-spoken fellow--"sooner than I'd take
up a poor devil of a beggar that has enough to do to make out his bit
and sup. Go on about your business, poor devil; you shan't be molested.
Go to my uncle's, where you'll get a bellyfull, and a comfortable bed
of straw, and a winnow-cloth in the barn. Zounds!--it would be a nice
night's work to go out for Willy Reilly and to bring home a beggar man
in his place."

This was a narrow escape upon the part of Fergus, who knew that if
they had made' a prisoner of him, and produced him before Sir Robert
Whitecraft, who was a notorious persecutor, and with whom the Red
Rapparee was now located, he would unquestionably have been hanged
like a dog. The officer of the party, however--to wit, the worthy
sergeant--was one of those men who love a drop of the native, and
whose heart besides it expands into a sort of surly kindness that has
something comical and not disagreeable in it. In addition to this, he
never felt a confidence in his own authority with half the swagger which
he did when three quarters gone. Steen and he were never friends, nor
indeed was Steen ever a popular man among his acquaintances. In matters
of trade and business he was notoriously dishonest, and in the moral
and social relations of life, selfish, uncandid, and treacherous.
The sergeant, on the other hand, though an out-spoken and flaming
anti-Papist in theory, was, in point of fact, a good friend to his Roman
Catholic neighbors, who used to say of him that his bark was worse than
his bite.

When his party had passed on, Fergus stood for a moment uncertain as
to where he should direct his steps. He had not long to wait, however.
Reilly, who had no thoughts of abandoning him to the mercy of the
military, without at least knowing his fate, nor, we may add, without
a firm determination to raising his tenantry, and rescuing the generous
fellow at every risk, immediately sprung across the ditch and joined
him.

"Well, Fergus," said he, clasping his hand, "I heard everything, and I
can tell you that every nerve in my body trembled whilst you were among
them."

"Why," said Fergus, "I knew them at once by their voices, and only that
I changed my own as I did I won't say but they'd have nabbed me."

"The test of the barn was frightful; I thought you were gone; but you
must explain that."

"Ay, but before I do," replied Fergus, "where are we to go? Do you still
stand for widow Buckley's?"

"Certainly, that woman may be useful to me."

"Well, then, we may as well jog on in that direction, and as we go I
will tell you."

"How then did you come to describe the barn--or rather, was your
description correct?"

"Ay, as Gospel. You don't know that by the best of luck and providence
of God, I was two years and a half an inside laborer with Mr. Graham. As
is usual, all the inside men-servants slept, wintrier and summer, in the
barn; and that accounts for our good fortune this night. Only for that
scoundrel, Steen, however, the whole thing would not have signified
much; but he's a black and deep villain that. Nobody likes him but his
brother scoundrel, Whitecraft, and he's a favorite with him, bekaise
he's an active and unscrupulous tool in his hands. Many a time, when
these men--military-militia-yeomen, or whatever they call them, are sent
out by this same Sir Robert, the poor fellows don't wish to catch what
they call the unfortunate Papish-es, and before they come to the house
they'll fire off their guns, pretinding to be in a big passion, but only
to give their poor neighbors notice to escape as soon as they can."

In a short time they reached widow Buckley's cabin, who, on
understanding that it was Reilly who sought admittance, lost not a
moment in opening the door and letting them in. There was no candle lit
when they entered, but there was a bright turf fire "blinkin' bonnilie"
in the fireplace, from which a mellow light emanated that danced upon
the few plain plates that were neatly ranged upon her humble dresser,
but which fell still more strongly upon a clean and well-swept hearth,
on one side of which was an humble armchair of straw, and on the other a
grave, but placid-looking cat, purring, with half-closed eyes, her usual
song for the evening.

"Lord bless us! Mr. Reilly, is this you? Sure it's little I expected
you, any way; but come when you will, you're welcome. And who ought to
be welcome to the poor ould widow if you wouldn't?"

"Take a stool and sit down, honest man," she said, addressing Fergus;
"and you, Mr. Reilly, take my chair; it's the one you sent me yourself,
and if anybody is entitled to a sate in it, surely you are. I must light
a rush."

"No, Molly," replied Reilly, "I would be too heavy for your frail chair.
I will take one of those stout stools, which will answer me better."

She then lit a rush-light, which she pressed against a small cleft of
iron that was driven into a wooden shaft, about three feet long, which
stood upon a bottom that resembled the head of a churn-staff. Such
are the lights, and such the candlesticks, that are to be found in the
cabins and cottages of Ireland. "I suppose, Molly," said Reilly, "you
are surprised at a visit from me just now?"

"You know, Mr. Reilly," she replied, "that if you came in the deadest
hours of the night you'd be welcome, as I said--and this poor man is
welcome too--sit over to the fire, poor man, and warm yourself. Maybe
you're hungry; if you are I'll get you something to eat."

"Many thanks to you, ma'am," replied Fergus, "I'm not a taste hungry,
and could ait nothing now; I'm much obliged to you at the same time."

"Mr. Reilly, maybe you'd like to ait a bit. I can give you a farrel of
bread, and a sup o' nice goat's milk. God preserve him from evil that
gave me the same goats, and that's your four quarthers, Mr. Reilly. But
sure every thing I have either came or comes from your hand; and if I
can't thank you, God will do it for me, and that's betther still."

"No more about that, Molly--not a word more. Your long residence with my
poor mother, and your affection for her in all her trials and troubles,
entitle you to more than that at the hands of her son."

"Mrs. Buckley," observed Fergus, "this is a quiet-looking little place
you have here."

"And it is for that I like it," she replied. "I have pace here, and the
noise of the wicked world seldom reaches me in it. My only friend and
companion here is the Almighty--praise and glory be to his name!"--and
here she devoutly crossed herself--"bar-rin', indeed, when the
light-hearted _girshas_ (young girls) comes _a kailyee_* wid their
wheels, to keep the poor ould woman company, and rise her ould heart by
their light and merry songs, the cratures."

     *This means to spend a portion of the day, or a few hours of
     the night, in a neighbor's house, in agreeable and amusing
     conversation.

"That must be a relief to you, Molly," observed Reilly, who, however,
could with difficulty take any part in this little dialogue.

"And so indeed it is," she replied; "and, poor things, sure if their
sweethearts do come at the dusk to help them to carry home their
spinning-wheels, who can be angry with them? It's the way of life, sure,
and of the world."

She then went into another little room--for the cabin was divided into
two--in order to find a ball of woollen thread, her principal occupation
being the knitting of mittens and stockings, and while bustling about
Fergus observed with a smile,

"Poor Molly! little she thinks that it's the bachelors, rather than any
particular love for her company, that brings the thieves here."

"Yes, but," said Reilly, "you know it's the custom of the country."

"Mrs. Buckley," asked Fergus, "did the sogers ever pay you a visit?"

"They did once," she replied, "about six months ago or more."

"What in the name of wondher," he repeated, "could bring them to you?"

"They were out huntin' a priest," she replied, "that had done something
contrary to the law."

"What did they say, Mrs. Buckley, and how did they behave themselves?"

"Why," she answered, "they axed me if I had seen about the country a
tight-looking fat little man, wid black twinklin' eyes and a rosy face,
wid a pair o' priest's boots upon him, greased wid hog's lard? I said
no, but to the revarse. They then searched the cabin, tossed the two
beds about--poor Jemmy's--God rest my boy's sowl!--an'--afterwards my
own. There was one that seemed to hould authority over the rest, and he
axed who was my landlord? I said I had no landlord. They then said
that surely I must pay rent to some one, but I said that I paid rent
to nobody; that Mr. Reilly here, God bless him, gave me this house and
garden free."

"And what did they say when you named Mr. Reilly?"

"Why, they said he was a dacent Papish, I think they called it; and that
there wasn't sich another among them. They then lighted their pipes, had
a smoke, went about their business, and I saw no more of them from that
day to this."

Reilly felt that this conversation was significant, and that the widow's
cabin was any thing but a safe place of refuge, even for a few hours. We
have already said that he had been popular with all parties, which was
the fact, until his acquaintance with the old squire and his lovely
daughter. In the meantime the loves of Willy Reilly and the far-famed
_Cooleen Bawn_ had gone abroad over the whole country; and the natural
result was that a large majority among those who were anxious to
exterminate the Catholic Church by the rigor of bigoted and inhuman
laws, looked upon the fact of a tolerated Papist daring to love a
Protestant heiress, and the daughter of a man who was considered such a
stout prop of the Establishment, as an act that deserved death itself.
Reilly's affection for the _Cooleen Bawn_ was considered, therefore,
not only daring but treasonable. Those men, then, he reflected, who had
called upon her while in pursuit of the unfortunate priest, had become
acquainted with the fact of her dependence upon his bounty; and he took
it for granted, very naturally and very properly, as the event
will show, that now, while "on his keeping," it would not be at all
extraordinary if they occasionally searched her remote and solitary
cabin, as a place where he might be likely to conceal himself. For this
night, however, he experienced no apprehension of a visit from them, but
with what correctness of calculation we shall soon see.

"Molly," said he, this poor man and I must sit with you for a couple of
hours, after which we will leave you to your rest."

"Indeed, Mr. Reilly," she replied, "from what I heard this day I can
make a party good guess at the raison why you are here now, instead
of bein' in your own comfortable house. You have bitther enemies; but
God--blessed be his name--is stronger than any of them. However, I wish
you'd let me get you and that poor man something to eat."

This kind offer they declined, and as the short rush-light was nearly
burned out, and as she had not another ready, she got what is called a
_cam_ or grisset, put it on the hearth-stone, with a portion of hog's
lard in it; she then placed the lower end of the tongs in the fire,
until the broad portion of them, with which the turf is gripped, became
red hot; she then placed the lard in the grisset between them, and
squeezed it until nothing remained but pure oil; through this she slowly
drew the peeled rushes, which were instantly saturated with the grease,
after which she left them on a little table to cool. Among the poorer
classes--small farmers and others--this process is performed every
evening a little before dusk. Having thus supplied them with these
lights, the pious widow left them to their own conversation and retired
to the little room in order to repeat her rosary. We also will leave
them to entertain themselves as best they can, and request our readers
to follow us to a different scene.




CHAPTER VII.--An Accidental Incident favorable to Reilly

--And a Curious Conversation


We return to the party from whom Fergus Reilly had so narrow an escape.
As our readers may expect, they bent their steps to the magnificent
residence of Sir Robert Whitecraft. That gentleman was alone in his
library, surrounded by an immense collection of books which he never
read. He had also a fine collection of paintings, of which he knew no
more than his butler, nor perhaps so much. At once sensual, penurious,
and bigoted, he spent his whole time in private profligacy--for he was
a hypocrite, too--in racking his tenantry, and exhibiting himself as
a champion for Protestant principles. Whenever an unfortunate Roman
Catholic, whether priest or layman, happened to infringe a harsh
and cruel law of which probably he had never heard, who so active in
collecting his myrmidons, in order to uncover, hunt, and run down his
luckless victim? And yet he was not popular. No one, whether of his own
class or any other, liked a bone in his skin. Nothing could infect him
with the genial and hospitable spirit of the country, whilst at the
same time no man living was so anxious to partake of the hospitality
of others, merely because it saved him a meal. All that sustained his
character at the melancholy period of which we write was what people
called the uncompromising energy of his principles as a sound and
vigorous Protestant.

"Sink them all together," he exclaimed upon this occasion, in a kind of
soliloquy--"Church and bishop and parson, what are they worth unless to
make the best use we can of them? Here I am prevented from going to that
girl to-night--and that barbarous old blockhead of a squire, who was so
near throwing me off for a beggarly Papist rebel: and doubly, trebly,
quadruply cursed be that same rebel for crossing my path as he has
done. The cursed light-headed jade loves him too--there's no doubt of
that--but wait until I get him in my clutches, as I certainly shall,
and, by ---, his rebel carcass shall feed the crows. But what noise is
that? They have returned; I must go down and learn their success."

He was right. Our friend the tipsy sergeant and his party were at the
hall-door, which was opened as he went down, and he ordered lights into
the back parlor. In a few minutes they were ushered in, where they found
him seated as magisterially as possible in a large arm-chair.

"Well, Johnston," said he, assuming as much dignity as he could, "what
has been your success?"

"A bad evening's sport, sir; we bagged nothing--didn't see a feather."

"Talk sense, Johnston," said he sternly, "and none of this cant. Did you
see or hear any thing of the rebel?"

"Why, sir, we did; it would be a devilish nice business if a party
led and commanded by George Johnston should go out without hearin' and
seein' something."

"Well, but what did you see and hear, sir?"

"Why, we saw Reilly's house, and a very comfortable one it is; and we
heard from the servants that he wasn't at home."

"You're drunk, Johnston."

"No, sir, begging your pardon, I'm only hearty; besides, I never
discharge my duty half so well as when I'm drunk; If feel no colors
then."

"Johnston, if I ever know you to get drunk on duty again I shall have
you reduced."

"Reduced!" replied Johnston, "curse the fig I care whether you do or
not; I'm actin' as a volunteer, and I'll resign."

"Come, sir," replied Sir Robert, "be quiet; I will overlook this, for
you are a very good man if you could keep yourself sober."

"I told you before, Sir Robert, that I'm a better man when I'm drunk."

"Silence, sir, or I shall order you out of the room."

"Please your honor," observed Steen, "I have a charge to make against
George Johnston."

"A charge, Steen--what is it? You are a staunch, steady fellow, I know;
what is this charge?"

"Why, sir, we met a suspicious character on the old bridle road beyond
Reilly's, and he refused to take him prisoner."

"A poor half-Papist beggarman, sir," replied Johnston, "who was on his
way to my uncle's to stop there for the night. Divil a scarecrow in
Europe would exchange clothes with him without boot."

Steen then related the circumstances with which our readers are
acquainted, adding that he suggested to Johnston the necessity of
sending a couple of men up with him to ascertain whether what, he said
was true or not; but that he flatly refused to do so--and after some
nonsense about a barn he let him off.

"I'll tell you what, sir," said Johnston, "I'll hunt a priest or a
Papish that breaks the law with any man livin', but hang me if ever I'll
hunt a harmless beggarman lookin' for his bit."

At this period of the conversation the Red Rapparee, now in military
uniform, entered the parlor, accompanied by some others of those violent
men.

"Steen," said the baronet, "what or who do you suppose this ragged
ruffian was?"

"Either a Rapparee, sir, or Reilly himself."

"O'Donnel," said he, addressing the Red Robber, "what description of
disguises do these villains usually assume? Do they often go about as
beggarmen?"

"They may have changed their hand, sir, since I became a legal subject,
but, before that, three-fourths of us--of them--the villains, I
mane--went about in the shape of beggars."

"That's important," exclaimed the baronet. "Steen, take half a dozen
mounted men--a cavalry party have arrived here a little while ago, and
are waiting further orders--I thought if Reilly had been secured it
might have been necessary for them to escort him to Sligo. Well, take
half a dozen mounted I men, and, as you very properly suggested, proceed
with all haste to farmer Graham's, and see whether this mendicant is
there or not; if he is there, take him into custody at all events, and
if he is not, then it is clear he is a man for whom we ought to be on
the lookout."

"I should like to go with them, your honor," said the Red Rapparee.

"O'Donnel," said Sir Robert, "I have other business for you to-night."

"Well, plaise your honor," said O'Donnel, "as they're goin' in that
direction, let them turn to the left after passin' the little stranie
that crosses the road, I mane on their way home; if they look sharp
they'll find a little _boreen_ that--but indeed they'll scarcely make
it out in the dark, for it's a good way back in the fields--I mane the
cabin of widow Buckley. If there's one house more than another in the
whole countryside where! Reilly is likely to take shelter in, that's it.
He gave her that cabin and a large garden free, and besides allows her
a small yearly pension. But remember, you can't bring your horses
wid you--you must lave some of the men to take charge of them in the
_boreen_ till you come back. I wish you'd let me go with them, sir."

"I cannot, O'Donnel; I have other occupation for you to-night."

Three or four of them declared that they knew the cottage right well,
and could find it out without much difficulty. "They had been there,"
they said, "some six or eight months before upon a priest chase." The
matter was so arranged, and the party set out upon their expedition.

It is unnecessary to say that these men had their journey for nothing;
but at the same time one fact resulted from it, which I was, that the
ragged mendicant they had met must have been some one well worth looking
after. The deuce of it was, however, that, owing to the darkness of the
night, there was not one among them who could have known Fergus the
next day if they had met him. They knew, however, that O'Donnel, the
Rapparee, was a good authority on the subject, and the discovery of the
pretended mendicant's imposture was a proof of it. On this account, when
they had reached the _boreen_ alluded to, on their return from Graham's,
they came to the resolution of leaving their horses in charge, as had
been suggested to them, and in silence, and with stealthy steps, pounce
at once into the widow's cabin. Before they arrived there, however, we
shall take the liberty of preceding them for a few minutes, and once
more transport our readers to its bright but humble hearth.

About three hours or better had elapsed, and our two friends were still
seated, maintaining the usual chat with Mrs. Buckley, who had finished
her prayers and once, more rejoined them.

"Fergus, like a good fellow," whispered Reilly, "slip out for a minute
or two; there's--a circumstance I wish to mention to Molly--I assure you
it's of a very private and particular nature and only for her own ear."

"To be sure," replied Fergus; "I want, at all events, to stretch my
legs, and to see what the night's about."

He accordingly left the cabin.

"Mrs. Buckley," said Reilly, "it was not for nothing I came here
to-night. I have a favor to ask of you."

"Your favor's granted, sir," she replied--"granted, Mr. Reilly, even
before I hear it--that is, supposin' always that it's in my power--to do
it for you."

"It is simply to carry a letter--and be certain that it shall be
delivered to the proper person."

"Well," she replied, "sure that's aisily done. And where am I to deliver
it?" she asked.

"That I shall let you know on some future occasion--perhaps within the
course of a week or so."

"Well, sir," she replied, "I'd go twenty miles to deliver it--and will
do so wid a heart and a half."

"Well, Molly, I can tell you your journey won't be so far; but there
is one thing you are to observe--you must never breathe it to a human
creature."

"I thought you knew me better, Mr. Reilly."

"It would be impossible, however, to be too strict here, because you
don't know how much depends upon it."

At this moment Fergus put in his head, and said, "For Christ's sake,
snuff out the candle, and Reilly--fly!--There are people in the next
field!--quick!--quick!"

Reilly snatched up his hat, and whispered to the widow, "Deny that you
saw me, or that there was any one here!--Put out the candle!--they might
see our figures darkening the light as we go out!"

Fergus and Reilly immediately planted themselves behind a whitethorn
hedge, in a field adjoining the cabin, in order to reconnoitre the
party, whoever they might be, which they could do in safety. This act of
reconnoitering, however, was performed by the ear, and not at all by the
eye; the darkness of the night rendered that impossible. Of course the
search in the widow's cabin was equally fruitless.

"Now," whispered Reilly, "we'll go in a line parallel with the road,
but at a safe distance from them, until they reach the cross-roads. If
they turn towards my house, we are forewarned, but if they turn towards
Sir Robert's, it is likely that I may have an opportunity of securing
my cash and papers." On reaching the cross-roads alluded to, the party,
much to the satisfaction of Reilly and his companion, did turn towards
the residence of Sir Robert Whitecraft, thus giving the fugitives full
assurance that nothing further was to be apprehended from them that
night. The men in fact felt fatigued and were anxious to get to bed.

After approaching Reilly's house very cautiously, and with much
circumspection--not an outhouse, or other place of concealment, having
been left unexamined--they were about to enter, when Reilly, thinking
that no precaution on such an occasion ought to be neglected, said:

"Fergus, we are so far safe; but, under all circumstances, I think it
right and prudent that you should keep watch outside. Mark me, I will
place Tom Corrigan--you know him--at this window, and if you happen to
see anything in the shape of a human being, or to hear, for instance,
any noise, give the slightest possible tap upon the glass, and that will
be sufficient."

It was so arranged, and Reilly entered the house; but, as it happened,
Fergus's office proved a sinecure; although, indeed, when we consider
his care and anxiety, we can scarcely say so. At all events, Reilly
returned in about half an hour, bearing under his arm a large dark
portfolio, which, by the way, was securely locked.

"Is all right?" asked Fergus.

"All is right," replied the other. "The servants have entered into an
arrangement to sit up, two in turn each night, so as to be ready to give
me instant admittance whenever I may chance to come."

"But now where are you to place these papers?" asked his companion.
"That's a difficulty."

"It is, I grant," replied Reilly, "but after what has happened, I think
widow Buckley's cabin the safest place for a day or two. Only that the
hour is so unseasonable, I could feel little difficulty in finding a
proper place of security for them, but as it is, we must only deposit
them for the present with the widow."

The roads of Ireland at this period--if roads they could be called--were
not only in a most shameful, but dangerous, state. In summer they were
a foot deep with dust, and in winter at least eighteen inches with mud.
This, however, was by no means the worst of it. They were studded, at
due intervals, with ruts so deep that if a horse! happened to get into
one of them he went down to the saddle-skirts. They were treacherous,
too, and such as no caution could guard against; because, where the
whole surface of the road was one mass of mud, it was impossible to
distinguish these horse-traps at all. Then, in addition to these, were
deep gullies across the roads, worn away by small rills, proceeding from
rivulets in the adjoining uplands, which were; principally dry, or at
least mere threads of | water in summer, but in winter became pigmy
torrents that tore up the roads across which they passed, leaving them
in the dangerous state we have described.

As Reilly and his companion had got out upon the road, they were a good
deal surprised, and not a little alarmed, to see a horse, without
a rider, struggling to extricate himself out of one of the ruts in
question. "What is this?" said Fergus. "Be on your guard."

"The horse," observed Reilly, "is without! a rider; see what it means."

Fergus approached with all due caution, and on examining the place
discovered a man lying apparently in a state of insensibility.

"I fear," said he, on returning to Reilly, "that his rider has been
hurt; he is lying senseless about two or three yards before the horse."

"My God!" exclaimed the other, "perhaps he has been killed; let us
instantly assist him. Hold this portfolio whilst I render him whatever
assistance I can."

As he spoke they heard a heavy groan, and on approaching found the man
sitting; but still unable to rise.

"You have unfortunately been thrown, sir," said Reilly; "I trust in God
you are not seriously hurt."

"I hope not, sir," replied the man, "but I was stunned, and have been
insensible for some time; how long I cannot say."

"Good gracious, sir!" exclaimed Reilly, "is this Mr. Brown?"

"It is, Mr. Reilly; for heaven's sake aid me to my limbs--that is, if
I shall be able to stand upon them." Reilly did so, but found that he
could not stand or walk without' assistance. The horse, in the meantime,
had extricated himself.

"Come, Mr. Brown," said Reilly, "you! must, allow me to assist you home.
It is very fortunate that you have not many perches to go. This poor man
will lead your horse up to the stable."

"Thank you, Mr. Reilly," replied the gentleman, "and in requital for
your kindness you must take a bed at my house tonight. I am aware of
your position," he added in a confidential voice, "and that you cannot
safely sleep in your own; with me you will be secure."

Reilly thanked him, and said that this kind offer was most welcome and
acceptable, as, in point of fact, he scarcely knew that night where to
seek rest with safety. They accordingly proceeded to the parsonage--for
Mr. Brown was no other than the Protestant rector of the parish, a man
with whom Reilly was on the most friendly and intimate terms, and a man,
we may add, who omitted no opportunity of extending shelter, protection,
and countenance to such Roman Catholics as fell under the suspicion or
operation of the law. On this occasion he had been called very suddenly
to the deathbed of a parishioner, and was then on his return home, after
having administered to the dying man the last consolations of religion.

On reaching the parsonage, Fergus handed the portfolio to its owner, and
withdrew to seek shelter in some of his usual haunts for the night; but
Mr. Brown, aided by his wife, who sat up for him, contrived that Reilly
should be conducted to a private room, without the knowledge of the
servants, who were sent as soon as possible to bed. Before Reilly
withdrew, however, that night, he requested Mr. Brown to take charge of
his money and family papers, which the latter did, assuring him that
they should be forthcoming whenever he thought proper to call for them.
Mr. Brown had, not been seriously hurt, and was able in a day or two to
pay the usual attention to the discharge of his duties.

Reilly, having been told where to find his bedroom, retired with
confidence to rest. Yet we can scarcely term it rest, after considering
the tumultuous and disagreeable events of the evening. He began
to ponder upon the life of persecution to which Miss Folliard must
necessarily be exposed, in consequence of her father's impetuous and
fiery temper; and, indeed, the fact was, that he felt this reflection
infinitely more bitter than any that touched himself. In these
affectionate calculations of her domestic persecution he was a good
deal mistaken, however, Sir Robert Whitecraft had now gained a complete
ascendancy over the disposition and passions of her father. The latter,
like many another country squire--especially of that day--when his word
and will were law to his tenants and dependants, was a very great man
indeed, when dealing with them. He could bluster and threaten, and even
carry his threats into execution with a confident swagger that had more
of magisterial pride and the pomp of property in it, than a sense of
either light or justice. But, on the other hand, let him meet a man of
his own rank, who cared nothing about his authority as a magistrate, or
his assumption as a man of large landed property, and he was nothing but
a poor weak-minded tool in his hands. So far our description is correct;
but when such a knave as Sir Robert Whitecraft came in his way--a knave
at once calculating, deceitful, plausible, and cunning--why, our worthy
old squire, who thought himself a second Solomon, might be taken by the
nose and led round the whole barony.

There is no doubt that he had sapiently laid down his plans--to harass
and persecute his daughter into a marriage with Sir Robert, and would
have probably driven her from under his roof, had he not received the
programme of his conduct from Whitecraft. That cowardly caitiff had a
double motive in this. He found that if her father should "pepper
her with persecution," as the old fellow said, before marriage, its
consequences might fall upon his own unlucky head afterwards--in other
words, that Helen would most assuredly make him then suffer, to some
purpose, for all that his pretensions to her hand had occasioned her
to undergo previous to their union; for, in truth, if there was one
doctrine which Whitecraft detested more than another--and with good
reason too--it was that of Retribution.

"Mr. Folliard," said Whitecraft in the very last conversation they had
on this subject, "you must not persecute your daughter on my account."

"Mustn't I? Why hang it, Sir Robert, isn't persecution the order of the
day? If she doesn't marry you quietly and willingly, we'll turn her out,
and hunt her like a priest."

"No, Mr. Folliard, violence will never do. On the contrary, you must
change your hand, and try an opposite course. If you wish to rivet her
affections upon that Jesuitical traitor still more strongly, persecute
her; for there is nothing in this life that strengthens love so much as
opposition and violence. The fair ones begin to look upon themselves
as martyrs, and in proportion as you are severe and inexorable, so in
proportion are they resolved to win the crown that is before them. I
would not press your daughter but that I believe love to be a thing
that exists before marriage--never after. There's the honeymoon, for
instance. Did ever mortal man or mortal woman hear or dream of a second
honeymoon? No, sir, for Cupid, like a large blue-bottle, falls into, and
is drowned, in the honey-pot."

"Confound me," replied the squire, "if I understand a word you say.
However, I dare say it may be very good sense for all that, for you
always had a long noddle. Go on."

"My advice to you then, sir, is this-make as few allusions to her
marriage with me as possible; but, in the meantime, you may praise me
a little, if you wish; but, above all things, don't run down Reilly
immediately after paying either my mind or person any compliment. Allow
the young lady to remain quiet for a time. Treat her with your usual
kindness and affection; for it is possible, after all, that she may do
more from her tenderness and affection for you than we could expect from
any other motive; at all events, until we shall succeed in hanging or
transporting this rebellious scoundrel."

"Very good--so he is. Good William! what a son-in-law I should have! I
who transported one priest already!"

"Well, sir, as I was saying, until we shall have succeeded in hanging or
transporting him. The first would be the safest, no doubt: but until we
shall be able to accomplish either one or the other, we have not much to
expect in the shape of compliance from your daughter. When the villain
is removed, however, hope, on her part, will soon die out--love will
lose its _pabulum_."

"Its what?" asked the squire, staring at him with a pair of round eyes
that were full of perplexity and wonder.

"Why, it means food, or rather fodder."

"Curse you, sir," replied the squire indignantly; "do you want to make a
beast of my daughter?"

"But it's a word, sir, applied by the poets, as the food of Cupid."

"Cupid! I thought he was drowned in the honey-pot, yet he's up again,
and as brisk as ever, it appears. However, go on--let us understand
fairly what you're at. I think I see a glimpse of it; and knowing your
character upon the subject of persecution as I do, it's more, I must
say, than I expected from you. Go on--I bid you."

"I say, then, sir, that if Reilly were either hanged or out of the
country, the consciousness of this would soon alter matters with Miss
Folliard. If you, then, sir, will enter into an agreement with me, I
shall undertake so to make the laws bear upon Reilly as to rid either
the world or the country of him; and you shall promise not to press upon
your daughter the subject of her marriage with me until then. Still,
there is one thing you must do; and that is, to keep her under the
strictest surveillance."

"What the devil's that?" said the squire.

"It means," returned his expected son-in-law, "that she must be well
watched, but without feeling that she is so."

"Would it not be better to lock her up at once?" said her father. "That
would be making the matter sure."

"Not at all," replied Whitecraft. "So sure as you lock her up, so sure
she will break prison."

"Well, upon my soul," replied her father. "I can't see that. A strong
lock and key are certainly the best surety for the due appearance of any
young woman disposed to run away. I think the best way would be to make
her feel at once that her father is a magistrate, and commit her to her
own room until called upon to appear."

Whitecraft, whose object was occasionally to puzzle his friend, gave a
cold grin, and added:

"I suppose your next step would be to make her put in security. No--no,
Mr. Folliard; if you will be advised by me, try the soothing system;
antiphlogistic remedies are always the best in a case like hers."

"Anti--what? Curse me, if I can understand every tenth word you say.
However, I give you credit, Whitecraft; for upon my soul I didn't think
you knew half so much as you do. That last, however, is a tickler--a nut
that I can't crack. I wish I could only get my tongue about it, till I
send it among the Grand Jury, and maybe there wouldn't be wigs on the
green in making it out."

"Yes, I fancy it would teach them a little supererogation."

"A little what? Is it love that has made you so learned, Whitecraft,
or so unintelligible, which? Why, man, if your passion increases, in
another week there won't be three men out of Trinity College able to
understand you. You will become a perfect oracle. But, in the meantime,
let us see how the arrangement stands. _Imprimus_, you are to hang or
transport Keilly; and, until then, I am not to annoy my daughter with
any allusions to this marriage: but, above all things, not to compare
you and Reilly with one another in her presence, lest it might
strengthen her prejudices against you."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Folliard. I did not say so; I fear no comparison
with the fellow."

"No matter, Sir Robert, if you did not knock it down you staggered it.
Omitting the comparison, however, I suppose that so far I am right."

"I think so, sir," replied the other, conscious, "after all, that he had
got a touch of 'Roland for his Oliver'."

Then he proceeded: "I'm to watch her closely, only she's not to know
it. Now, I'll tell you what, Sir Robert, I know you carry a long noddle,
with more hard words in it than I ever gave you credit for--but with
regard to what you expect from me now--"

"I don't mean that you should watch her personally yourself, Mr.
Folliard."

"I suppose you don't; I didn't think you did; but I'll tell you
what--place the twelve labors of Hercules before me, and I'll undertake
to perform them, if you wish, but to watch a woman, Sir Robert--and
that woman keen and sharp upon the cause of such vigilance--without her
knowing it in one half hour's time--that is a task that never was, can,
or will be accomplished. In the meantime, we must only come as near its
accomplishment as we can."

"Just so, sir; we can do no more. Remember, then, that you perform your
part of this arrangement, and, with the blessing of God, I shall leave
nothing undone to perform mine."

Thus closed this rather extraordinary conversation, after which Sir
Robert betook himself home, to reflect upon the best means of performing
his part of it, with what quickness and dispatch, and with what success,
our readers already know.

The old squire was one of those characters who never are so easily
persuaded as when they do not fully comprehend the argument used to
convince them. Whenever the squire found himself a little at fault, or
confounded by either a difficult word or a hard sentence, he always took
it for granted that there was something unusually profound and clever
in the matter laid before him. Sir Robert knew this, and on that account
played him off to a certain extent. He was too cunning, however, to
darken any part of the main argument so far as to prevent its drift from
being fully understood, and thereby defeating his own purpose.




CHAPTER VIII.--A Conflagration--An Escape--And an Adventure


We have said that Sir Robert Whitecraft was anything but a popular
man--and we might have added that, unless among his own clique of
bigots and persecutors, he was decidedly unpopular among Protestants in
general. In a few days after the events of the night we have described,
Reilly, by the advice of Mr. Brown's brother, an able and distinguished
lawyer, gave up the possession of his immense farm, dwelling-house, and
offices to the landlord. In point of fact, this man had taken the farm
for Reilly's father, in his own name, a step which many of the liberal
and generous Protestants of that period were in the habit of taking,
to protect the property for the Roman Catholics, from such rapacious
scoundrels as Whitecraft, and others like him, who had accumulated the
greater portion of their wealth and estates by the blackest and most
iniquitous political profligacy and oppression. For about a month after
the first night of the unsuccessful pursuit after Reilly, the
whole country was overrun with military parties, and such miserable
inefficient police as then existed. In the meantime, Reilly escaped
every toil and snare that had been laid for him. Sir Robert Whitecraft,
seeing that hitherto he had set them at defiance, resolved to glut
his vengeance on his property, since he could not arrest himself. A
description of his person had been, almost from the commencement of the
proceedings, published in the Hue-and-Cry, and he had been now outlawed.
As even this failed, Sir Robert, as we said, came with a numerous party
of his myrmidons, bringing along with them a large number of horses,
carts, and cars. The house at this time was in the possession only of a
keeper, a poor, feeble man, with a wife and a numerous family of small
children, the other servants having fled from the danger in which
their connection with Reilly involved them. Sir Robert, however, very
deliberately brought up his cars and other vehicles, and having dragged
out all the most valuable part of the furniture, piled it up, and had it
conveyed to his own outhouses, where it was carefully-stowed. This act,
however, excited comparatively little attention, for such outrages were
not unfrequently committed by those who had, or at least who thought
they had; the law in their own hands. It was now dusk, and the house
had been gutted of all that had been most valuable in it--but the
most brilliant part of the performance was yet to come. We mean no
contemptible pun. The young man's dwelling-house, and office-houses
were ignited at this moment by this man's military and other official
minions, and in about twenty minutes they were all wrapped in one red,
merciless mass of flame. The country people, on observing this fearful
conflagration, flocked from all quarters; but a cordon of outposts was
stationed at some distance around the premises, to prevent the peasantry
from marking the chief actors in this nefarious outrage. Two gentlemen,
however, approached, who, having given their names, were at once
admitted to the burning premises. These were Mr. Brown, the clergyman,
and Mr. Hastings, the actual and legal proprietor of all that had been
considered Reilly's property. Both of them observed that Sir Robert was
the busiest man among them, and upon making inquiries from the party,
they were informed that they acted by his orders, and that, moreover, he
was himself the very first individual who had set fire to the
premises. The clergyman made his way to Sir Robert, on whose villainous
countenance he could read a dark and diabolical triumph.

"Sir Robert Whitecraft," said Mr. Brown, "how conies such a wanton and
unnecessary waste of property?"

"Because, sir," replied that gentleman, "it is the property of a popish
rebel and outlaw, and is confiscated to the State."

"But do you possess authority for this conduct?--Are you the State?"

"In the spirit of our Protestant Constitution, certainly. I am a
loyal Protestant magistrate, and a man of rank, and will hold myself
accountable for what I do and have done. Come you, there," he added,
"who have knocked down the pump, take some straw, light it up, and put
it with pitchforks upon the lower end of the stable; it has not yet
caught the flames."

This order was accordingly complied with, and in a few minutes the
scene, if one could dissociate the mind from the hellish spirit which
created it, had something terribly sublime in it.

Mr. Hastings, the gentleman who accompanied the clergyman, the real
owner of the property, looked on with apparent indifference, but uttered
not a word. Indeed, he seemed rather to enjoy the novelty of the thing
than otherwise, and passed with Mr. Brown from place to place, as if to
obtain the best points for viewing the fire.

Reilly's residence was a long, large, two-story house, deeply thatched;
the kitchen, containing pantry, laundry, scullery, and all the usual
appurtenances connected with it, was a continuation of the larger house,
but it was a story lower, and also deeply thatched. The out-offices ran
in a long line behind the dwelling house, so that both ran parallel with
each other, and stood pretty close besides, for the yard was a narrow
one. In the meantime, the night, though dry, was dark and stormy. The
wind howled through the adjoining trees like thunder, roared along the
neighboring hills, and swept down in savage whirlwinds to the bottom of
the lowest valleys. The greater portion of the crowd who were standing
outside the cordon we have spoken of fled home, as the awful gusts grew
stronger and stronger, in order to prevent their own houses from being
stripped or unroofed, so that very few remained to witness the rage of
the conflagration at its full height. The Irish peasantry entertain a
superstition that whenever a strong storm of wind, without rain, arises,
it has been occasioned by the necromantic spell of some guilty sorcerer,
who, first having sold himself to the devil, afterwards raises him for
some wicked purpose; and nothing but the sacrifice of a black dog or a
black cock--the one without a white hair, and the other without a
white feather--can prevent him from carrying away, body and soul, the
individual who called him up, accompanied by such terrors. In fact
the night, independently of the terrible accessory of the fire, was
indescribably awful. Thatch portions of the ribs and roofs of houses
were whirled along through the air; and the sweeping blast, in addition
to its own howlings, was burdened with the loud screamings of women and
children, and the stronger shoutings of men, as they attempted to make
each other audible, amidst the roaring of the tempest.

This was terrible indeed; but on such a night, what must not the
conflagration have been, fed by such pabulum--as Sir Robert himself
would have said--as that on which it glutted its fiery and consuming
appetite. We have said that the offices and dwelling-house ran parallel
with each other, and such was the fact. What appeared singular, and not
without the possibility of some dark supernatural causes, according
to the impressions of the people, was, that the wind, on the night in
question, started, as it were, along with the fire; but the truth is,
it had been gamboling in its gigantic play before the fire commenced at
all. In the meantime, as we said, the whole premises presented one fiery
mass of red and waving flames, that shot and drifted up, from time to
time, towards the sky, with the rapidity, and more than the terror,
of the aurora borealis. As the conflagration proceeded, the high flames
that arose from the mansion, and those that leaped up from the offices,
several times met across the yard, and mingled, as if to exult in their
fearful task of destruction, forming a long and distinct arch of flame,
so exact and regular, that it seemed to proceed from the skill and
effort of some powerful demon, who had made it, as it were, a fiery
arbor for his kind. The whole country was visible to an astonishing
distance, and overhead, the evening sky, into which the up-rushing
pyramids seemed to pass, looked as if it had caught the conflagration,
and was one red mass of glowing and burning copper. Around the house and
premises the eye could distinguish a pin; but the strong light was so
fearfully red that the deep tinge it communicated to the earth seemed
like blood, and made it appear as if it had been sprinkled with it.

It is impossible to look upon a large and extensive conflagration
without feeling the mind filled with imagery and comparisons, drawn
from moral and actual life. Here, for instance, is a tyrant, in the
unrestrained exercise of his power--he now has his enemy in his grip,
and hear how he exults; listen to the mirthful and crackling laughter
with which the fiendish despot rejoices, as he gains the victory; mark
the diabolical gambols with which he sports, and the demon glee with
which he performs his capricious but frightful exultations. But the
tyrant, after all, will become exhausted--his strength and power will
fail him; he will destroy his own subjects; he will become feeble, and
when he has nothing further on which to exercise his power, he will,
like many another tyrant before him, sink, and be lost in the ruin he
has made.

Again: Would you behold Industry? Here have its terrible spirits been
appointed their tasks. Observe the energy, the activity, the persevering
fury with which they discharge their separate duties. See how that
eldest son of Apollyon, with the appetite of hell, licks into his
burning maw every thing that comes in contact with his tongue of fire.
What quickness of execution, and how rapidly they pass from place to
place! how they run about in quest of employment! how diligently and
effectually they search every nook and corner, lest anything might
escape them! Mark the activity with which that strong fellow leaps
across, from beam to beam, seizing upon each as he goes. A different
task has been assigned to another: he attacks the rafters of the
roof--he fails at first, but, like the constrictor, he first licks over
his victim before he destroys it--bravo!--he is at it again--it gives
way--he is upon it, and about it; and now his difficulties are over--the
red wood glows, splits and crackles, and flies off in angry flakes,
in order to become a minister to its active and devouring master. See!
observe! What business--what a coil and turmoil of industry! Every
flame at work--no idle hand here--no lazy lounger reposing. No, no--the
industry of a hive of bees is nothing to this. Running up--running
down--running in all directions: now they unite together to accomplish
some general task, and again disperse themselves to perform their
individual appointments.

But hark! what comes here? Room for another element. 'Tis the windstorm,
that comes to partake in the triumph of the victory which his ministers
have assisted to gain. But lo! here he comes in person; and now they
unite--or how?--Do they oppose each other? Here does the windstorm drive
back the god of fire from his victim; again the fiery god attempts to
reach it; and again he feels that he has met more than his match. Once,
twice, thrice he has failed in getting at it. But is this conflict
real--this fierce battle between the elements? Alas, no; they are both
tyrants, and what is to be expected?

The wind god, always unsteady, wheels round, comes to the assistance of
his opponent, and gives him new courage, new vigor, and new strength.
But his inferior ministers must have a share of this dreadful repast.
Off go a thousand masses of burning material, whirling along. Off go
the; glowing timbers and rafters, on the wind, by which they are borne
in thousands of red meteors across the sky. But hark, again! Room for
the whirlwind! Here it comes, and addresses itself to yon tall and
waving pyramid; they embrace; the pyramid is twisted into the figure of
a gigantic corkscrew--round they go, rapid as thought; the thunder of
the wind supplies them with the appropriate music, and continues until;
this terrible and gigantic waltz of the elements is concluded. But now
these fearful ravagers are satisfied, because they have nothing more on
which they can glut themselves. They appear, however, to be seated. The
wind has become low, and is only able to work up a feeble effort at its
former strength. The flames, too, are subsiding--their power is gone;
occasional jets of fire I come forth, but they instantly disappear. By
degrees, and one after another, they vanish. Nothing now is visible
but smoke, and every thing is considered as over--when lo! like a great
general, who has achieved a triumphant victory, it is deemed right to;
take a last look at the position of the enemy. Up, therefore, starts
an unexpected burst of flame--blazes for a while; looks about it, as
it were; sees that the victory is complete, and drops down into the
darkness from which it came. The conflagration is over; the wind-storm
is also appeased. Small hollow gusts, amongst the trees and elsewhere,
are now all that are heard. By degrees, even these cease; and the wind
is now such as it was in the course of the evening, when the elements
were comparatively quiet and still.

Mr. Brown and his friend, Mr. Hastings, having waited until they saw the
last rafter of unfortunate Reilly's house and premises sink into a black
mass of smoking ruins, turned their steps to the parsonage, which they
had no sooner entered than they went immediately to Reilly's room, who
was still there under concealment. Mr. Brown, however, went out again
and returned with some wine, which he placed upon the table.

"Gentlemen," said Reilly, "this has become an awful night; the wind has
been tremendous, and has done a good deal of damage, I fear, to your
house and premises, Mr. Brown. I heard the slates falling about in great
numbers; and the inmates of the house were, as far as I could judge,
exceedingly alarmed."

"It was a dreadful night in more senses than one," replied Mr. Brown.

"By the by," said Reilly, "was there not a fire somewhere in the
neighborhood, I observed through the windows a strong light flickering
and vibrating, as it were, over the whole country. What must it have
been?"

"My dear Reilly," replied Mr. Brown, "be calm; your house and premises
are, at this moment, one dark heap of smouldering ruins."

"Oh, yes--I understand," replied Reilly--"Sir Robert Whitecraft."

"Sir Robert Whitecraft," replied Mr. Brown; "it is too true, Reilly--you
are now houseless and homeless; and may God forgive him!"

Reilly got up and paced the room several times, then sat down, and
filling himself a glass of wine, drank it off; then looking at each of
them, said, in a voice rendered hoarse by the indignation and resentment
which he felt himself compelled, out of respect for his kind friends, to
restrain, "Gentlemen," he repeated, "what do _you_ call this"

"Malice--persecution--vengeance," replied Mr. Brown, whose resentment
was scarcely less than that of Reilly himself. "In the presence of
God, and before all the world. I would pronounce it one of the most
diabolical acts ever committed in the history of civil society. But you
have one consolation, Reilly; your money and papers are safe."

"It is not that," replied Reilly; "I think not of them. It is the
vindictive and persecuting spirit of that man--that monster--and the
personal motives from which he acts, that torture me, and that plant in
my heart a principle of vengeance more fearful than his. But you do not
understand me, gentlemen; I could smile at all he has done to myself
yet. It is of the serpent-tooth which will destroy the peace of others,
that I think. All these motives being considered, what do you think that
man deserves at my hand?"

"My dear Reilly," said the clergyman, "recollect that there is a
Providence; and that we cannot assume to ourselves the disposition
of His judgments, or the knowledge of His wisdom. Have patience. Your
situation is one of great distress and almost unexampled difficulty. At
all events, you are, for the present, safe under this roof; and although
I grant you have much to suffer, still you have a free conscience,
and, I dare say, would not exchange your position for that of your
persecutor."

"No," said Reilly; "most assuredly not--most assuredly not; no, not for
worlds. Yet is it not strange, gentlemen, that that man will sleep sound
and happily to-night, whilst I will lie upon a bed of thorns?"

At this moment Mrs. Brown tapped gently at the door, which was
cautiously opened by her husband.

"John," said she, "here is a note which I was desired to give to you
without a moment's delay."

"Thank you, my love; I will read it instantly.".

He then bolted the door, and coming to the table took up one of the
candles and read the letter, which he handed to Mr. Hastings. Now
we have already stated that this gentleman, whilst looking on at the
destruction of Reilly's property, never once opened his lips. Neither
did he, from the moment they entered Reilly's room. He sat like a dumb
man, occasionally helping himself to a glass of wine. After having
perused the note he merely nodded, but said not a word; he seemed to
have lost the faculty of speech. At length Mr. Brown spoke:

"This is really too bad, my dear Reilly; here is a note signed H.F.,
which informs me that your residence, concealment, or whatever it is,
has been discovered by Sir Robert Whitecraft, and that the military are
on their way here to arrest you; you must instantly fly."

Hastings then got up, and taking Reilly's hand, said:

"Yes, Reilly, you must escape--disguise yourself--take all shapes--since
you will not leave the country; but there is one fact I wish to impress
upon you: meddle not with--injure not--Sir Robert Whitecraft. Leave him
to me."

"Go out by the back way," said Mr. Brown, "and fly into the fields, lest
they should surround the house and render escape impossible. God bless
you and preserve you from the violence of your enemies!"

It is unnecessary to relate what subsequently occurred. Mr. Brown's
premises, as he had anticipated, were completely surrounded ere the
party in search of Reilly had demanded admittance. The whole house was
searched from top to bottom, but, as usual, without success. Sir
Robert Whitecraft himself was not with them, but the party were all but
intoxicated, and, were it not for the calm and unshrinking firmness
of Mr. Brown, would have been guilty of a very offensive degree of
insolence.

Reilly, in the meantime, did not pass far from the house. On the
contrary, he resolved to watch from a safe place the motions of those
who were in pursuit of him. In order to do this more securely, he
mounted into the branches of a magnificent oak tree that stood in the
centre of a field adjoining a kind of back lawn that stretched from the
walled garden of the parsonage. The fact is, that the clergyman's house
had two hall-doors--one in front, and the other in the rear--and as the
rooms commanded a view of the scenery behind the house, which was
much finer than that in front, on this account the back hall-door was
necessary, as it gave them a free and easy egress to the lawn we have
mentioned, from which a magnificent prospect was visible.

It was obvious that the party, though unsuccessful, had been very
accurately informed. Finding, however, that the bird had flown, several
of them galloped across the lawn--it was a cavalry party, having been
sent out for speed and passed into the field where the tree grew in
which Reilly was concealed. After a useless search, however, they
returned, and pulled up their horses under the oak.

"Well," said one of them, "it's a dear case that the scoundrel can make
himself invisible. We have orders from Sir Eobert to shoot him, and to
put the matter upon the principle of resistance against the law, on
his side. Sir Robert has been most credibly informed that that disloyal
parson has concealed him in his house for nearly the last month. Now
who could ever think of looking for a Popish rebel in the house of a
Protestant parson? What the deuce is keeping those fellows? I hope they
won't go too far into the country."

"Any man that says Mr. Brown is a disloyal parson is a liar," said one
of them in a stem voice.

"And I say," said another, with a hiccough, "that, hang me, but I think
this same Reilly is as loyal a man as e'er a one amongst us. My name is
George Johnston, and I'm not ashamed of it; and the truth is, that only
Miss Folliard fell in love with Reilly, and refused to marry Sir Robert,
Reilly would have been a loyal man still, and no ill-will against him.
But, by --- it was too bad to burn his house and place--and see
whether Sir Robert will come off the better of it. I myself am a good
Protestant--show me the man that will deny that, and I'll become his
schoolmaster only for five minutes. I do say, and I'll tell it to Sir
Robert's face, that there's something wrong somewhere. Give me a Papish
that breaks the law, let him be priest or layman, and I'm the boy that
will take a grip of him if I can get him. But, confound me, if I like to
be sent out to hunt innocent, inoffensive Papishes, who commit no crime
except that of having property that chaps like Sir Robert have their eye
on. Now suppose the Papishes had the upper hand, and that they treated
us so, what would you say?"

"All I can say is," replied another of them, "that I'd wish to get the
reward."

"Curse the reward," said Johnston, "I like fair play."

"But how did Sir Robert come to know?" asked another, "that Reilly was
with the parson'?"

"Who the deuce here can tell that?" replied several.

"The thing was a hoax," said Johnston, "and a cursed uncomfortable one
for us. But here comes these fellows, just as they went, it seems. Well,
boys, no trail of this cunning fox?"

"Trail!" exclaimed the others. "Gad, you might as well hunt for your
grandmother's needle in a bottle of straw. The truth is, the man's
not in the country, and whoever gave the information as to the parson
keeping him was some enemy of the parson's more than of Reilly's, I'll
go bail. Come, now, let us go back, and give an account of our luck, and
then to our barracks."

Now at this period it was usual for men who were prominent for rank and
loyalty, and whose attachment to the Constitution and Government was
indicated by such acts and principles as those which we have hitherto
read in the life of Sir Robert. Whitecraft--we say, it was usual for
such as him to be allowed a small detachment of military, whose numbers
were mostly rated, according to the services he required of them, by the
zeal and activity of their employer, as well as for his protection;
and, in order to their accommodation, some uninhabited house in the
neighborhood was converted into a barrack for the purpose. Such was the
case in the instance of Sir Robert Whitecraft, who, independently of
his zeal for the public good, was supposed to have an eye in this
disposition of things, to his own personal Safety. He consequently, had
his little barrack so closely adjoining his house that a notice of five
minutes could at any time have its inmates at his premises, or in his
presence.

After these men went away, Reilly, having waited a few minutes, until he
was satisfied that they had actually, one and all of them, disappeared,
came down from the tree, and once more betook himself to the road.
Whither to go he knew not. In consequence of having received his
education abroad, his personal knowledge of the inhabitants belonging
to the neighborhood was very limited. Go somewhere, however, he must.
Accordingly, he resolved to advance, at all events, as far as he might
be able to travel before bed-time, and then resign himself to chance
for a night's shelter. One might imagine, indeed, that his position as
a wealthy Roman Catholic gentleman, suffering persecution from the tool
and scourge of a hostile government, might have calculated upon shelter
and secrecy from those belonging to his own creed. And so, indeed, in
nineteen cases out of twenty he might; but in what predicament should
he find himself if the twentieth proved treacherous? And against this he
had no guarantee. That age was peculiarly marked by the foulest personal
perfidy, precipitated into action by rapacity, ingratitude, and the
blackest ambition. The son of a Roman Catholic gentleman, for instance,
had nothing more to do than change his creed, attach himself to the
government, become a spy and informer on his family, and he ousted his
own father at once out of his hereditary property--an ungrateful and
heinous proceeding, that was too common in the time of which we write.
Then, as to the people themselves, they were, in general, steeped in
poverty and ignorance, and this is certainly not surprising when
we consider that no man durst educate them. The government rewards,
therefore, assailed them with a double temptation. In the first, the
amount of it--taking their poverty into consideration--was calculated
to grapple with and overcome their scruples; and in the next, they were
certain by their treachery to secure the protection of government for
themselves.

Such, exactly, was the state of the country on the night when Reilly
found himself a solitary traveller on the road, ignorant of his destiny,
and uncertain where or in what quarter he might seek shelter until
morning.

He had not gone far when he overtook another traveller, with whom he
entered into conversation.

"God save you, my friend."

"God save you kindly, sir," replied the other; "was not this an awful
night?"

"If you may say so," returned Reilly unconsciously, and for the moment
forgetting himself, "well may I, my friend."

Indeed it is probable that Reilly was thrown somewhat off his guard by
the accent of his companion, from which he at once inferred that he was
a Catholic.

"Why, sir," replied the man, "how could it be more awful to you than to
any other man?"

"Suppose my house was blown down," said Reilly, "and that yours was not,
would not that be cause sufficient?"

"_My_ house!" exclaimed the man with a deep sigh; "but sure you ought to
know, sir, that it's not every _man_ has a house."

"And perhaps I do know it."

"Wasn't that a terrible act, sir--the burning of Mr. Reilly's house and
place?"

"Who is Mr. Reilly?" asked the other.

"A Catholic gintleman, sir, that the soldiers are afther," replied the
man.

"And perhaps it is right that they should be after him. What did he do?
The Catholics are too much in the habit of violating the law, especially
their priests, who persist in marrying Protestants and Papists together,
although they know it is a hanging matter. If they deliberately put
their necks into the noose, who can pity them?"

"It seems they do, then," replied the man in a subdued voice; "and what
is still more strange, it very often happens that persons of their own
creed are somewhat too ready to come down wid a harsh word upon 'em."

"Well, my friend," responded Reilly, "let them not deserve it; let them
obey the law."

"And are _you_, of opinion, sir," asked the man with a significant
emphasis upon the personal pronoun which we have put in italics; "are
_you_ of opinion, sir, that obedience to the law is _always_ a security
to either _person or property?_"

The direct force of the question could not be easily parried, at least
by Reilly, to whose circumstances it applied so powerfully, and he
consequently paused for a little to shape his thoughts into the language
he wished to adopt; the man, however, proceeded:

"I wonder what Mr. Reilly would say if such a question was put to him?"

"I suppose," replied Reilly, "he would say much as I say--that neither
innocence nor obedience is always a security under any law or any
constitution either."

His companion made no reply, and they walked on for some time in
silence. Such indeed was the precarious state of the country then that,
although the stranger, from the opening words of their conversation,
suspected his companion to be no other than Willy Reilly himself, yet
he hesitated to avow the suspicions he entertained of his identity,
although he felt anxious to repose the fullest confidence in him; and
Reilly, on the other hand, though perfectly aware of the true character
of his companion, was influenced in their conversation by a similar
feeling. Distrust it could not be termed on either side, but simply the
operation of that general caution which was generated by the state of
the times, when it was extremely difficult to know the individual on
whom you could place dependence. Reilly's generous nature, however,
could bear this miserable manoeuvring no longer.

"Come, my friend," said he, "we have been beating about the bush with
each other to no purpose; although I know not your name, yet I think I
do your profession."

"And I would hold a wager," replied other, "that Mr. Reilly, whose house
was burned down by a villain this night, is not a thousand miles from
me."

"And suppose you are right?"

"Then, upon my veracity, you're safe, if I am. It would ill become my
cloth and character to act dishonorably or contrary to the spirit of my
religion.

     '_Non ignara mali miseris succurrere disco_.'

You see, Mr. Reilly, I couldn't make use of any other gender but the
feminine without violating prosody; for although I'm not so sharp at
my Latin as I was, still I couldn't use _ignarus_, as you see, without
fairly committing myself as a scholar; and indeed, if I went to that, it
would surely be the first time I have been mistaken for a dunce."

The honest priest, now that the ice was broken, and conscious that he
was in safe hands, fell at once into his easy and natural manner, and
rattled away very much to the amusement of his companion. "Ah!" he
proceeded, "many a character I have been forced to assume."

"How is that?" inquired Reilly. "How did it happen that you were forced
into such a variety of characters?"

"Why, you see, Mr. Reilly--troth and maybe I had better not be naming
you aloud; walls have ears, and so may hedges. How, you ask? Why,
you see, I'm not registered, and consequently have no permission from
government to exercise my functions."

"Why," said Reilly, "you labor under a mistake, my friend; the bill for
registering Catholic priests did not pass; it was lost by a majority of
two. So far make your mind easy. The consequence is, that if you labor
under no ecclesiastical censure you may exercise all the functions of
your office--that is, as well as you can, and as far as you dare."

"Well, that same's a comfort," said the priest; "but the report was,
and is, that we are to be registered. However, be that as it may, I have
been a perfect Proteus. The metamorphoses of Ovid were nothing to mine.
I have represented every character in society at large; to-day I've been
a farmer, and to-morrow a poor man (a mendicant), sometimes a fool--a
rare character, you know, in this world--and sometimes a tiddler, for I
play a little."

"And which character did you prefer among them all?" asked Reilly, with
a smile which he could not repress.

"Oh, in troth, you needn't ask that, Mr. R.--hem--you needn't ask that.
The first morning I took to the fiddle I was about to give myself up to
government at once. As for my part, I'd be ashamed to tell you how sent
those that were unlucky enough to ear my music scampering across the
country."

"And, pray, how long is that since?"

"Why, something better than three weeks, the Lord pity me!"

"And what description of dress did you wear on that occasion?" asked
Reilly.

"Dress-why, then, an old yellow caubeen, a blue frieze coat,
and--movrone, oh! a striped breeches. And the worst of it was, that big
Paddy Mullin, from Mullaghmore, having met me in old Darby Doyle's, poor
man, where I went to take a little refreshment, ordered in something to
eat, and began to make me play for him. There was a Protestant in the
house, too, so that I couldn't tell him who I was, and I accordingly
began, and soon cleared the house of them. God bless you, sir, you could
little dream of all I went through. I was one day set in the house I was
concealed in, in the town of Ballyrogan, and only for the town fool, Art
M'Kenna, I suppose I'd have swung before this."

"How was that?" asked Reilly.

"Why, sir, one day I got the hard word that they would be into the house
where I was in a few minutes. To escape them in my own dress I knew was
impossible; and what was to be done? The poor fool, who was as true as
steel, came to my relief. 'Here,' said he, 'exchange wid me. I'll put on
your black clothes, and you'll put on my red ones'--he was dressed like
an old soldier--'then I'll take to my scrapers, an' while they are in
pursuit of me you can escape to some friend's house, where you may get
another dress. 'God knows,' said he, with a grin on him I didn't like,
'it's a poor exchange on my part. You can play the fool, and cock your
cap, without any one to ask you for authority,' says he, 'and if I only
marry a wrong couple I may be hanged. Go off now.' Well, sir, out I
walked, dressed in a red coat, military hat, white knee-breeches, and
black leggings. As I was going out I met the soldiers. 'Is the priest
inside, Art?' they asked. I pointed in a wrong direction. 'Up by
Kilclay?' I nodded. They first searched the house, however, but found
neither priest nor fool; only one of them, something sharper than the
rest, went out of the back door, and saw unfortunate Art, dressed in
black, running for the bare life. Of course they thought it was me they
had. Off they started; and a tolerable chase Art put them to. At last
he was caught, after a run across the country of about four miles;
but ne'er a word came out of his lips, till a keen fellow, on looking
closely at him, discovered the mistake. Some of them were then going to
kill the poor fool, but others interfered, and wouldn't allow him to be
touched; and many of them laughed heartily when they saw Art turned into
a clergyman, as they said. Art, however, was no coward, and threatened
to read every man of them out from the altar. 'I'll exkimnicate every
mother's son of you,' said he. 'I'm a reverend clargy; and, by the
contents of my soger's cap, I'll close the mouths on your faces, so that
a blessed pratie or a boult of fat bacon will never go down one of
your villainous throats again; and then,' he added, 'I'll sell you for
scarecrows to the Pope o' Room, who wants a dozen or two of you to sweep
out his palace.' It was then, sir, that, while I was getting out of my
red clothes, I was transformed again; but, indeed, the most of us are so
now, God help us!"

They had now arrived at a narrow part of the road, when the priest
stood.

"Mr. Reilly," said he, "I am very tired; but, as it is, we must go on
a couple of miles further, until we reach Glen Dhu, where I think I can
promise you a night's lodging, such as it will be."

"I am easily satisfied," replied his companion; "it would be a soft bed
that would win me to repose on this night, at least."

"It will certainly be a rude and a rough one," said the priest, "and
there will be few hearts there free from care, no more than yours,
Mr. Reilly. Alas! that I should be obliged to say so in a Christian
country."

"You say you are fatigued," said Reilly. "Take my arm; I am strong
enough to yield you some support."

The priest did so, and they proceeded at a slower pace, until they got
over the next two miles, when the priest stopped again.

"I must rest a little," said he, "although we are now within a hundred
yards of our berth for the night. Do you know where you are?"

"Perfectly," replied Reilly; "but, good mercy! sure there is neither
house nor home within two miles of us. We are in the moors, at the very
mouth of Glen Dhu.'

"Yes," replied his companion, "and I am glad we are here."

The poor hunted priest felt himself, indeed, very much exhausted, so
much so that, if the termination of his journey had been at a much
longer distance from thence, he would scarcely have been able to reach
it.

"God help our unhappy Church," said he, "for she is suffering much; but
still she is suffering nobly, and with such Christian fortitude as will
make her days of trial and endurance the brightest in her annals. All
that power and persecution can direct against us is put in force a
thousand ways; but we act under the consciousness that we have God and
truth on our side, and this gives us strength and courage to suffer.
And if we fly, Mr. Reilly, and hide ourselves, it is not from any moral
cowardice we do so. It certainly is not true courage to expose our lives
wantonly and unnecessarily to the vengeance of our enemies. Read the
Old Testament and history, and you will find how many good and pious
men have sought shelter in wildernesses and caves, as we have done. The
truth is, we feel ourselves called upon, for the sake of our suffering
and neglected flocks, to remain in the country, and to afford them all
the consolation and religious support in our power, God help them."

"I admire the justice of your sentiments," replied Reilly, "and the
spirit in which they are--expressed. Indeed I am of opinion that if
those who foster and stimulate this detestable spirit of persecution
against you only knew how certainly and surely it defeats their purpose,
by cementing your hearts and the hearts of your flocks together, they
would not, from principles even of worldly policy, persist in it. The
man who attempted to break down the arch by heaping additional weight
upon it ultimately found that the greater the weight the stronger the
arch, and so I trust it will be with us."

"It would seem," said the priest, "to be an attempt to exterminate
the religion of the people by depriving them of their pastors, and
consequently of their Church, in order to bring them to the impression
that, upon the principle of any Church being better than no Church, they
may gradually be absorbed into Protestantism. This seems to be their
policy; but how can any policy, based upon such persecution, and so
grossly at variance with human liberty, ever succeed? As it is, we go
out in the dead hours of the night, when even persecution is asleep, and
administer the consolations of religion to the sick, the dying, and
the destitute. Now these stolen visits are sweeter, perhaps, and more
efficacious, than if they took place in freedom and the open day. Again,
we educate their children in the principles of their creed, during the
same lonely hours, in waste houses, where we are obliged to keep the
windows stuffed with straw, or covered with blinds of some sort, lest
a chance of discovery might ensue. Such is the life we lead--a life of
want and misery and suffering, but we complain not; on the contrary, we
submit ourselves to the will of God, and receive this severe visitation
as a chastisement intended for our good."

The necessities of our narrative, however, compel us to leave them here
for the present; but not without a hope that they found shelter for the
night, as we trust we shall be able to show.




CHAPTER IX.--A Prospect of Bygone Times

--Reilly's Adventure Continued--Reilly Gets a Bed in a Curious
Establishment.


We now beg our readers to accompany us to the library of Sir Robert
Whitecraft, where that worthy gentleman sits, with a bottle of
Madeira before him; for Sir Robert, in addition to his many other good
qualities, possessed that of being a private drinker. The bottle, we
say, was before him, and with a smile of triumph and satisfaction on his
face, he arose and rang the bell. In a few minutes a liveried servant
attended it.

"Carson, send O'Donnel here."

Carson bowed and retired, and in a few minutes the Red Rapparee entered.

"How is this, O'Donnel? Have you thrown aside your uniform?"

"I didn't think I'd be called out on duty again to-night, sir."

"It doesn't matter, O'Donnel--it doesn't matter. What do you think of
the bonfire?"

"Begad, it was a beauty, sir, and well managed."

"Ay, but I am afraid, O'Donnel, I went a little too far--that I
stretched my authority somewhat."

"But isn't he a rebel and an outlaw, Sir Robert? and in that case--"

"Yes, O'Donnel; and a rebel and an outlaw of my own making, which is the
best of it. The fellow might have lain there, concocting his treason,
long enough, only for my vigilance. However, it's all right. The
government, to which I have rendered such important services, will stand
by me, and fetch me out of the burning--that is, if there has been any
transgression of the law in it. The Papists are privately recruiting for
the French service, and that is felony; Reilly also was recruiting for
the French service--was he not?"

"He offered me a commission, sir."

"Very good; that's all right, but can you prove that?"

"Why, I can swear it, Sir Robert."

"Better still. But do you think he is in the country, O'Donnel?"

"I would rather swear he is, sir, than that he is not. He won't lave her
aisily."

"Who do you mean by her, sir?"

"I would rather not name her, your honor, in connection with the
vagabond."

"That's delicate of you, O'Donnel; I highly approve of your sentiment.
Here, have a glass of wine."

"Thank you, Sir Robert; but have you any brandy, sir? My tongue is as
dry as a stick, wid that glorious bonfire we had; but, besides, sir, I
wish to drink success to you in all your undertakings. A happy marriage,
sir!" and he accompanied the words with a ferocious grin.

"You shall have one glass of brandy, O'Donnel, but no more. I wish you
to deliver a letter for me to-night. It is to the sheriff, who dines
with Lord ------, a friend of mine; and I wish you to deliver it at his
lordship's house, where you will be sure to find him. The letter is of
the greatest importance, and you will take care to deliver it safely. No
answer by you is required. He was out to-day, levying fines from Popish
priests, and a heavy one from the Popish bishop, and I do not think,
with a large sum of money about him, that he will go home to-night.
Here is the letter. I expect he will call on me in the morning, to
breakfast--at least I have asked him, for we have very serious business
to discuss."

The Rapparee took the letter, finished his glass of brandy, and
disappeared to fulfil his commission.

Now it so happened that on that very evening, before the premises had
been set on fire, Mary Mahon, by O'Donnel's order, had entered the
house, and under, as it were, the protection of the military, gathered
up as much of Reilly's clothes and linen as she could conveniently carry
to her cottage, which was in the immediate vicinity of Whitecraft's
residence--it being the interest of this hypocritical voluptuary to have
the corrupt wretch near him. The Rapparee, having left Whitecraft to his
reflections, immediately directed his steps to her house, and, with her
connivance, changed the dress he had on for one which she had taken from
Reilly's wardrobe. He then went to the house of the nobleman where the
sheriff was dining, but arrived only in time to hear that he was about
to take horse on his return home. On seeing him preparing to mount,
bearing a lantern in his hand, as the night was dark and the roads
bad, he instantly changed his purpose as to the letter, and came to the
resolution of not delivering it at all.

"I can easily say," thought he, "that the sheriff had gone home before
I came, and that will be a very sufficient excuse. In the meantime," he
added, "I will cross the country and be out on the road before him."

The sheriff was not unarmed, however, and felt himself tolerably well
prepared for any attack that might be made on him; and, besides, he was
no coward. After a ride of about two miles he found himself stopped, and
almost at the same instant the lantern that he carried was knocked out
of his hand and extinguished, but not until he caught a faint glimpse
of the robber's person, who, from his dress, appeared to be a man much
above the common class. Quick as lightning he pulled out one of his
pistols, and, cocking it, held himself in readiness. The night was dark,
and this preparation for self-defence was unknown to his assailant. On
feeling the reins of his horse's bridle in the hands of the robber, he
snapped the pistol at his head, but alas! it only flashed in the pan.
The robber, on the other hand, did not seem anxious to take his life,
for it was a principle among the Rapparees to shed, while exercising
their rapacious functions, as little blood as possible. They have
frequently taken life from a feeling of private vengeance, but not often
while robbing on the king's highway. The sheriff, now finding that one
pistol had missed, was about to draw out the second, when he was knocked
insensible off his horse, and on recovering found himself minus the
fines which he had that day levied--all the private cash about him--and
his case of pistols. This indeed was a bitter incident to him; because,
in addition to the loss of his private purse and firearms--which he
valued as nothing--he knew that he was responsible to government for the
amount of the fines.

With considerable difficulty he was able to remount his horse, and with
a sense of stupor, which was very painful, he recommenced his journey
home. After a ride of about two miles he met three horsemen, who
immediately challenged him and demanded his name and residence.

"I am the sheriff of the county," he replied, "and have been robbed of
a large sum of money and my pistols; and now," he added, "may I beg
to know who you are, and by what authority you demand my name and
residence?"

"Excuse us, Mr. Sheriff," they replied; "we belong to the military
detachment which government has placed under the control of Sir Robert
Whitecraft."

"Oh, indeed," exclaimed the sheriff; "I wish to heaven you had been a
little more advanced on your journey; you might have saved me from being
plundered, as I have been, and probably secured the robber."

"Could you observe, sir, what was the villain's appearance?"

"I had a small lantern," replied the functionary, "by which I caught a
brief but uncertain glance of him. I am not quite certain that I could
recognize his features, though, if I saw him again--but--perhaps I
might, certainly I could his dress."

"How was he dressed, sir?" they inquired.

"Quite beyond the common," said the sheriff; "I think he had on a brown
coat, of superior cloth and make, and I think, too, the buckles of his
slices were silver."

"And his features, Mr. Sheriff?"

"I cannot exactly say," he returned; "I was too much agitated to be able
to recollect them; but indeed the dim glimpse I got was too brief
to afford me an opportunity of seeing them with any thing like
distinctness."

"From the description you have given, sir," said one of them, "the man
who robbed you must have been Reilly the Outlaw. That is the very dress
he has been in the habit of wearing. Was he tall, sir, and stout in
person?"

"He was a very large man, certainly," replied the sheriff; "and I regret
I did not see his face more distinctly."

"It can be no other, Mr. Sheriff," observed the man; "the fellow has no
means of living now, unless by levying contributions on the road. For my
part, I think the scoundrel can make himself invisible; but it must go
hard with us or we will secure him yet. Would you wish an escort home,
Mr. Sheriff? because, if you do, we shall accompany you."

"No," replied the other, "I thank you. I would not have ventured home
unattended if the Red Rapparee had still been at his vocation, and his
gang undispersed; but as he is now on the safe side, I apprehend no
danger."

"It's not at all impossible but Reilly may step into his shoes," said
the cavalryman.

"I have now neither money nor arms," continued the sheriff; "nothing the
villain robbers could covet, and what, then, have I to fear?"

"You have a life, sir," observed the man respectfully, "and if you'll
allow me to say it--the life of a man who is not very well liked in the
country, in consequence of certain duties you are obliged to perform.
Come, then, sir, we shall see you home."

It was so arranged, and the sheriff reached his own residence, under
their escort, with perfect safety.

This indeed was a night of adventure to Reilly--hunted, as he was, like
a beast of prey. After what had taken place already in the early portion
of it, he apprehended no further pursuit, and in this respect he felt
his mind comparatively at ease--for, in addition to any other conviction
of his safety, he knew that the night was far advanced, and as the
country was unsettled, he was not ignorant that the small military
parties that were in the habit of scouring the country generally--unless
when in the execution of some express duty--retired to their quarters
at an early hour, in order to avoid the severe retaliations which were
frequently made upon them by the infuriated peasantry whom they--or
rather the government which employed them--had almost driven to madness,
and--would have driven to insurrection had the people possessed the
means of rising. As it was, however, he dreaded no further pursuit this
night, for the reasons which we have stated.

In the meantime the sheriff, feeling obliged by the civility of the
three dragoons, gave them refreshments on a very liberal scale, of
which--rather exhausted as they were--they made a very liberal use.
Feeling themselves now considerably stimulated by liquor, they mounted
their horses and proceeded towards their barracks--at a quick pace. In
consequence of the locality in which the sheriff lived, it was necessary
that they should travel in a direction opposite to that by which Reilly
and the priest were going. At all events, after riding a couple of
miles, they overtook three infantry soldiers who were also on their way
to quarters. The blood, however, of the troopers was up--thanks to the
sheriff; they mentioned the robbery, and requested the three infantry to
precede them as an advanced guard, as quietly as possible, stating
that there might still be a chance of coming across the villain who had
plundered the sheriff, intimating their impression, at the same time,
that Reilly was the man, and adding that if they could secure him their
fortune was made. As has always been usual in executing cases, of the
law attended with peculiar difficulty, these men--the infantry--like
our present detectives, had gone out that night in colored clothes. On
perceiving two individuals approaching them in the dim distance, they
immediately threw their guns into the ditch, lest they should put our
friends upon their guard and cause them to escape if they could. Reilly
could have readily done so; but having, only a few minutes before heard
from the poor old priest that he had, for some months past, been branded
and pursued us a felon, he could not think of abandoning him now that
he was feeble and jaded with fatigue as well as with age. Now it so
happened that one of these fellows had been a Roman Catholic, and having
committed some breach of the law, found it as safe as it was convenient
to change his creed, and as he spoke the Irish language fluently--indeed
there were scarcely any other then spoken by the peasantry--he commenced
clipping his hands on seeing the two men, and expressing the deepest
sorrow for the loss of his wife, from whose funeral, it appeared from
his lamentations, he was then returning.

"We have nothing to apprehend, here," said Reilly; "this poor fellow is
in sorrow, it seems--God help him! Let us proceed."

"Oh!" exclaimed the treacherous villain, clapping his hands--[we
translate his words]--"Oh, Yeeah. Yeeah! (God, God!) what a bitther loss
you'll be, my darlin' Madge, to me and your orphan childher, now and for
evermore! Oh, where was there sich a wife, neighbors? who ever heard
her harsh word, or her loud voice? And from mornin' till night ever, ever
busy in keepin' every thing tight and clane and regular! Let me alone,
will yez? I'll go back and sleep upon her grave this night--so I
will; and if all the blasted sogers in Ireland--may sweet bad luck
to them!--were to come to prevent me, I'd not allow them. Oh, Madge,
darlin', but I'm the lonely and heartbroken man widout you this night!"

"Come, come," said the priest, "have firmness, poor man; other people
have these calamities to bear as well as yourself. Be a man."

"Oh, are you a priest, sir? bekase if you are I want consolation if ever
a sorrowful man did."

"I am a priest," replied the unsuspecting I man, "and any thing I can do
to calm your mind, I'll do it."

He had scarcely uttered these words when! Reilly felt his two arms
strongly pinioned, and as the men who had seized him were | powerful,
the struggle between him and them was dreadful. The poor priest at the
same moment found himself also a prisoner in the hands of the bereaved
widower, to whom he proved an easy victim, as he was incapable of making
resistance, which, indeed, he declined to attempt. If he did not possess
bodily strength, however, he was not without presence of mind. For
whilst Reilly and his captors were engaged in a fierce and powerful
conflict, he placed his fore-finger and thumb in his mouth, from which
proceeded a whistle so piercingly loud and shrill that it awoke the
midnight echoes around them.

[Illustration: PAGE 65--Dashed up to the scene of struggle]

This was considered by the dragoons as a signal from their friends in
advance, and, without the loss of a moment, they set spurs to their
horses, and dashed up to the scene of struggle, just as Reilly had got
his right arm extricated, and knocked one of his captors down. In an
instant, however, the three dragoons, aided by the other men, were upon
him, and not less than three cavalry pistols were levelled at his head.
Unfortunately, at this moment the moon began to rise, and the dragoons,
on looking at him more closely, observed that he was dressed precisely
as the sheriff had described the person who robbed him--the brown coat,
light-colored breeches, and silver buckles--for indeed this was his
usual dress.

"You are Willy Reilly," said the man who had been spokesman in their
interview with the sheriff: "you needn't deny it, sir--I know you!"

"If you know me, then," replied Reilly, "where is the necessity for
asking my name?"

"I ask again, sir, what is your name? If you be the man I suspect you to
be, you will deny it."

"My name," replied the other, "is William Reilly, and as I am conscious
of no crime against society--of no offence against the State--I shall
not deny it."

"I knew I was right," said the dragoon. "Mr. Reilly, you are our
prisoner on many charges, not the least of which is your robbery of the
sheriff this night. You must come with us to Sir Robert Whitecraft; so
must this other person who seems your companion."

"Not a foot I'll go to Sir Eobert Whitecraft's to-night," replied the
priest. "I have made my mind up against such a stretch at such an hour
as this; and, with the help of God, I'll stick to my resolution."

"Why do you refuse to go?" asked the man, a good deal surprised at such
language.

"Just for a reason I have: as for that fellow being Willy Reilly, he's
no more Willy Reilly than I am; whatever he is, however, he's a good man
and true, but must be guided by wiser heads than his own; and I now
tell him--ay, and you too--that he won't see Sir Robert Whitecraft's
treacherous face to-night, no more than myself."

"Come," said one of them, "drag the idolatrous old rebel along. Come, my
old couple-beggar, there's a noose before you."

He had scarcely uttered the words when twenty men, armed with strong
pikes, jumped out on the road before them, and about the same number,
with similar weapons, behind them. In fact, they were completely hemmed
in; and, as the road was narrow and the ditches high, they were not at
all in a capacity to make resistance.

"Surrender your prisoners," said a huge man in a voice of
thunder--"surrender your prisoners--here are we ten to one against you;
or if you don't, I swear there won't be a living man amongst you in two
minutes' time. Mark us well--we are every man of us armed--and I will
not ask you a second time."

As to numbers and weapons the man spoke truth, and the military party
saw at once that their prisoners must be given up.

"Let us have full revenge on them now, boys," exclaimed several voices;
"down with the tyrannical villains that are parse-cuting and murdherin'
the country out of a face. This night closes their black work;" and
as the words were uttered, the military felt themselves environed and
pressed in upon by upwards of five-and-twenty sharp and bristling pikes.

"It is true, you may murder us," replied the dragoon; "but we are
soldiers, and to die is a soldier's duty. Stand back," said he, "for, by
all that's sacred, if you approach another step, William Reilly and that
rebel priest will fall dead at your feet. We may die then; but we will
sell our lives dearly. Cover the priest, Robinson."

[Illustration: PAGE 65a--I entreat you, to show these men mercy now]

"Boys," said the priest, addressing the insurgent party, "hold back, for
God's sake, and for mine. Remember that these men are only doing their
duty, and that whoever is to be blamed, it is not they--no, but the
wicked men and cruel laws that set them upon us. Why, now, if these;
men, out of compassion and a feeling of kindness to poor persecuted
creatures, as we are, took it into their heads or their hearts to let
that man and me off, they would have been, probably, treated like dogs
for neglecting their duty. I am, as you know, a minister of God, and a
man of peace, whose duty it is to prevent bloodshed whenever I can,
and save human life, whether it is that of a Catholic or a Protestant.
Recollect, my friends, that you will, every one of you, have to stand
before the judgment throne of God to seek for mercy and salvation. As
you hope for that mercy, then, at the moment of your utmost need, I
implore, I entreat you, to show these men mercy now, and allow them to
go their way in safety."

"I agree with every word the priest has said," added Reilly; "not from
any apprehension of the threat held out against myself, but from, I
trust, a higher principle. Here are only six men, who, as his Reverence
justly said, are, after all, only in the discharge of their public duty.
On the other hand, there are at least forty or fifty of you against
them. Now I appeal to yourselves, whether it would be a manly, or
generous, or Christian act, to slaughter so poor a handful of men by the
force of numbers. No: there would be neither credit nor honor in such an
act. I assure you, my friends, it would disgrace your common name,
your common credit, and your common country. Nay, it would seem like
cowardice, and only give a handle to your enemies to tax you with it.
But I know you are not cowards, but brave and generous men, whose hearts
and spirits are above a mean action. If you were cowardly butchers, I
know we might speak to you in vain; but we know you are incapable
of imbruing your hands, and steeping your souls, in the guilt of
unresisting blood--for so I may term it--where there are so few against
so many. My friends, go home, then, in the name of God, and, as this
reverend gentleman said, allow these men to pass their way 'without
injury.'"

"But who are you?" said their huge leader, in his terrible voice, "who
presumes to lecture us?"

"I am one," replied Reilly, "who has suffered more deeply, probably,
than any man here. I am without house or home, proscribed by the
vengeance of a villain--a villain who has left me without a shelter
for my head--who, this night, has reduced my habitation, and all that
appertained to it, to a heap of ashes--who is on my trail, night and
day, and who will be on my trail, in order to glut his vengeance with my
blood. Now, my friends, listen--I take God to witness, that if that
man were here at this moment, I would plead for his life with as much
earnestness as I do for those of the men who are here at your mercy.
I feel that it would be cowardly and inhuman to take it under such
circumstances; yes, and unworthy of the name of William Reilly. Now," he
added, "these men will pass safely to their quarters."

As they were about to resume their journey, the person who seemed to
have the command of the military said:

"Mr. Reilly, one word with you: I feel that you have saved our lives;
I may requite you for that, generous act yet;" and he pressed his hand
warmly as he spoke, after which they proceeded on their way.

That the person of Reilly was not recognized by any of these men is
accounted for by a well-known custom, peculiar to such meetings, both
then and now. The individuals before and around him were all strangers,
from distant parts of the country; for whenever an outrage is to be
committed, or a nocturnal drilling to take place, the peasantry start
across the country, in twos and threes, until they quietly reach some
lonely and remote spot, where their persons are not known.

No sooner had he mentioned his name, however, than there arose a
peculiar murmur among the insurgents--such a murmur indeed as it was
difficult to understand; there was also a rapid consultation in Irish,
which was closed by a general determination to restrain their vengeance
for that night, at least, and for the sake of the celebrated young
martyr--for as such they looked upon him--to allow the military to pass
on without injury. Reilly then addressed them in Irish, and thanked
them, both in his own name and that of the priest, for the respect
evinced by, their observation of the advice they had given them. The
priest also addressed them in Irish, aware, as he was, that one sentence
in that language, especially from a person in a superior rank of
life, carries more weight than a whole oration in the language of the
Sassenagh. The poor old man's mind was once more at ease, and after
these rough, but not intractable, men had given three cheers for "bould
Willy Reilly," three more for the _Cooleen Bawn_, not forgetting the
priest, the latter, while returning thanks, had them in convulsions of
laughter. "May I never do harm," proceeded his reverence humorously,
"but the first Christian duty that every true Catholic ought to learn is
to whistle on his fingers. The moment ever your children, boys, are able
to give a squall, clap their forefinger and thumb in their mouth, and
leave the rest to nature. Let them talk of their spinnet and sinnet,
their fiddle and their diddle, their dancing and their prancing, but
there is no genteel accomplishment able to be compared to a rousing
whistle on the fingers. See what it did for us to-night. My soul to
glory, but only for it, Mr. Reilly and I would have soon taken a journey
with our heels foremost; and, what is worse, the villains would have
forced us to take a bird's-eye view of our own funeral from the three
sticks, meaning the two that stand up, and the third that goes across
them (The gallows). However, God's good, and, after all, boys, you see
there is nothing like an accomplished education. As to the soldiers, I
don't think myself that they'll recover the bit of fright they got until
the new potatoes come in. Troth, while you were gathering in about them,
I felt that the unfortunate vagabonds were to be pitied; but, Lord help
us, when men are in trouble--especially in fear of their lives--and
with twelve inches of sharp iron near their breasts, it's wonderful what
effect fear will have on them. Troth, I wasn't far from feeling the same
thing myself, only I knew there was relief at hand; at all events, it's
well you kept your hands off them, for now, thank goodness, you can step
home without the guilt of murder on your souls."

Father Maguire, for such was his name, possessed the art of adapting his
language and dialect to those whom he addressed, it mattered not whether
they were South, West, or North; he was, in fact, a priest who had
never been in any college, but received ordination in consequence of
the severity of the laws, whose operation, by banishing so many of that
class from the country, rendered the services of such men indispensable
to the spiritual wants of the people. Father Maguire, previous to
his receiving holy orders, had been a schoolmaster, and exercised
his functions on that capacity in holes and corners; sometimes on the
sheltery or sunny side of a hedge, as the case might be, and on other
occasions when and where he could. In his magisterial capacity, "the
accomplishment" of whistling was absolutely necessary to him, because it
often happened that in stealing in the morning from his retreat during
the preceding night, he knew no more where to meet his little flock of
scholars than they did where to meet him, the truth being that he seldom
found it safe to teach two days successively in the same place. Having
selected the locality for instruction during the day, he put his
forefinger and thumb into his mouth, and emitted a whistle that went
over half the country. Having thus given the signal three times, his
scholars began gradually and cautiously to make their appearance,
radiating towards him from all-directions, reminding one of a hen in
a farm-yard, who, having fallen upon some wholesome crumbs, she utters
that peculiar sound which immediately collects her eager little flock
about her, in order to dispense among them the good things she has to
give. Poor Father Maguire was simplicity itself, for, although cheerful,
and a good deal of a humorist, yet he was pious, inoffensive, and
charitable. True, it is not to be imagined that he could avoid bearing a
very strong feeling of enmity against the Establishment, as, indeed,
we do not see, so long as human nature is what it is, how he could have
done otherwise; he hated it, however, in the aggregate, not in detail,
for the truth is, that he received shelter and protection nearly as
often from the Protestants themselves, both lay and clerical, as he
did from those of his own creed. The poor man's crime against the
State proceeded naturally from the simplicity of his character and the
goodness of his heart. A Protestant peasant had seduced a Catholic young
woman of considerable attractions, and was prevailed upon to marry her,
in order to legitimize the infant which she was about to bear. Our poor
priest, anxious to do as much good, and to prevent as much evil as he
could, was prevailed upon to perform the ceremony, contrary to the law
in that case made and provided. Ever since that, the poor man had been
upon his keeping like a felon, as the law had made him; but so well
known were his harmless life, his goodness of heart, and his general
benevolence of disposition--for, alas! he was incapable of being
benevolent in any practical sense--that, unless among the bigoted
officials of the day, there existed no very strong disposition to hand
him over to the clutches of the terrible statute which he had, good easy
man, been prevailed on to violate.

In the meantime, the formidable body who had saved Reilly's life and his
own dispersed, or disappeared at least; but not until they had
shaken hands most cordially with Reilly and the priest, who now found
themselves much in the same position in which they stood previous to
their surprise and arrest.

"Now," said Reilly, "the question is, what are we to do? where are we to
go? and next, how did you come to know of the existence in this precise
locality of such a body of men?"

"Because I have set my face against such meetings," replied the priest.
"One of those who was engaged to be present happened to mention the fact
to me as a clergyman, but you know that, as a clergyman, I can proceed
no further."

"I understand," said Reilly, "I perfectly understand you. It is not
necessary. And now let me say--"

"Always trust in God, my friend," replied the priest, in an accent quite
different from that which he had used to the peasantry. "I told you,
not long ago, that you would have, a bed to-night: follow me, and I
will lead you to a crypt of nature's own making, which, was not known to
mortal man three months ago, and which is now known only to those whose
interest it is to keep the knowledge of it silent as the grave."

They then proceeded, and soon came to a gap or opening on the left-hand
side of the road through which they passed, the priest leading. Next
they found themselves in a wild gully or ravine that was both deep and
narrow. This they crossed, and arrived at a ledge of precipitous rocks,
most of which were overhung to the very ground with long luxuriant
heather. The priest went along this until he came to one particular
spot, when he stooped, and observed a particular round stone bedded
naturally in the earth.

"God-blessed be his name--has made nothing in vain," he whispered; "I
must go foremost, but do as I do." He then raised up the long heath,
and entered a low, narrow fissure in the rocks, Reilly following him
closely. The entrance was indeed so narrow that it was capable of
admitting but one man at a time, and even that by his working himself
in upon his knees and elbows. In this manner they advanced in utter
darkness for about thirty yards, when they reached a second opening,
about three feet high, which bore some resemblance to a Gothic arch.
This also it was necessary to enter consecutively. Having passed this
they were able to proceed upon their legs, still stooping, however,
until, as they got onwards, they found themselves able to walk erect.
A third and larger opening, however, was still before them, over which
hung a large thick winnow-cloth.

"Now," said the priest, "leave every thing to me. If we were to put our
heads in rashly here we might get a pair of bullets through them that
would have as little mercy on us as those of the troopers, had we got
them. No clergyman here, or anywhere else, ever carries firearms, but
there are laymen inside who are not bound by our regulations. The only
arms we are allowed to carry are the truths of our religion and the
integrity of our lives."

He then advanced a step or two, and shook the winnow-cloth three times,
when a deep voice from behind it asked, "_Quis venit?_"

"_Introibo ad altare Dei,_" replied the priest, who had no sooner
uttered the words than the cloth was partially removed, and a voice
exclaimed, "_Benedicite, dilecte frater; beatus qui venit in nomine
Domini el sacrosanctae Ecclesiae_."

Reilly and his companion then entered the cave, which they had no sooner
done than the former was seized with a degree of wonder, astonishment,
and awe, such as he had never experienced in his life before. The whole
cavern was one flashing scene of light and beauty, and reminded him of
the gorgeous descriptions that were to be found in Arabian literature,
or the brilliancy of the fairy palaces as he had heard of them in the
mellow legends of his own country. From the roof depended gorgeous and
immense stalactites, some of them reaching half way to the earth, and
others of them resting upon the earth itself. Several torches, composed
of dried bog fir, threw their strong light among them with such effect
that the eye became not only dazzled but fatigued and overcome by the
radiance of a scene so unusual. In fact, the whole scene appeared to be
out of, or beyond, nature. There were about fifteen individuals present,
most of them in odd and peculiar disguises, which gave them a grotesque
and supernatural appearance, as they passed about with their strong
torches--some bright and some flashing red; and as the light of either
one or other fell upon the stalactites, giving them a hue of singular
brilliancy or deep purple, Reilly could not utter a word. The costumes
of the individuals about him were so strange and varied that he knew not
what to think. Some were in the dress of clergymen, others in that
of ill-clad peasants, and nearly one-third-of them in the garb of
mendicants, who, from their careworn faces, appeared to have suffered
severely from the persecution of the times. In a few minutes, however,
about half a dozen diminutive beings made their appearance, busied, as
far as he could guess, in employments, which his amazement at the
whole spectacle, unprepared as he was for it, prevented him from
understanding. If he had been a man of weak or superstitious mind,
unacquainted with life and the world, it is impossible to say what he
might have imagined. Independently of this--strong-minded as he was--the
impression made upon him by the elf-like sprites that ran about so
busily, almost induced him, for a few moments, to surrender to the
illusion that he stood among individuals who had little or no
natural connection with man or the external world which he inhabited.
Reflection, however, and the state of the country, came to his aid, and
he reasonably inferred that the cavern in which he stood was a place of
concealment for those unfortunate individuals who, like himself, felt it
necessary to evade the vengeance of the laws.

Whilst Reilly was absorbed in the novelty and excitement of this
strange and all but supernatural spectacle, the priest held a short
conversation, at some distance from him, with the strange figures which
had surprised him so much. Whenever he felt himself enabled to take his
eyes from the splendor and magnificence of all he saw around him,
to follow the motions of Father Maguire, he could observe that that
gentleman, from the peculiar vehemence of his attitudes and the evident
rapidity of his language, had made either himself or his presence there
the topic of very earnest discussion. In fact it appeared to him that
the priest, from whatever cause, appeared to be rather hard set to
defend him and to justify his presence among them. A tall, stern-looking
man, with a lofty forehead and pale ascetic features--from which all the
genial impulses of humanity, that had once characterized them,
seemed almost to have been banished by the spirit of relentless
persecution--appeared to bear hard upon him, whatever the charge might
be, and by the severity of his manner and the solemn but unyielding
emphasis of his attitudes, he seemed to have wrought himself into a
state of deep indignation. But as it is better that our readers should
be made acquainted with the topic of their discussion, rather than their
attitudes, we think it necessary to commence it in a new chapter.




CHAPTER X.--Scenes that took place in the Mountain Cave

"I will not hear your apology, brother," said the tall man with the
stern voice; "your conduct, knowing our position, and the state of this
unhappy and persecuted country, is not only indiscreet, but foolish,
indefensible, mad. Here is a young man attached--may God pardon him--to
the daughter of one of the most persecuting heretics in the kingdom.
She is beautiful, by every report that we have heard of her, even as an
angel; but reflect that she is an heiress--the inheritress of immense
property--and that, as a matter of course, the temptations are a
thousand to one against him. He will yield, I tell you, to the heretic
syren; and as a passport to her father's favor and her affection, he
will, like too many of his class, abandon the faith of his ancestors,
and become an apostate, for the sake of wealth and sensual affection."

"I question, my lord," replied the priest, "whether it is consistent
with Christian charity to impute motives of such heinous guilt, when we
are not in a condition to bear out our suspicions. The character of this
young gentleman as a Catholic is firm and faithful, and I will stake my
life upon his truth and attachment to our Church."

"You know him not, father," replied the bishop, for such he was; "I tell
you, and I speak from better information than you possess, that he is
already suspected. What has been his conduct? He has associated himself
more with Protestants than with those of his own Church; he has dined
with them, partaken of their hospitality, joined in there amusements,
slept in their houses, and been with them as a familiar friend and boon
companion. I see, father, what the result will necessarily be; first, an
apostate--next, an informer--and, lastly, a persecutor; and all for the
sake of wealth and the seductive charms of a rich heiress. I say, then,
that deep in this cold cavern shall be his grave, rather than have an
opportunity of betraying the shepherds of Christ's persecuted flock, and
of hunting them into the caverns of the earth like beasts of prey. Our
retreat here is known only to those who, for the sake of truth and their
own lives, will never disclose the knowledge of it, bound as they
are, in addition to this, by an oath of the deepest and most dreadful
solemnity--an oath the violation of which would constitute a fearful
sacrilege in the eye of God. As for these orphans, whose parents were
victims to the cruel laws that are grinding us, I have so trained and
indoctrinated them into a knowledge of their creed, and a sense of
their duty, that they are thoroughly trustworthy. On this very day I
administered to them the sacrament of confirmation. No, brother, we
cannot sacrifice the interests and welfare of our holy Church to the
safety of a single life--to the safety of a person who I foresee will be
certain to betray us."

"My lord," replied the priest, "I humbly admit your authority and
superior sanctity, for in what does your precious life fall short of
martyrdom but by one step to the elevation which leads to glory? I mean
the surrendering of that life for the true faith. I feel, my lord, that
in your presence I am nothing; still, in our holy Church there is the
humble as well as the exalted, and your lordship will admit that the
gradations of piety, and the dispensations of the higher and the lower
gifts, proceed not only from the wisdom of God but from the necessities
of man."

"I do not properly understand you, father," said the bishop in a voice
whose stern tones were mingled with something like contempt.

"I beg your lordship to hear me," proceeded Father Maguire. "You say
that Reilly has associated more frequently with Protestants than he has
with persons of our own religion. That may be true, and I grant that it
is so; but, my lord, are you aware that he has exercised the influence
which he has possessed over them for the protection and advantage and
safety of his Catholic friends and neighbors, to the very utmost of his
ability, and frequently with success?"

"Yes; they obliged him because they calculated upon his accession to
their creed and principles."

"My lord," replied the priest with firmness, "I am an humble but
independent man; if humanity and generosity, exercised as I have seen
them this night, guided and directed by the spirit of peace, and of the
word of God itself, can afford your lordship a guarantee of the high and
Christian principles by which this young man's heart is actuated, then I
may with confidence recommend him to your clemency."

"What would you say?" asked the bishop.

"My lord, he was the principal means of saving the lives of six
Protestants-heretics, I mean--from being cut off in their iniquities and
sins this night."

"How do you mean?" replied the stern bishop; "explain yourself!"

The good priest then gave a succinct account of the circumstances with
which the reader is already acquainted; and, after having finished his
brief narrative, the unfortunate man perceived that, instead of having
rendered Reilly a service, he had strengthened the suspicions of the
prelate against him.

"So!" said the bishop, "you advance the history of this dastardly
conduct as an argument in his favor!"

As he uttered these words, his eyes, which had actually become
bloodshot, blazed again; his breath went and came strongly, and he
ground his teeth with rage.

Father Maguire, and those who were present, looked at each other with
eyes in which might be read an expression of deep sorrow and compassion.
At length a mild-looking, pale-faced man, with a clear, benignant eye,
approached him, and laying his hand in a gentle manner upon his arm,
said, "Pray, my dear lord, let me entreat your lordship to remember the
precepts of our great Master: 'Love your enemies; bless them that curse
you; do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully
use you, and persecute you.' And surely, my lord, no one knows better
than you do that this is the spirit of our religion, and that whenever
it is violated the fault is not that of the creed, but the man."

"Under any circumstances," said the bishop, declining to reply to this,
and placing his open hand across his forehead, as if he felt confusion
or pain--"under any circumstances, this person must take the oath of
secrecy with respect to the existence of this cave. Call him up."

Reilly, as we have said, saw at once that an angry discussion had taken
place, and felt all but certain that he was himself involved in it. The
priest, in obedience to the wish expressed by the bishop, went down to
where he stood, and whispering to him, said:

"Salvation to me, but I had a hard battle for you. I fought, however,
like a trump. The strange, and--ahem--kind of man you are called upon to
meet now is one of our bishops--but don't you pretend to know that--he
has heard of your love for the _Cooleen Bawn_, and of her love for
you--be easy now--not a thing it will be but the meeting of two
thunderbolts between you--and he's afraid you'll be deluded by her
charms--turn apostate on our hands--and that the first thing you're
likely to do, when you get out of this subterranean palace of ours, will
be to betray its existence to the heretics. I have now put you on your
guard, so keep a sharp lookout; be mild as mother's milk. But if you 'my
lord' him, I'm dished as a traitor beyond redemption."

Now, if the simple-hearted priest had been tempted by the enemy himself
to place these two men in a position where a battle-royal between them
was most likely to ensue, he could not have taken a more successful
course for that object. Reilly, the firm, the high-minded, the
honorable, and, though last not least, the most indignant at any
imputation against his integrity, now accompanied the priest in a state
of indignation that was nearly a match for that of the bishop.

"This is Mr. Reilly, gentlemen; a firm and an honest Catholic, who, like
ourselves, is suffering for his religion."

"Mr. Reilly," said the bishop, "it is good to suffer for our religion."

"It is our duty," replied Reilly, "when we are called upon to do so; but
for my part, I must confess, I have no relish whatsoever for the honors
of martyrdom. I would rather aid it and assist it than suffer for it."

The bishop gave a stem look at his friends, as much as to say: "You
hear! incipient heresy and treachery at the first step."

"He's more mad than the bishop," thought Father Maguire; "in God's name
what will come next, I wonder? Reilly's blood, somehow, is up; and there
they are looking at each other, like a pair o' game cocks, with their
necks stretched out in a cockpit--when I was a boy I used to go to see
them--ready to dash upon one another."

"Are you not now suffering for your religion?" asked the prelate.

"No," replied Reilly, "it is not for the sake of my religion that I have
suffered any thing. Religion is made only a pretext for it; but it is
not, in truth, on that account that I have been persecuted."

"Pray, then, sir, may I inquire the cause of your persecution?"

"You may," replied Reilly, "but I shall decline to answer you. It comes
not within your jurisdiction, but is a matter altogether personal to
myself, and with which you can have no concern."

Here a groan from the priest, which he could not suppress, was shivered
off, by a tremendous effort, into a series of broken coughs, got up
in order to conceal his alarm at the fatal progress which Reilly, he
thought, was unconsciously making to his own ruin.

"Troth," thought he, "the soldiers were nothing at all to what this will
be. There his friends would have found the body and given him a decent
burial; but here neither friend nor fellow will know where to look for
him. I was almost the first man that took the oath to keep the existence
of this place secret from all unless those that were suffering for their
religion; and now, by denying that, he has me in the trap along with
himself."

A second groan, shaken out of its continuity into another comical shower
of fragmental coughs, closed this dreary but silent soliloquy.

The bishop proceeded: "You have been inveigled, young man, by the charms
of a deceitful and heretical syren, for the purpose of alienating you
from the creed of your forefathers."

"It is false," replied Reilly; "false, if it proceeded from the lips of
the Pope himself; and if his lips uttered to me what you now have done,
I would fling the falsehood in his teeth, as I do now in yours--yes,
if my life should pay the forfeit of it. What have you to do with my
private concerns?"

Reilly's indignant and impetuous reply to the prelate struck all
who heard it with dismay, and also with horror, when they bethought
themselves of the consequences.

"You are a heretic at heart," said the other, knitting his brows; "from
your own language you stand confessed--a heretic."

"I know not," replied Reilly, "by what right or authority you adopt
this ungentlemanly and illiberal conduct towards me; but so long as your
language applies only to myself and my religion, I shall answer you in a
different spirit. In the first place, then, you are grievously mistaken
in supposing me to be a heretic. I am true and faithful to nay creed,
and will live and die in it."

Father Maguire felt relieved, and breathed more freely; a groan was
coming, but it ended in a "hem."

"Before we proceed any farther, sir," said this strange man, "you must
take an oath."

"For what purpose, sir?" inquired Reilly.

"An oath of secrecy as to the existence of this place of our retreat.
There are at present here some of the--" he checked himself, as if
afraid to proceed farther. "In fact, every man who is admitted amongst
us must take the oath."

Reilly looked at him with indignation. "Surely," thought he to himself,
"this man must be mad; his looks are wild, and the fire of insanity
is in his eyes; if not, he is nothing less than an incarnation of
ecclesiastical bigotry and folly. The man must be mad, or worse." At
length he addressed him.

"You doubt my integrity and my honor, then," he replied haughtily.

"We doubt every man until he is bound by his oath."

"You must continue to doubt me, then," replied Reilly; "for, most
assuredly, I will not take it."

"You must take it, sir," said the other, "or you never leave the cavern
which covers you," and his eyes once more blazed as he uttered the
words.

"Gentlemen," said Reiliy, "there appear to be fifteen or sixteen of you
present: may I be permitted to ask why you suffer this unhappy man to be
at large?"

"Will you take the oath, sir?" persisted the insane bishop in a voice of
thunder--"heretic and devil, will you take the oath?"

"Unquestionably not. I will never take any oath that would imply want
of honor in myself. Cease, then, to trouble me with it. I shall not take
it."

This last reply affected the bishop's reason so deeply that he looked
about him strangely, and exclaimed, "We are lost and betrayed. But here
are angels--I see them, and will join in their blessed society," and as
he spoke, he rushed towards the stalactites in a manner somewhat wild
and violent, so much so, indeed, that from an apprehension of his
receiving injury in some of the dark interstices among them, they found
it necessary, for his sake, to grapple with him for a few moments.

But, alas! they had very little indeed to grapple with. The man was but
a shadow, and they found him in their hands as feeble as a child. He
made no resistance, but suffered himself to be managed precisely as they
wished. Two of the persons present took charge of him, one sitting on
each side of him. Reilly, who looked on with amazement, now strongly
blended with pity--for the malady of the unhappy ecclesiastic could
no longer be mistaken--Reilly, we say, was addressed by an
intelligent-looking individual, with some portion of the clerical
costume about him.

"Alas! sir," said he, "it was not too much learning, but too much
persecution, that has made him mad. That and the ascetic habits of his
life have clouded or destroyed a great intellect and a good heart. He
has eaten only one sparing meal a day during the last month; and though
severe and self-denying to himself, he was, until the last week or so,
like a father, and an indulgent one, to us all."

At this moment the pale, mild-looking clergyman, to whom we have
alluded, went over to where the bishop sat, and throwing himself upon
his bosom, burst into tears. The sorrow indeed became infectious, and in
a few minutes there were not many dry eyes around him. Father Maguire,
who was ignorant of the progressive change that had taken place in him
since his last visit to the cave, now wept like a child, and Reilly
himself experienced something that amounted to remorse, when he
reflected on the irreverent tone of voice in which he had replied to
him.

The paroxysm, however, appeared to have passed away; he was quite
feeble, but not properly collected, though calm and quiet. After a
little time he requested to be put to bed. And this leads us to the
description of another portion of the cave to which we have not yet
referred. At the upper end of the stalactite apartment, which we have
already described, there was a large projection of rock, which nearly
divided it from the other, and which discharged the office of a wall, or
partition, between the two apartments. Here there was a good fire kept,
but only during the hours of night, inasmuch as the smoke which issued
from a rent or cleft in the top of this apartment would have discovered
them by day. Through this slight chasm, which was strictly concealed,
they received provisions, water, and fuel. In fact, it would seem as if
the whole cave had been expressly designed for the purpose to which it
was then applied, or, at least for some one of a similar nature.

On entering this, Reilly found a good fire, on which was placed a large
pot with a mess in it, which emitted a very savory odor. Around
the sides, or walls of this rock, were at least a score of heather
shake-down beds, the fragrance of which was delicious. Pots, pans, and
other simple culinary articles were there, with a tolerable stock of
provisions, not omitting a good-sized keg of mountain dew, which their
secluded position, the dampness of the place, and their absence from
free air, rendered very necessary and gratifying.

"Here!" exclaimed Father Maguire, after the feeble prelate had been
assisted to this recess, "here, now, put his lordship to bed; I have
tossed it up for him in great style! I assure you, my dear friends,
it's a shakedown fit for a prince!--and better than most of the thieves
deserve. What bed of down ever had the sweet fragrance this flowery
heather sends forth? Here, my lord--easy, now--lay him down gently, just
as a mother would her sleeping child--for, indeed, he is a child," he
whispered, "and as weak as a child; but a sound sleep will do him good,
and he'll be a new man in the morning, please God."

Upon this rough, but wholesome and aromatic couch, the exhausted prelate
was placed, where he had not been many minutes until he fell into a
profound sleep, a fact which gratified them very much, for they assured
Reilly and the priest that he had slept but a few hours each night
during the last week, and that such slumber as he did get was feverish
and unquiet.

Our good-humored friend, however, was now cordially welcomed by these
unfortunate ecclesiastics, for such, in fact, the majority of them were.
His presence seemed to them like a ray of light from the sun. His good
humor, his excellent spirits, which nothing could repress, and his
drollery kept them alive, and nothing was so much regretted by them as
his temporary absences from time to time; for, in truth, he was their
messenger, their steward, and their newsman--in fact, the only link that
connected them with external life, and the ongoings of the world abroad.
The bed in which the bishop now slept was in a distant corner of this
inner apartment, or dormitory, as it might be termed, because the
situation was higher and drier, and consequently more healthy, as a
sleeping-place, than any other which the rude apartment afforded.
The fire on which the large pot simmered was at least a distance
of twenty-five yards from his bed, so that they could indulge in
conversation without much risk of disturbing him.

It is unnecessary to say that Reilly and his friend Father Maguire felt,
by this time, a tolerably strong relish for something in the shape of
sustenance--a relish which was exceedingly sharpened by the savory smell
sent forth throughout the apartment by the contents of whatsoever was
contained in the immense pot.

"My dear brethren," said the priest, "let us consider this cavern as a
rich monastery; such, alas! as existed in the good days of old, when
the larder and refectory were a credit to religion and a relief to the
destitute, but which, alas!--and alas! again--we can only think of as
a--in the meantime, I can stand this no longer. If I possess judgment or
penetration in _re culinaria_, I am of opinion," he added (stirring up
the contents of it), "that it is fit to be operated on; so, in God's
name, let us have at it."

In a few minutes two or three immense pewter dishes were heaped with a
stew made up of mutton, bacon, hung beef, onions, and potatoes, forming
indeed a most delicious mess for any man, much less the miserable men
who were making it disappear so rapidly.

Reilly, the very picture of health, after maintaining a pace inferior
to that of none, although there were decidedly some handy workmen there,
now was forced to pull up and halt. In the meantime some slow but steady
operations went on with a perseverance that was highly creditable; and
it was now that, having a little agreeable leisure to observe and
look about him, he began to examine the extraordinary costumes of the
incongruous society in which, to his astonishment, he found himself a
party. We must, however, first account for the oddness and incongruity
of the apparent characters which they were forced to assume.

At this period the Catholics of Ireland were indeed frightfully
oppressed. A proclamation had recently been issued by the Government,
who dreaded, or pretended to dread, an insurrection--by which document
convents and monasteries were suppressed--rewards offered for the
detection and apprehension of ecclesiastics, and for the punishment of
such humane magistrates as were reluctant to enforce laws so unsparing
and oppressive. Increased rewards were also offered to spies and
informers, with whom the country unfortunately abounded. A general
disarming of all Catholics took place; domiciliary visits were made
in quest of bishops, priests, and friars, and all the chapels in the
country were shut up. Many of the clergy flew to the metropolis, where
they imagined they might be more safe, and a vast number to caverns and
mountains, in order to avoid the common danger, and especially from
a wholesome, terror of that class of men called priest-hunters.
The Catholic peasantry having discovered their clergy in these wild
retreats, flocked to them on Sundays and festivals, in order to join in
private--not public-worship, and to partake of the rites and sacraments
of their Church.

Such was the state of the country at the period when the unfortunate
men whom we are about to describe were pent up in this newly discovered
cavern.

Now, Reilly himself was perfectly acquainted with all this, and knew
very well that these unhappy men, having been frequently compelled to
put on the first disguise that came to hand, had not means, nor indeed
disposition, to change these disguises, unless at the risk of being
recognized, taken into custody, and surrendered to the mercy of the law.

When their savory meal was concluded, Father Maguire, who never forgot
any duty connected with his position--be that where it might--now went
over to the large pot, exclaiming:

"It would be too bad, my friends, to forget the creatures here that have
been so faithful and so steady to us. Poor things, I could see, by
the way they fixed their longing eyes upon us while we were doing the
handy-work at the stew, that if the matter had been left to themselves,
not a spoonful ever went into our mouths but they'd have practised the
doctrine of tithe upon. Come, darlings--here, now, is a little race
for you--every one of you seize a spoon, keep a hospitable mouth and
a supple wrist. These creatures, Mr. Reilly, are so many little brands
plucked out of the burning. They are the children of parents who
suffered for their faith, and were brought here to avoid being put into
these new traps for young Catholics, called Charter Schools, into which
the Government wishes to hook in our rising generation, under pretence
of supporting and educating them; but, in point of fact, to alienate
them from the affection of their parents and relations, and to train
them up in the State religion, poor things. At all events, they are very
handy to us here, for they slip out by turns and bring us almost every
thing we want--and not one of them ever opened his lips as to the
existence of this _spelunca_."

The meal of the poor things was abundant, but they soon gave over, and
in a few minutes they tumbled themselves into their heather beds, and
were soon sunk in their innocent slumbers.

"Now, gentlemen, that we have eaten a better meal than we could expect
in this miserable place, thanks to the kindness of our faithful flocks,
what do you think of a sup of what's in the keg? Good eating deserves
a drop of mixture after it, to aid in carrying on the process of
digestion! Father Hennessy, what are you at?" he exclaimed, addressing
an exceedingly ill-looking man, with heavy brows and a sinister aspect.
"You forget, sir, that the management of the keg is my duty, whenever
I am here. You are the only person here who violates our regulations in
that respect. Walk back and wait till you are helped like another. Do
you call that being spiritually inclined? If so, there is not a doubt of
it but you ought to be a bishop; and if you come to that, I'll stake my
credit on it that you'll never let much wind into your stomach so long
as you can get plenty of the solids and fluids to keep it out."

"I'm weak in the stomach," replied Hennessy, with a sensual grin, "and
require it."

"But I say," replied Father Maguire, "that it would require stronger
proof than any your outward man presents to confirm the truth of that.
As for bearing a load either of the liquids or solids aforesaid, I'll
back your bit of abdomen there against those of any three of us."

Cups and noggins, and an indescribable variety of small vessels that
were never designed for drinking, were now called into requisition, and
a moderate portion of the keg was distributed among them. Reilly, while
enjoying his cup, which as well as the others he did with a good deal of
satisfaction, could not help being amused by the comical peculiarity of
their disguises.

The sinister-looking clergyman, whom we have named Hennessy,
subsequently became a spy and informer, and, we may add, an enemy
equally formidable and treacherous to the Catholics of the time, in
consequence of having been deprived of his clerical functions by his
bishop, who could not overlook his immoral and irregular conduct. He is
mentioned by Matthew O'Connor, in his "History of the Irish Catholics,"
and consigned to infamy as one of the greatest scourges, against both
the priesthood and the people, that ever disgraced the country. But it
must be admitted that he stands out in dark relief against the great
body of the Catholic priests at that period, whose firmness, patience,
and fidelity to their trust, places them above all praise and all
suspicion. It is, however, very reasonable, that men so hunted and
persecuted should be forced, not only in defence of their own lives
and liberties, but also for the sake of their flocks, to assume such
costumes as might most effectually disguise them, so that they would be
able still, even in secret and by stealth, to administer the rites of
their religion to the poor and neglected of their own creed. Some were
dressed in common frieze, some in servants' cast-off liveries--however
they came by them--and not a few in military uniform, that served, as
it were, to mark them staunch supporters of the very Government that
persecuted them. A reverend archdeacon, somewhat comely and corpulent,
had, by some means or other, procured the garb of a recruiting sergeant,
which fitted him so admirably that the illusion was complete; and, what
bore it out still more forcibly, was the presence of a smart-looking
little friar, who kept the sergeant in countenance in the uniform of
a drummer. Mass was celebrated every day, hymns were sung, and prayers
offered up to the Almighty, that it might please him to check the flood
of persecution which had overwhelmed or scattered them. Still, in the
intervals of devotion, they indulged in that reasonable cheerfulness and
harmless mirth which were necessary to support their spirits, depressed
as they must have been by this dreadful and melancholy confinement--a
confinement where neither the light of the blessed sun, nor the fresh
breezes of heaven, nor the air we breathe, in its usual purity, could
reach them. Sir Thomas More and Sir Walter Raleigh, however, were
cheerful on the scaffold; and even here, as we have already said, many a
rustic tale and legend, peculiar to those times, went pleasantly around;
many a theological debate took place, and many a thesis was discussed,
in order to enable the unhappy men to pass away the tedious monotony of
their imprisonment in this strange lurking-place. The only man who kept
aloof and took no part in these amusing recreations was Hennessy, who
seemed moody and sullen, but who, nevertheless, was frequently detected
in making stolen visits to the barrel.

Notwithstanding all this, however, the sight was a melancholy one; and
whatever disposition Reilly felt to smile at what he saw and heard
was instantly changed on perceiving their unaffected piety, which was
evident by their manner, and a rude altar in a remote end of the cave,
which was laid out night and day for the purpose of celebrating the
ceremonies and mysteries of their Church. Before he went to his couch
of heather, however, he called Father Maguire aside, and thus addressed
him:

"I have been a good deal struck to-night, my friend, by all that I
have witnessed in this singular retreat. The poor prelate I pity; and I
regret I did not understand him sooner. His mind, I fear, is gone."

"Why, I didn't understand him myself," replied the priest; "because this
was the first symptom he has shown of any derangement in his intellect,
otherwise I would no more have contradicted him than I would have cut my
left hand off."

"There is, however, a man--a clergyman here, called Hennessy; who is he,
and what has been his life?"

"Why," replied the other, "I have heard nothing to his disadvantage. He
is a quiet, and, it is said, a pious man--and I think he is too. He
is naturally silent, and seldom takes any part in our conversation. He
says, however, that his concealment here bears hard upon him, and is
depressing his spirits every day more and more. The only thing I ever
could observe in him is what you saw yourself to-night-a slight relish
for an acquaintance with the barrel. He sometimes drains a drop--indeed,
sometimes too much--out of it, when he gets our backs turned; but then
he pleads low spirits three or four times a day--indeed, so often that,
upon my word, he'll soon have the barrel pleading the same complaint."

"Well," replied Reilly, after listening attentively to him, "I desire
you and your friends to watch that man closely. I know something about
him; and I tell you that if ever the laws become more lenient, the
moment this man makes his appearance his bishop will deprive him of
all spiritual jurisdiction for life. Mark me now, Father Maguire; if
he pleads any necessity for leaving this retreat and going abroad again
into the world, don't let a single individual of you remain, here one
hour after him. Provide for your safety and your shelter elsewhere as
well as you can; if not, the worst consequences may--nay, will follow."

The priest promised to communicate this intelligence to his companions,
one by one, after which, both he and Reilly, feeling fatigued and
exhausted by what they had undergone in the course of the night, threw
themselves each upon his couch of heather, and in a few minutes not only
they, but all their companions, were sunk in deep sleep.




CHAPTEE XI.--The Squire's Dinner and his Guests.


We now return to _Cooleen Bawn_, who, after her separation from Reilly,
retired to her own room, where she indulged in a paroxysm of deep grief,
in consequence of her apprehension that she might never see him again.
She also calculated upon the certainty of being obliged to sustain a
domestic warfare with her father, as the result of having made him the
confidant of her love. In this, however, she was agreeably disappointed;
for, on meeting him the next morning, at breakfast, she was a good
deal surprised to observe that he made no allusion whatsoever to the
circumstance--if, indeed, an occasional muttering of some unintelligible
words, _sotto voce_, might not be supposed to allude to it. The truth
was, the old man found the promise he had made to Sir Robert one of such
difficulty to his testy and violent disposition, that his language, and
the restraint which he felt himself under the necessity of putting on
it, rendered his conversation rather ludicrous.

"Well, Helen," he said, on entering the breakfast-parlor, "how did you
rest last night, my love? Rested sound--eh? But you look rather pale,
darling. (Hang the rascal!)"

"I cannot say that I slept as well as usual, sir. I felt headache."

"Ay, headache--was it? (heartache, rather. The villain.) Well come, let
me have a cup of tea and a mouthful of that toast."

"Will you not have some chicken, sir?"

"No, my dear--no; just what I said--a mouthful of toast, and a cup of
tea, with plenty of cream in it. Thank you, love. (A good swing for him
will be delightful. I'll go to see it.) Helen, my dear, I'm going to
give a dinner-party next week. Of course we'll have your future--hem--I
mean we'll have Sir Robert, and--let me see--who else? Why, Oxley, the
sheriff", Mr. Brown, the parson--I wish he didn't lean so much to the
cursed Papists, though--Mr. Hastings, who is tarred with the same
stick, it is whispered. Well, who next? Lord Deilmacare, a good-natured
jackass--a fellow who would eat a jacketful of carrion, if placed before
him, with as much _gout_ as if it were venison. He went home one night,
out of this, with the parson's outside coat and shovel hat upon him, and
did not return them for two days."

"Does this habit proceed from stupidity, papa?"

"Not at all; but from mere carelessness. The next two days he was out
with his laborers, and if a cow or pig chanced--(the villain! we'll hang
him to a certainty)--chanced, I say, to stray into the field, he would
shy the shovel hat at them, without remorse. Oh! we must have him, by
all means. But who next? Sir Jenkins Joram. Give him plenty to drink,
and he is satisfied."

"But what are his political principles, papa?"

"They are to be found in the bottle, Helen, which is the only creed,
political or religious, to which I ever knew him to be attached; and
I tell you, girl, that if every Protestant in Ireland were as deeply
devoted to his Church as he is to the bottle, we would soon be a happy
people, uncorrupted by treacherous scoundrels, who privately harbor
Papists and foster Popery itself. (The infernal scoundrel.)"

"But, papa," replied his daughter, with a melancholy smile, "I think I
know some persons, who, although very loud and vehement in their outcry
against Popery, have, nevertheless, on more than one or two occasions,
harbored Papists in their house, and concealed even priests, when the
minions of the law were in search of them."

"Yes, and it is of this cursed crew of hollow Protestants that I now
speak--ahem--ay--ha--well, what the devil--hem. To be sure I--I--I--but
it doesn't signify; we can't be wise at all times. But after all, Helen
(she has me there), after all, I say, there are some good Papists, and
some good--ahem--priests, too. There now, I've got it out. However,
Helen, those foolish days are gone, and we have nothing for it now but
to hunt Popery out of the country. But to proceed as to the dinner."

"I think Popery is suffering enough, sir, and more than enough."

"Ho, ho," he exclaimed with triumph, "here comes the next on my list--a
fine fellow, who will touch it up still more vigorously--I mean Captain
Smellpriest."

"I have heard of that inhuman man," replied Helen; "I wish you would
not ask him, papa. I am told he equals Sir Robert Whitecraft in both
cowardice and cruelty. Is not that a nickname he has got in consequence
of his activity in pursuit of the unfortunate priests?"

"It's a nickname he has given himself," replied her father; "and he
has become so proud of it that he will allow himself to be called by no
other. He swears that if a priest gets on the windy side of him, he will
scent him as a hound would a fox. Oh! by my honor, Smellpriest must be
here. The scoundrel like Whitecraft!--eh-what am I saying? Smellpriest,
I say, first began his career as a friend to the Papists; he took large
tracts of land in their name, and even purchased a couple of estates
with their money; and in due time, according as the tide continued
to get strong against them, he thought the best plan to cover his
villany--ahem--his policy, I mean--was to come out as a fierce loyalist;
and as a mark of his repentance, he claimed the property, as the real
purchaser, and arrested those who were fools enough to trust him."

"I think I know another gentleman of my acquaintance who holds property
in some similar trust for Papists," observed Helen, "but who certainly
is incapable of imitating the villany of that most unprincipled man."

"Come, come, Helen; come, my girl; tut--ahem; come, you are getting
into politics now, and that will never do. A girl like you ought to have
nothing to do with politics or religion."

"Religion! papa."

"Oh--hem-I don't mean exactly that. Oh, no; I except religion; a girl
may be as religious as she pleases, only she must say as little upon the
subject as possible. Come, another cup of tea, with a little more
sugar, for, I give you my honor, you did not make the last one of the
sweetest;" and so saying, he put over his cup with a grimace, which
resembled that of a man detected in a bad action, instead of a good one.

At this moment John, the butler, came in with a plate of hot toast; and,
as he was a privileged old man, he addressed his master without much
hesitation.

"That was a quare business," he observed, using the word quare as an
equivocal one, until he should see what views of the circumstance his
master might take; "a quare business, sir, that happened to Mr. Reilly."

"What business do you allude to, you old sinner?"

"The burning of his house and place, sir. All he has, or had, is in a
heap of ashes."

Helen felt not for the burning, but her eyes were fixed upon the
features of the old man, as if the doom of her life depended on his
words; whilst the paper on which ee write is not whiter than were her
cheeks.

"What--what--how was it?" asked his master; "who did it?--and by whose
authority was it done?"

"Sir Robert Whitecraft and his men did it, sir."

"Ay, but I can't conceive he had any authority for such an act."

"Wasn't Mr. Reilly an outlaw, sir? Didn't the Red Rapparee, who is now a
good Protestant, swear insurrection against him?"

"The red devil, sirra," replied the old squire, forgetting his animosity
to Reilly in the atrocity and oppression of the deed--"the red
devil, sirra! would that justify such a cowardly scoundrel as Sir
Robert--ugh--ugh--ugh--that went against my breath, Helen. Well, come
here, I say, you old sinner; they burned the place, you say?"

"Sir Robert and his men did, sir."

"I'm not doubting that, you old house-leek. I know Sir Robert too
well--I know the infernal--ahem; a most excellent loyal gentleman, with
two or three fine estates, both here and in England; but he prefers
living here, for reasons best known to himself and me, and--and to
somebody else. Well, they burned Reilly out--but tell me this; did they
catch the rascal himself? eh? here's five pounds for you, if you can say
they have him safe."

"That's rather a loose bargain, your honor," replied the man with a
smile; "for saying it?--why, what's to prevent me from saying it, if I
wished?"

"None of your mumping, you old snapdragon; but tell me the truth, have
they secured him hard and fast?"

"No, sir, he escaped them, and as report goes they know nothing about
him, except that they haven't got him."

Deep and speechless was the agony in which Helen sat during this short
dialogue, her eyes having never once been withdrawn from the butler's
countenance; but now that she had heard of her lover's personal safety,
a thick, smothered sob, which, if it were to kill her, she could not
repress, burst from her bosom. Unwilling that either her father or the
servant should witness the ecstasy which she could not conceal, and
feeling that another minute would disclose the delight which convulsed
her heart and frame, she arose, and, with as much composure as she could
assume, went slowly out of the room. On entering her apartment, she
signed to her maid to withdraw, after which she closed and bolted the
door, and wept bitterly. The poor girl's emotion, in fact, was of a
twofold character; she wept with joy at Reilly's escape from the
hands of his cruel and relentless enemy, and with bitter grief at the
impossibility which she thought there existed that he should ultimately
be able to keep out of the meshes which she knew Whitecraft would spread
for him. The tears, however, which she shed abundantly, in due time
relieved her, and in the course of an hour or two she was able to appear
as usual in the family.

The reader may perceive that her father, though of an abrupt and cynical
temper, was not a man naturally of a bad or unfeeling heart. Whatever
mood of temper chanced to be uppermost influenced him for the time; and
indeed it might be said that one half of his feelings were usually in a
state of conflict with the other. In matters of business he was the very
soul of integrity and honor, but in his views of public affairs he
was uncertain and inconsistent; and of course his whole life, as a
magistrate and public man, was a perpetual series of contradictions. The
consequence of all this was, that he possessed but small influence,
as arising from his personal character; but not so from his immense
property, as well as from the fact that he was father to the wealthiest
and most beautiful heiress in the province, or perhaps, so far as beauty
was concerned, in the kingdom itself.

At length the day mentioned for the dinner arrived, and, at the
appointed hour, so also did the guests. There were some ladies asked to
keep Helen in countenance, but we need scarcely say, that as the list of
them was made out by her thoughtless father, he paid, in the selection
of some of them, very little attention to her feelings. There was the
sheriff, Mr. Oxley, and his lady--the latter a compound in whom it was
difficult to determine whether pride, vulgarity, or obesity prevailed.
Where the sheriff had made his capture of her was never properly known,
as neither of them belonged originally to that neighborhood in which he
had, several years ago, purchased large property. It was said he had got
her in London; and nothing was more certain than that she issued forth
the English language clothed in an inveterate cockney accent. She was a
high moralist, and a merciless castigator of all females who manifested,
or who were supposed to manifest, even a tendency to walk out of the
line of her own peculiar theory on female conduct. Her weight might be
about eighteen stone, exclusive of an additional stone of gold chains
and bracelets, in which she moved like a walking gibbet, only with the
felon in it; and to crown all, she wore on her mountainous bosom a cameo
nearly the size of a frying-pan. Sir Jenkins Joram, who took her down to
dinner, declared, on feeling the size of the bracelets which encircled
her wrists, that he labored for a short time under the impression that
he and she were literally handcuffed together; an impression, he added,
from which he was soon relieved by the consoling reflection that it was
the sheriff himself whom the clergyman had sentenced to stand in that
pleasant predicament. Of Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings we have only to
say that they were modest, sensible, unassuming women, without either
parade or pretence, such, in fact, as you will generally meet among
our well-bred and educated countrywomen. Lord Deilmacare was a widower,
without family, and not a marrying man. Indeed, when pressed upon this
subject, he was never known to deviate from the one reply.

"Why don't you marry again, my lord?--will you ever marry?"

"No, madam, I got enough of it," a reply which, somehow, generally
checked any further inquiry on the subject. Between Lady Joram and Mrs.
Smellpriest there subsisted a singular analogy with respect to their
conjugal attachments. It was hinted that her ladyship, in those
secret but delicious moments of matrimonial felicity which make up the
sugar-candy morsels of domestic life, used to sit with Sir Jenkins for
the purpose, by judicious exercise, of easing, by convivial exercise, a
rheumatic affection which she complained of in her right arm. There is
nothing, however, so delightful as a general and loving sympathy between
husband and wife; and here it was said to exist in perfection. Mrs.
Smellpriest, on the other hand, was said to have been equally attached
to the political principles of the noble captain, and to wonder why any
clergyman should be suffered to live in the country but those of her
own Church; such delightful men, for instance, as their curate, the Rev.
Samson Strong, who was nothing more nor less than a divine bonfire in
the eyes of the Christian! world. Such was his zeal against Papists, she
said, as well as against Popery at large, that she never looked on him
without thinking that there was a priest to be burned. Indeed Captain
Smellpriest, she added, was under great obligations to him, for
no sooner had his reverence heard of a priest taking earth in the
neighborhood, than he lost no time in communicating the fact to her
husband; after which he would kindly sit with and comfort her whilst
fretting lest any mischief might befall her dear captain.

The dinner passed as all dinners usually do. They hobnobbed, of course,
and indulged in that kind of promiscuous conversation which cannot well
be reported. From a feeling of respect to Helen, no allusion was made
either to the burning of Reilly's property or to Reilly personally. The
only person who had any difficulty in avoiding the subject was the old
squire himself, who more than once found the topic upon his lips, but
with a kind of short cough he gulped it down, and got rid of it for the
time. In what manner he might treat the act itself was a matter which
excited a good deal of speculation in the minds of those who were
present. He was known to be a man who, if the whim seized him to look
upon it as a cowardly and vindictive proceeding, would by no means
scruple to express his opinions strongly against it; whilst, on
the other hand, if he measured it in connection with his daughter's
forbidden attachment to Reilly, he would, of course, as vehemently
express his approbation of the outrage. Indeed, they were induced to
conclude that this latter view of it was that which he was most likely
to take, in consequence of the following proposal, which, from any other
man, would have been an extraordinary one:

"Come, ladies, before you leave us we must have one toast; and I shall
give it in order to ascertain whether we have any fair traitresses among
us, or any who are secretly attached to Popery or Papists."

The proposal was a cruel one, but the squire was so utterly destitute of
consideration or delicacy of feeling that we do not think he ever once
reflected upon the painful position in which it placed his daughter.

"Come," he proceeded, "here is prosperity to Captain Smellpriest and
priest-hunting!"*

     * We have been charged by an able and accomplished writer
     with an incapacity of describing, with truth, any state of
     Irish society above that of our peasantry; and the toast
     proposed by the eccentric old squire is, we presume, the
     chief ground upon which this charge is rested. We are,
     however, just as well aware as our critic, that to propose
     toasts before the female portion of the company leave the
     dinner-table, is altogether at variance with the usages of
     polite society. But we really thought we had guarded our
     readers against any such, inference of our own ignorance by
     the character which we had drawn of the squire, as well as
     by the words with which the toast is introduced--where we
     said, "from any other man would have been an extraordinary
     one." I may also refer to Mrs. Brown's reply.

"As a Christian minister," replied Mr. Brown, "and an enemy to
persecution in every sense, but especially to that which would punish
any man for the great principle which we ourselves claim--the rights of
conscience--I decline to drink the toast;" and he turned down his glass.

"And I," said Mr. Hastings, "as a Protestant and a Christian, refuse it
on the same principles;" and he also turned down his glass.

"But you forget, gentlemen," proceeded the squire, "that I addressed
myself principally to the ladies."

"But you know, sir," replied Mrs. Brown, with a smile, "that it is
quite unusual and out of character for ladies to drink toasts at all,
especially those which involve religious or political opinions. These, I
am sure, you know too well, Mr. Folliard, are matters with which ladies
have, and ought to have, nothing to do. I also, therefore, on behalf
of our sex, decline to drink the toast; and I trust that every lady who
respects herself will turn down her glass as I do."

Mrs. Hastings and Helen immediately followed her example, whilst at the
same time poor Helen's cheeks and neck were scarlet.

"You see, sir," said Mr. Brown, good-humoredly, "that the sex--at least
one-half of them--are against you."

"That's because they're Papists at heart," replied the squire, laughing.

Helen felt eased at seeing her father's good humor, for she now knew
that the proposal of the toast was but a jest, and did not aim at any
thing calculated to distress her feelings.

"But, in the meantime," proceeded the squire, "I am not without support.
Here is Lady Joram and Mrs. Smellpriest and Mrs. Oxley--and they are a
host in themselves--each of them willing and ready to support me."

"I don't see," said Lady Joram, "why a lady, any more than a gentleman,
should refuse to drink a proper toast as this is; Sir Jenkins has not
turned down his glass, and neither shall I. Come, then, Mr. Folliard,
please to fill mine; I shall drink it in a bumper."

"And I," said Mrs. Oxley, "always drinks my 'usband's principles. In
Lunnon, where true 'igh life is, ladies don't refuse to drink toasts. I
know that feyther, both before and after his removal to Lunnon, used
to make us all drink the ''Ard ware of Old Hingland'--by witch,"
she proceeded, correcting herself by a reproving glance from the
sheriff--"by witch he meant what he called the glorious sinews of the
country at large, lestwise in the manufacturing districts. But upon a
subject like this"--and she looked with something like disdain at those
who had turned down their glasses--"every lady as is a lady ought to
'ave no objection to hexplain her principles by drinking the toast; but
p'raps it ain't fair to press it upon some of 'em."

"Well, then," proceeded the squire, with a laugh that seemed to have
more than mirth in it, "are all the loyal subjects of the crown ready?
Lord Deilmacare, your glass is not filled; won't you drink it?"

"To be sure," replied his lordship; "I have no hatred against Papists;
I get my rent by their labor; but I never wish to spoil sport--get
along--I'll do anything."

With the exceptions already mentioned, the toast was drank immediately,
after which the ladies retired to the drawing-room.

"Now, gentlemen," said the squire, "fill your glasses, and let us enjoy
ourselves. You have a right to be proud of your wife, Mr. Sheriff, and
you too, Sir Jenkins--for,--upon my soul, if it had been his Majesty's
health, her ladyship couldn't have honored it with a fuller bumper. And,
Smellpriest, your wife did the thing handsomely as well as the rest.
Upon my soul, you ought to be happy men, with three women so deeply
imbued with the true spirit of our glorious Constitution."

"Ah, Mr. Folliard," said Smellpriest, "you don't know the value of that
woman. When I return, for instance, after a hunt, the first question she
puts to me is--Well, my love, how many priests did you catch to-day? And
out comes Mr. Strong with the same question. Strong, however, between
ourselves, is a goose; he will believe any thing, and often sends me
upon a cold trail. Now, I pledge you my honor, gentlemen, that this man,
who is all zeal, has sent me out dozens of times, with the strictest
instructions as to where I'd catch my priest; but, hang me, if ever
I caught a single priest upon his instructions yet! still, although
unfortunate in this kind of sport, his heart is in the right place.
Whitecraft, my worthy brother sportsman, how does it happen that Reilly
continues to escape you?"

"Why does he continue to escape yourself, captain?" replied the baronet.

"Why," said the other, "because I am more in the ecclesiastical line,
and, besides, he is considered to be, in an especial manner, your game."

"I will have him yet, though," said Whitecraft, "if he should assume as
many shapes as Proteus."

"By the way, Whitecraft," observed Folliard, "they tell me you burned
the unfor--you burned the scoundrel's house and offices."

"I wish you had been present at the bonfire, sir," replied his intended
son-in-law; "it would have done your heart good."

"I daresay," said the squire; "but still, what harm did his house and
place do you? I know the fellow is a Jesuit, a rebel, and an outlaw--at
least you tell me so; and you must know. But upon what authority did you
burn the rascal out?"

"As to that," returned the baronet, "the present laws against Popery and
the general condition of the times are a sufficient justification; and
I do not think that I am likely to be brought over the coals for it; on
the contrary, I look upon myself as a man who, in burning the villain
out, have rendered a very important service to Government."

"I regret, Sir Robert," observed Mr. Brown, "that you should have
disgraced yourself by such an oppressive act. I know that throughout the
country your conduct to this young man is attributed to personal malice
rather than to loyalty."

"The country may put what construction on my conduct it pleases," he
replied, "but I know I shall never cease till I hang him."

Mr. Hastings was a man of very few words; but he had an eye the
expression of which could not be mistaken--keen, manly, and firm. He sat
sipping his wine in silence, but turned from time to time a glance upon
the baronet, which was not only a searching one, but seemed to have
something of triumph in it.

"What do you say, Hastings?" asked Whitecraft; "can you not praise a
loyal subject, man?"

"I say nothing, Sir Robert," he replied; "but I think occasionally."

"Well, and what do you think occasionally?"

"Why, that the times may change."

"Whitecraft," said Smellpriest, "I work upon higher principles than they
say you do. I hunt priests, no doubt of it; but then I have no personal
malice against them; I proceed upon the broad and general principle of
hatred to Popery: but, at the same time, observe it is not the man but
the priest I pursue."

"And when you hang or transport the priest, what becomes of the man?"
asked the baronet, with a diabolical sneer. "As for me, Smellpriest, I
make no such distinctions; they are unworthy of you, and I'm sorry to
hear you express them. I say, the man."

"And I say, the priest," replied the other.

"What do you say, my lord?" asked Mr. Folliard of the peer.

"I don't much care which," replied his lordship; "man or priest, be it
as you can determine; only I say that when you hang the priest, I agree
with Whitecraft there, that it is all up with the man, and when you
hang the man, it is all up with the priest. By the way, Whitecraft," he
proceeded, "how would you like to swing yourself?"

"I am sure, my lord," replied the baronet, "you wouldn't wish to see me
hanged."

"Well, I don't know--perhaps I might, and perhaps I might not; but
I know you would make a long corpse, and I think you would dangle
handsomely enough; you have long limbs, a long body, and half a mile of
neck; upon my soul, one would think you were made for it. Yes, I dare
say I should like to see you hanged--I am rather inclined to think I
would--it's a subject, however, on which I am perfectly indifferent; but
if ever you should be hanged, Sir Robert, I shall certainly make it a
point to see you thrown off if it were only as a mark of respect for
your humane and excellent character."

"He would be a severe loss to the country," observed Sir Jenkins;
"the want of his hospitality would be deeply felt by the gentry of the
neighborhood; for which reason," he observed sarcastically, "I hope he
will be spared to us as long as his hospitality lasts."

"In the meantime, gentlemen," observed the sheriff, "I wish that, with
such keen noses for priests and rebels and criminals, you could come
upon the trail of the scoundrel who robbed me of three hundred and fifty
pounds."

"Would you know him again, Mr. Sheriff?" asked Sir Robert, "and could
you describe his appearance?"

"I have been turning the matter over," replied the sheriff, "and I
feel satisfied that I would know him if I saw him. He was dressed in a
broadcloth brown coat, light-colored breeches, and had silver buckles
in his shoes. The fellow was no common robber. Stuart--one of
your dragoons, Sir Robert, who came to my relief when it was too
late--insists, from my description of the dress, that it was Reilly."

"Are you sure he was not dressed in black?" asked Smellpriest. "Did you
observe a beads or crucifix about him?"

"I have described the dress accurately," replied the sheriff; "but I
am certain that it was not Reilly. On bringing the matter to my
recollection, after I had got rid of the pain and agitation, I was able
to remember that the ruffian had a coarse face and red whiskers. Now
Reilly's hair and whiskers are black."

"It was a reverend Papist," said Smellpriest; "one of those from
whom you had levied the fines that day, and who thought it no harm to
transfer them back again to holy Church. You know not how those rascals
can disguise themselves."

"And you blame them, Smellpriest," said the squire, "for disguising
themselves? Now, suppose the tables were turned upon us, that Popery got
the ascendant, and that Papists started upon the same principles against
us that we put in practice against them; suppose that Popish soldiers
were halloed on against our parsons, and all other Protestants
conspicuous for an attachment to their religion, and anxious to put down
the persecution under which we suffered; why, hang it, could you blame
the parsons, when hunted to the death, for disguising themselves? And
if you could not, how can you blame the priests? Would you have the poor
devils walk into your hands and say, 'Come, gentlemen, be good enough
to hang or transport us?' I am anxious, to secure Reilly, and either to
hang or transport him. I would say the latter, though."

"And I the former," observed Sir Robert.

"Well, Bob, that is as may happen; but in the meantime, I say he never
robbed the sheriff here; and if he were going to the gallows to-morrow,
I would maintain it."

Neither the clergyman nor Mr. Hastings took much part in the
conversation; but the eye of the latter was, during the greater portion
of the evening, fixed upon the baronet, like that of a basilisk,
accompanied by a hidden meaning, which it was impossible to penetrate,
but which, nevertheless, had such an effect upon Whitecraft that he
could not help observing it.

"It would seem, Mr. Hastings," said he, "as if you had never seen me
before. Your eye has scarcely been off me during the whole evening. It
is not pleasant, sir, nor scarcely gentlemanly."

"You should feel proud of it, Sir Robert," replied Hastings; "I only
admire you."

"Well, then, I wish you would express your admiration in some other
manner than by staring at me."

"Gadzooks, Sir Robert," said the squire, "don't you know that a cat may
look at a king? Hastings must be a man of devilish good taste, Bob, and
you ought to thank him."

Mr. Brown and Mr. Hastings soon afterwards went upstairs, and left the
other gentlemen to their liquor, which they now began to enjoy with
a more convivial spirit. The old squire's loyalty rose to a very high
pitch, as indeed did that of his companions, all of whom entertained the
same principles, with the exception of Lord Deilmacare, whose opinions
never could be got at, for thee very sufficient reason that he did not
know them himself.

"Come, Whitecraft," said the squire, "help yourself, and push the
bottle; now that those two half-Papists are gone, we can breathe and
speak a little more freely. Here's our glorious Constitution, in Church
and State, and curse all priests and Papists--barring a few, that I know
to be honest."

"I drink it, but I omit the exception," said Sir Robert, "and I wonder,
sir, you would make any exception to such a toast."

"I drink it," said Smellpriest, "including the rascal priest."

"And I drink it," said the sheriff, "as it has been proposed."

"What was it?" said Lord Deilmacare; "come, I drink it--it doesn't
matter. I suppose, coming from our excellent host, it must be right and
proper."

They caroused deeply, and in proportion as the liquor affected their
brains, so did their determination to rid the squire of the rebel Reilly
form itself into an express resolution to that effect.

"Hang Reilly--hang the villain--the gallows for him--hurra!" and in this
charitable sentiment their voices all joined in a fierce and drunken
exclamation, uttered with their hands all clasped in each other with a
strong and firm grip. From one mouth alone, however, proceeded, amidst
a succession of hiccups, the word "transportation," which, when Lord
Deilmacare heard, he changed his principle, and joined the old squire in
the same mitigation of feeling.

"I say, Deilmacare," shouted Sir Robert, "we must hang him high and
dry."

"Very well," replied his lordship, "with all my heart, Sir Robert; we
must hang you high and dry."

"But, Deilmacare," said the squire, "we should only transport him."

"Very good," exclaimed his lordship, emptying a bumper; "we shall only
transport you, Sir Robert."

"Hang him, Deilmacare!"

"Very well, hang him!"

"Transport him, I say, Deilmacare," from the squire.

"Good again," said his lordship; "transport him, say I."

And on went the drunken revel, until they scarcely knew what they said.

The clergyman and Mr. Hastings, on reaching the drawing-room, found
Helen in a state of inexpressible distress. A dispute upon the
prevailing morals of all modern young Lidies had been got up by Lady
Joram and Mrs. Oxley, for the express purpose of venting their petty
malice against the girl, because they had taken it into their heads that
she paid more attention to Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings than she did to
them. This dispute was tantamount to what, in the prize ring, is called
_cross_, when the fight is only a mock one, and terminates by the
voluntary defeat of one of the parties, upon a preconcerted arrangement.

"I don't agree with you, my lady; nor can I think that the morals of
young ladies in 'igh life, by witch I mean the daughters and heiresses of
wealthy squires--"

"But, my dear Mrs. Oxley," said her ladyship, interrupting her, and
placing her hand gently upon her arm, as if to solicit her consent to
the observation she was about to make, "you know, my dear Mrs. Oxley,
that the daughter of a mere country squire can have no pretensions to
come under the definition of high life."

"Wy not?" replied Mrs. Oxley; "the squires are often wealthier than the
haris-tocracy; and I don't at all see," she added, "wy the daughter of
such a man should not be considered as moving in 'igh life--always, of
course, provided that she forms no disgraceful attachments to Papists
and rebels and low persons of that 'ere class. No, my lady, I don't at
all agree with you in your view of 'igh life."

"You don't appear, madam, to entertain a sufficiently accurate estimate
of high life.

"I beg pardon, ma'am, but I think I can understand 'igh life as well as
those that don't know it better nor myself. I've seen a great deal of
'igh life. Feyther 'ad a willar at I'gate, and I'gate is known to be
the 'igh-est place about the metropolis of Lunnon--it and St. Paul's are
upon a bevel."

"Level, perhaps, you mean, ma'am?"

"Level or bevel,'it doesn't much diversify--but I prefer the bevel to
the level on all occasions. All I knows is," she proceeded, "that it is
a shame for any young lady, as is a young lady, to take a liking to a
Papist, because we know the Papists are all rebel; and would cut our
throats, only for the protection of our generous and merciful laws."

"I don't know what you mean by merciful laws," observed Mrs. Brown.
"They surely cannot be such laws as oppress and persecute a portion
of the people, and give an unjust license to one class to persecute
another, and to prevent them from exercising the duties which their
religion imposes upon them."

"Well," said Lady Joram, "all I wish is, that the Papists were
exterminated; we should then have no apprehensions that our daughters
would disgrace themselves, by falling in love with them."

This conversation was absolutely cruel, and the amiable Mrs. Brown, from
compassion to Helen, withdrew her into a corner of the room, and
entered into conversation with her upon a different topic, assuring her
previously that she would detail their offensive and ungenerous remarks
to her father, who, she trusted, would never see them under his roof
again, nor give them an opportunity of indulging in their vulgar
malignity a second time. Helen thanked her, and said their hints and
observations, though rude and ungenerous, gave her but little pain.
The form of language in which they were expressed, she added, and the
indefensible violation of all the laws of hospitality, blunted the
severity of what they said.

"I am not ashamed," she said, "of my attachment to the brave and
generous young man who saved my father's life. He is of no vulgar birth,
but a highly educated and a highly accomplished gentleman--a man, in
fact, my dear Mrs. Brown, whom no woman, be her rank in life ever so
high or exalted, might blush to love. I do not blush to make the avowal
that I love him; but, unfortunately, in consequence of the existing laws
of the country, my love for him, which I will never conceal, must be a
hopeless one."

"I regret the state of those laws, my dear Miss Folliard, as much as you
do; but still their existence puts a breach between you and Reilly, and
under those circumstances my advice to you is to overcome your affection
for him if you can. Marriage is out of the question."

"It is not marriage I think of--for that is out of the question--but
Reilly's life and safety. If he were safe, I should feel comparatively
happy; happiness, in its full extent, I never can hope to enjoy; but
if he were only safe--if he were only safe, my dear Mrs. Brown! I know
that he is hunted like a beast of prey, and under such circumstances as
disturb and distract the country, how can he escape?"

The kind-hearted lady consoled her as well as she could; but, in fact,
her grounds for consolation were so slender that her arguments only
amounted to those general observations which, commonplace as they
are, we are in the habit of hearing from day to day. Helen was too
high-minded to shed tears, but Mrs. Brown could plainly perceive the
depth of her emotion, and feel the extent of wrhat she suffered.

We shall not detail at further length the conversation of the other
ladies--if ladies they can be called; nor that of the gentlemen, after
they entered the drawing-room. Sir Robert Whitecraft attempted to enter
into conversation with Helen, but found himself firmly and decidedly
repulsed. In point of fact, some of the gentlemen were not in a state
to grace a drawing-room, and in a short time they took their leave and
retired.




CHAPTEE XII.--Sir Robert Meets a Brother Sportsman

--Draws his Nets, but Catches Nothing.


"'Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all," said Shakespeare, with
that wonderful wisdom which enlightens his glorious pages; and, in fact,
Sir Robert Whitecraft, in his own person, fully corroborated the truth
of the poet's apophthegm. The man, besides, was naturally a coward; and
when to this we add the consciousness of his persecutions and cruelties,
and his apprehensions from the revenge of Reilly--the destruction of
whose property, without any authority from Government for the act, he
felt himself guilty of--the reader may understand the nature and extent
of his terrors on his way home. The distance between his own house and
that of his intended father-in-law was about three miles, and there lay
a long space of level road, hedged in, as was then the custom, on both
sides, from behind which hedges an excellent aim could be taken. As Sir
Robert proceeded along this lonely path, his horse stumbled against some
stones that were in his way, or perhaps that had been purposely placed
there. Be that as it may, the baronet fell, and a small man, of compact
size and vigorous frame, was found aiding him to rise. Having helped
him into the saddle, the baronet asked him, with an infirm and alarmed
voice, who he was.

"Why, Sir Robert," he replied, "you must know I am not a Papist, or I
wouldn't be apt to render you any assistance; I am somewhat of your own
kidney--a bit of a priest-hunter, on a small scale. I used to get them
for Captain Smellpriest, but he paid me badly, and as there was great
risk among the bloody Papists, I made up my mind to withdraw out of his
service; but you are a gentleman, Sir Robert, what Captain Smellpriest
is not, and if you want an active and useful enemy to Popery, I am your
man."

"I want such a person, certainly," replied the baronet, who, in
consequence of the badness of the road and the darkness of the night,
was obliged to walk his horse with caution. "By the way," said he, "did
you not hear a noise behind the hedge?"

"I did," replied the other, "but it was the noise of cattle."

"I am not aware," replied Sir Robert, "what the devil cattle can have to
do immediately behind the hedge. I rather think they are some of our own
species;" and as he ceased speaking the tremendous braying of a jackass
came upon their ears.

"You were right, Sir Robert," replied his companion; "I beg pardon, I
mean that was right; you know now it was cattle."

"What is your name?" asked Sir Robert.

"Rowland Drum, Sir Robert; and, if you will permit me, I should like to
see you safe home. I need not say that you are hated by the Papists; and
as the road is lonesome and dangerous, as a priest-hunter myself I think
it an act of duty not to leave you."

"Thank you," said Sir Robert, "you are a civil person, and I will accept
your escort."

"Whatever danger you may run, Sir Robert, I will stand by your side and
partake of it."

"Thank you, friend," replied Sir Robert; "there is a lonely place before
us, where a ghost is said to be seen--the ghost of a priest whom I
hunted for a long time; Smellpriest, it is said, shot him at the place
I allude to. He was disguised as a drummer, and is said to haunt the
locality where he was shot."

"Well, I shall see you safe over the place, Sir Robert, and go home
with you afterwards, provided you will promise to give me a bed and my
supper; to-morrow we can talk on matters of business."

"I shall certainly do so," replied Sir Robert, "not only in consequence
of your attention to me, but of our common purpose."

They then proceeded onwards--passed the haunted spot--without either
hearing or seeing the spectral drummer. On arriving at home, Sir Robert,
who drank privately, ordered wine for himself, and sent Rowland Drum
to the kitchen, where he was rather meagerly entertained, and was
afterwards lodged for the night in the garret.

The next morning, after breakfast, Sir Robert sent for Mr. Drum, who, on
entering the breakfast parlor, was thus addressed by his new patron:

"What's this you say your name is?"

"Rowland Drum, sir."

"Rowland Drum! Well, now, Rowland Drum, are you well acquainted with the
priests of this diocese?"

"No man better," replied the redoubtable Rowland. "I know most of them
by person, and have got private descriptions of them all from Captain
Smellpriest, which will be invaluable to you, Sir Robert. The fact
is--and this I mention in the strictest confidence--that Smellpriest is
suspicious of your attachment to our glorious Constitution."

"The confounded rascal," replied the baronet. "Did he ever burn as many
Popish houses as I have done? He has no appetite for any thing but
the pursuit and capture of priests; but I have a far more general and
unsparing practice, for I not only capture the priests, where I can, but
every lay Papist that we suspect in the country. Here, for instance. Do
you see those papers? They are blank warrants for the apprehension of
the guilty and suspected, and also protections, transmitted to me from
the Secretary of State, that I may be enabled, by his authority, to
protect such Papists as will give useful information to the Government.
Here they are, signed by the Secretary, but the blanks are left for
myself to fill up."

"I wish we could get Reilly to come over," said Mr. Drum.

"Oh! the infernal villain," said the baronet, "all the protections that
ever were or could be issued from the Secretary's office would not nor
could not save him. Old Folliard and I will hang him, if there was not
another man to be hanged in the three kingdoms."

At this moment a servant came in and said, "Sir Robert, there is a woman
her who wishes to have some private conversation with you."

"What kind of a woman is she?" asked the baronet.

"Faith, your honor, a sturdy and strapping wench, somewhat rough, in the
face, but of great proportions."

Now it so happened that Mr. Drum had been sitting at the window during
this brief conversation, and at once recognized, under the disguise of
a woman, the celebrated informer, the Rev. Mr. Hennessy, a wretch whose
criminal course of life, as we said before, was so gross and reprobate
that his pious bishop deemed it his duty to suspend him from all
clerical functions.

"Sir Robert," said Drum, "I must go up to my room and shave. My
presence, I apprehend, won't be necessary where there is a lady in
question."

"Very well," replied the baronet; "I know not what her business may be;
but I shall be glad to speak with you after she shall have gone."

It was very well that Hennessy did not see Drum, whom he would at once
have recognized; but, at all events, the interview between the reprobate
priest and the baronet lasted for at least an hour.

After the Rev. Miss Hennessy had taken her departure, Mr. Drum was sent
for by the baronet, whom he still found in the breakfast parlor.

"Drum," said he, "you have now an opportunity of essentially serving not
only me, but the Government of the country. This lady turns out to be a
Popish priest in disguise, and I have taken him into my confidence as
a guide and auxiliary. Now you have given me proofs of personal
attachment, which is certainly more than he has done as yet. I have
heard of his character as an immoral priest; and the man who could be
false to his own creed is not a man to be relied upon. He has described
to me the position of a cavern, in which are now hiding a set of
proscribed priests; but I cannot have confidence in his information, and
I wish you to go to the ravine or cavern, or whatever the devil it is,
and return to me with correct intelligence. It may be a lure to draw
me into danger, or perhaps to deprive me of my life; but, on second
thought, I think I shall get a military force, and go myself."

"And perhaps never return, unless with your heels foremost, Sir Robert.
I tell you that this Hennessy is the most treacherous scoundrel on the
face of the earth. You do not know what he's at, but I will tell
you, for I have it from his own cousin. His object is to have you
assassinated, in order to restore himself to the good graces of the
bishop and the Catholic party, who, I must say, however, would not
countenance such a murderous act; still, Sir Robert, if you were taken
off, the man who took you off would have his name honored and exalted
throughout the country."

"Yes, I believe you are right, Drum; they are thirsting for my blood,
but not more than I am thirsting for theirs."

"Well, then," said Drum, "don't trust yourself to the counsels of this
Hennessy, who, in my opinion, only wants to make a scapegoat of you.
Allow me to go to the place he mentions, for I know the ravine well, but
I never knew nor do I believe that there is a cavern at all in it,
and that is what makes me suspect the scoundrel's motives. He can have
hundreds of outlaws secretly armed, who would never suffer you to escape
with your life. The thing is an ambuscade; take my word for it, it is
nothing less. Of course you can go, yourself and your party, if you
wish. You will prevent me from running a great risk; but I am only
anxious for your safety."

"Well, then," said Sir Robert, "you shall go upon this mission. It may
not be safe for me to do so. Try if you can make out this cavern, if
there be a cavern."

"I will try, Sir Robert; and I will venture to say, that if it can be
made out, I will make 't out." Rowland Drum accordingly set out upon
his mission, and having arrived at the cavern, with which he was so well
acquainted, he entered it with the usual risk. His voice, however, was
recognized, and he got instant admittance.

"My dear friends," said he, after he had entered the inner part of it,
"you must disperse immediately. Hennessy has betrayed you, and if you
remain here twenty-four hours longer, Sir Kobert Whitecraft and a party
of military, guided, probably, by the treacherous scoundrel himself,
will be upon you. The villain had a long interview with him, and gave a
full detail of the cavern and its inmates."

"But how did you become acquainted with Sir Kobert Whitecraft?" asked
the bishop.

"In order, my lord, to ascertain his intentions and future proceedings,"
replied Mr. Drum, "that we might guard against his treachery and
persecution. On his way home from a dinner at Squire Folliard's I met
him in a lonely part of the road, where he was thrown from his horse; I
helped him into his saddle, told him I was myself a priest-hunter,
and thus got into his confidence so far as to be able to frustrate
Hennessy's treachery, and to counteract his own designs."

"Sir," said the bishop sternly, "you have acted a part unworthy of a
Christian clergyman. We should not do evil that good may follow; and
you have done evil in associating yourself, in any sense and for any
purpose, with this bloodthirsty tiger and persecutor of the faithful."

"My lord," replied the priest, "this is not a time to enter into a
discussion on such a subject. Hennessy has betrayed us; and if you do
not disperse to other places of safety, he will himself, as I said, lead
Sir Robert Whitecraft and a military party to this very cavern, and then
may God have mercy on you all."

"Brethren," said the bishop, "this is, after all, possible that our
brother has, by the mercy and providence of God, through his casual
meeting with this remorseless man, been made the instrument of our
safety. As for myself, I am willing to embrace the crown of martyrdom,
and to lay down my life, if necessary, for the faith that is in me. You
all know what I have already suffered, and you know that persecution
drives a wise man mad. My children," he added, "it is possible, and I
fear too probable, that some of us may never see each other in this life
again; but at the same time, let it be our hope and consolation that
we shall meet in a better. And for this purpose, and in order to secure
futurity of happiness, let us lead spotless and irreproachable lives,
such as will enable ur to meet the hour of death, whether it comes by
the hand of God or the persecution of man. Be faithful to the principles
of our holy religion--be faithful to truth--to moral virtue--be faithful
to God, before whose awful tribunal we must all appear, and render an
account of our lives. It would be mere wantonness to throw yourselves
into the hands of our persecutors. Reserve yourselves; for the
continuance and the sustainment of our blessed religion; but if you
should happen to fall, by the snares and devices of the enemy, into the
power of those who are striving to work our extermination, and if
they should press you to renounce your faith, upon the alternative of
banishment or death, then, I say, banishment, or death itself, sooner
than become apostates to your religion. I shall retire to a neighborhood
only a few miles distant from this, where the poor Catholic population
are without spiritual aid or consolation. I have been there before, and
I know their wants, and were it not that I was hunted and pursued with
a view to my death--to my murder, I should rather say--I would have
remained with them still. But that I considered it a duty to that
portion of the Church over which God called upon me to preside and
watch, I would not have avoided those inhuman traffickers in the blood
of God's people. Yet I am bound to say that, from the clergymen of
the Established Church, and from many Protestant magistrates, we have
received kindness, sympathy, and shelter. Their doors, their hearths,
and their hearts have been open to us, and that, too, in a truly
Christian spirit. Let us, then, render them good for good; let us pray
for their conversion, and that they may return to the right path."

"They have acted generously and nobly," added Reilly, "and in a truly
Christian spirit. Were it not for the shelter and protection which I
myself received from one of them, my mangled body would probably be
huddled down into some obscure grave, as a felon, and my property--which
is mine only by a necessary fiction and evasion of the law--have passed
into the hands of Sir Robert Whitecraft. I am wrong, however, in saying
that it could. Mr. Hastings, a generous and liberal Protestant, took it
in his own name for my father, but gave me a deed of assignment, placing
it as securely in my hands, and in my power, as if I were Sir Robert
Whitecraft himself; and I must add--which I do with pleasure--that the
deed in question is now in the possession of the Rev. Mr. Brown, the
amiable rector of the parish."

"But he is a heretic," said a red-faced little man, dressed in leather
breeches, top boots, and a huntsman's cap; _vade retro sathanas_, It is
a damnable crime to have any intercourse with them, or to receive any
protection from them: _vade retro, sathanas_."

"If I don't mistake," said the cook--an archdeacon, by the way--"you
yourself received protection from them, and were glad to receive it."

"If I did receive protection from one of their heretic parsons, it was
for Christian purposes. My object was not so much to seek protection
from him as to work out his salvation by withdrawing him from his
heresy. But then the fellow was as obstinate as _sathanas_ himself,
and had Greek and Hebrew at his fingers' ends. I made several passes at
him--tried Irish, and told him it was Italian. 'Well,' said he, smiling,
'I understand Italian too;' and to my astonishment he addressed me in
the best Irish I ever heard spoken. 'Now,' said he, still smiling, 'you
perceive that I understand Italian nearly--I will not say so well--as
you do.' Now, as I am a sinner, that, I say, was ungenerous treatment.
He was perfectly irreclaimable."

This man was, like Mr. Maguire, what has been termed a hedge-priest--a
character which, as we have already said, the poverty of the Catholic
people, during the existence of the penal laws, and the consequent want
of spiritual instruction, rendered necessary. There were no Catholic
colleges in the country, and the result was that the number of foreign
priests--by which I mean Irish priests educated in foreign colleges--was
utterly inadequate to meet the spiritual necessities of the Irish
population. Under those circumstances, men of good and virtuous
character, who understood something of the Latin tongue, were ordained
by their respective bishops, for the purpose which we have already
mentioned. But what a difference was there between those half-educated
men and the class of educated clergymen who now adorn, not only their
Church, but the literature of the country!

"Well, my dear friend," said the bishop, "let us be thankful for the
protection which, we have received at the hands of the Protestant clergy
and of many of the Protestant laity also. We now separate, and I for one
am sensible how much this cruel persecution has strengthened the bonds
of Christian love among us, and excited our sympathy for our poor
persecuted flocks, so many of whom are now without a shepherd. I leave
you with tears--but they are tears of affection, and not of despair. I
shall endeavor to be useful wherever I may abide. Let each of you do all
the spiritual good you can--all the earthly good--all good in its most
enlarged and purest sense. But we must separate--probably, some of us,
forever; and now may the blessing of the Almighty God--of the Father,
Son, and Holy Ghost, rest upon you all, and be with you and abide in
your hearts, now and forever! Amen!"

Having pronounced these words, he covered his face with his two hands
and wept bitterly. There were indeed few dry eyes around him; they knelt
before him, kissed his ring, and prepared to take their departure out of
the cavern.

"My lord," said Reilly, who still entertained apprehensions of the
return of his malady, "if you will permit me I shall share your fate,
whatever it may be. The poor people you allude to are not in a condition
to attend to your wants. Allow me, then, to attend and accompany you in
your retreat."

"My dear friend," said the bishop, clasping his hand, "you are heaping
coals of fire upon my head. I trust you will forgive me, for I knew not
what I did. I shall be glad of your companionship. I fear I still stand
in need of such a friend. Be it so, then," he proceeded--"be it so,
my dear friend; only that I should not wish you to involve yourself in
unnecessary danger on my account."

"Danger, my lord!" replied Reilly; "there is not an individual here
against whom personal malignity has directed the vengeance of the law
with such a bloodthirsty and vindictive spirit as against myself. Why
else am I here? No, I will accompany your lordship, and share your
fate."

It was so determined, and they left the cavern, each to procure some
place of safety for himself.

In the meantime, Sir Robert Whitecraft, having had another interview
with Hennessy, was prevailed upon to get a military party together, and
the cunning reprobate, in order to excite the baronet's vengeance to
a still higher pitch, mentioned a circumstance which he had before
forgotten, to wit, that Reilly, his arch-enemy, was also in the cave.

"But," said Sir Robert, who, as we have already said, was a poltroon and
a coward, "what guarantee can you give me that you are not leading me
into an ambuscade? You know that I am unpopular, and the Papists would
be delighted to have my blood; what guarantee, then, can you give me
that you, are acting by me in good faith?"

"The guarantee of my own life," replied the other. "Let me be placed
between two of your men, and if you see any thing like an ambuscade, let
them shoot me dead on the spot."

"Why," replied the baronet, "that is fair; but the truth is, I have been
put on my guard against you by a person who escorted me home last night.
He rendered me some assistance when I fell from my horse, and he slept
here."

"What is his name?" asked Hennessy.

"He told me," replied the baronet, "that his name was Drum."

"Could you give me a description, Sir Robert, of his person?"

Sir Robert did so.

"I declare to God, Sir Robert, you have had a narrow escape from that
man. He is one of the most bigoted priests in the kingdom. He used to
disguise himself as a drummer--for his father was in the army, and he
himself was a drummer in his boyhood; and his object in preventing you
from bringing a military party to the cavern was merely that he might
have an opportunity of giving them notice of your intentions. I now say
that if you lose an hour's time they will be gone."

Sir Robert did not lose an hour's time. The local barracks were within
a few hundred yards of his house. A party of military were immediately
called out, and in a short time they arrived, under the guidance of
Hennessy, to the very mouth of the cavern, which he disclosed to them.
It is unnecessary to detail the particulars of the search. The soldiers
entered it one by one, but found that the birds had flown. The very
fires were burning, but not a living soul in the cave; it was completely
deserted, and nothing remained but some miserable relics of cold
provisions, with which, by the aid of fir splices, that served as
torches, they regaled themselves as far as they went.

Sir Robert Whitecraft now felt full confidence in Hennessy; but would
have given a trifle to renew his acquaintance with Mr. Rowland Drum, by
whose ingenuity he was so completely outwitted. As it was, they scoured
the country in search of the inmates of the cave, but above all things
in search of Reilly, for whose capture Whitecraft would have forgiven
every man in the cavern. The search, however, was unsuccessful; not
a man of them was caught that day, and gallant Sir Robert and his
myrmidons were obliged to return wearied and disappointed men.




CHAPTER XIII.--Reilly is Taken, but Connived at by the Sheriff

--The Mountain Mass


Reilly and the bishop traversed a wild and remote part of the country,
in which there was nothing to be seen but long barren wastes, over which
were studded, here and there, a few solitary huts; upon its extremity,
however, there were some houses of a more comfortable description, the
habitations of middling farmers, who possessed small farms at a
moderate rent. As they went along, the prelate addressed Reilly in the
following-terms:

"Mr. Reilly," said he, "I would advise you to get out of this unhappy
country as soon as you can."

"My lord," replied Reilly, who was all candor and truth, and never could
conceal his sentiments, at whatever risk, "I cannot think of leaving the
country, let the consequences be what they may. I will not trouble
your lordship with my motives, because they are at variance with your
character and religious feelings; but they are not at variance with
religion or morality. It is enough to say that I wish to prevent a
beautiful and innocent girl from being sacrificed. My lord, you know too
well that persecution is abroad; and when I tell you that, through the
influence which this admirable creature has over her father--who, by the
way, has himself the character of a persecutor--many Catholics have been
protected by him, I am sure you will not blame me for the interest
which I feel in her fate. In addition to this, my lord, she has been a
ministering angel to the Catholic poor in general, and has contributed
vast sums, privately, to the relief of such of our priesthood as have
been brought to distress by the persecution of the times. Nay, she has
so far influenced her father that proscribed priests have found refuge
and protection in his house."

The bishop, on hearing this, stood, and taking off his hat, raised his
right hand, and said: "May the blessing of the Almighty God rest upon
her, and guard her from the snares of those who would make her unhappy!
But, Reilly, as you say you are determined, if possible, to rescue her
from ruin, you know that if you go at large in your usual dress you will
unquestionably be taken. I advise you, then, to disguise yourself in
such a way as that you will not, if possible, be known."

"Such, my lord, is my intention--but who is this? what--eh--yes, 'tis
Fergus O'Reilly, a distant and humble relation of mine who is also in
disguise. Well, Fergus, where have you been for some time past?"

"It would be difficult to tell that, God knows; I have been
everywhere--but," he added in a whisper, "may I speak freely?"

"As free as the wind that blows, Fergus."

"Well, then, I tell you that Sir Robert Whitecraft has engaged me to be
on the lookout for you, and said that I would be handsomely rewarded if
I could succeed in enabling the scoundrel to apprehend you."

"But how did that come about, Fergus?"

"Faith, he met me one day--you see I have got a bag at my back--and
taking me for a beggarman, stopped me on the road. 'I say, you, poor
man,'says he, 'what's your name?' 'Paddy M'Fud,' says I--'I belong to
the M'Fuds of Ballymackknockem.' 'You're a beggar,' says he, 'and travel
from place to place about the country.' 'It's true enough, your honor,'
I replied, 'I travel about a good deal, of coorse, and it's only that
way that I get my bit and sup.' 'Do you know the notorious villain
called Willy Reilly'?' 'Not by sight, your honor, but I have often heard
of him. Wasn't he in love with the beautiful _Cooleen Bawn_, Squire
Folliard's daughter?' 'That's not the question between us,' he said,
'but if you enable me to catch Reilly, I will give you twenty pounds.'
'Well, your honor,' says I, 'lave the thing to myself; if he is to be
had it'll go hard but I'll find him.' 'Well, then,' says he, 'if you can
tell me where he is I will give you twenty pounds, as I said.' 'Well,
sir,' says I, 'I expect to hear from you; I am not sure he's in the
country--indeed they say he is not--but if he is, I think I'll find him
for you;' and so we parted."

"Fergus," said Reilly, "I feel that a disguise is necessary. Here is
money to enable you to purchase one. I do not know where you may be able
to find me; but go and buy me a suit of frieze, rather worn, a dingy
caubeen hat, coarse Connemara stockings, and a pair of clouted brogues;
some course linen, too; because the fineness of my shirts, should
I happen to be apprehended, might betray me. Leave them with widow
Buckley, and I can find them there."

It was so arranged. Fergus went on his way, as did Reilly and the
bishop. The latter conducted him to the house of a middling farmer,
whose son the bishop had sent, at his own expense, to a continental
college. They were both received with the warmest affection, and, so
far as the bishop was concerned, with every expression of the deepest
gratitude. The situation was remote, and the tumult of pursuit did not,
reach them. Reilly privately forced upon the farmer compensation for
their support, under a solemn injunction that he should not communicate
that circumstance to the bishop, and neither did he. They were here,
then, comparatively safe, but still Reilly dreaded the active vigilance
of his deadly enemy, Sir Robert Whitecraft. He felt that a disguise was
absolutely necessary, and that, without it, he might fall a sacrifice to
the diabolical vengeance of his powerful enemy. In the course of about
ten days after he had commissioned Fergus to procure him the disguise,
he resolved to visit widow Buckley, in order to make the necessary
exchange in his apparel. He accordingly set out--very foolishly we must
admit--in open day, to go to the widow's house. The distance was some
miles. No appearance of danger, or pursuit, was evident, until he
came to the sharp angle of the road, where he was met by four powerful
constables, who, on looking at him, immediately surrounded him and made
him prisoner. Resistance was impossible; they were well armed, and he
was without any weapon with which he could defend himself.

"We have a warrant for your apprehension, sir," said one of them.

"Upon what grounds?" replied Reilly. "I am conscious of no offence
against the laws of the land. Do you know who I am? and is my name in
your warrant?"

"No, but your appearance answers completely to the description given in
the _Hue and Cry_. Your dress is the same as that of the robber, and you
must come with us to the sheriff whom you have robbed. His house is only
a quarter of a mile from this."

They accordingly proceeded to the sheriff's house, whom they found at
home. On being informed that they had captured the man "who had robbed
him, he came downstairs with great alacrity, and in a spirit replete
with vengeance against the robber. The sheriff, however, was really
a good-natured and conscientious man, and would not lend himself to a
dishonorable act, nor had he ever been known to do so. When he appeared,
Reilly addressed him:

"I am here, sir," said he, "under a charge of having robbed you. The
charge against me is ridiculous. I am a gentleman, and never was under
the necessity of having recourse to such unlawful means of raising
money."

"Well," replied the sheriff, "your dress is precisely the same as the
fellow wore when he robbed me. But I feel confident that you are not the
man. Your hair is black, his was red, and he had large red whiskers.
In the excitement and agitation of the moment I forgot to mark the
villain's features distinctly; but I have since thought over the matter,
and I say that I would now know him if I saw him again. This, however,"
he added, turning--to the constables, "is not the person who robbed
and beat me down from my horse."

"But he may be Willy Reilly, sir, for all that; and you know the reward
that is offered for his apprehension."

"I know Willy Reilly," replied the sheriff, "and I can assure you that
this gentleman is not Willy Reilly. Go, now, continue your pursuit. The
robber lurks somewhere in the neighborhood. You know the reward; catch
him, and you shall have it." The constables departed; and after they had
gone the sheriff said, "Mr. Reilly, I know you well; but I would scorn
to avail myself of the circumstance which has thus occurred. I am aware
of the motive which urges Sir Robert Whitecraft against you--so is the
whole country. That penurious and unprincipled villain is thirsting for
your blood. Mr. Hastings, however, has a rod in pickle for him, and
he will be made to feel it in the course of time. The present
administration is certainly an anti-Catholic one; but I understand it is
tottering, and that a more liberal one will come in. This Whitecraft
has succeeded in getting some young profligate Catholics to become
Protestants, who have, consequently, ousted their fathers out of their
estates and property; younger sons, who, by this act of treachery, will
get the estates into their own possession. The thing is monstrous
and unnatural. But let that pass; Whitecraft is on our trail in all
directions; beware of him, I say; and I think, with great respect to
you, Mr. Reilly, it is extremely foolish to go abroad in your usual
apparel, and without disguise."

"Sir," replied Reilly, "I cannot express, as I would wish, my deep
gratitude to you for your kindness and forbearance. That Sir Robert
Whitecraft is thirsting for my blood I know. The cause of that vengeance
is now notorious."

"You know Mr. Hastings, Mr. Reilly?"

"Intimately, sir."

"He took your property in his own name?"

"He did, sir; he purchased it in his own name. The property was
hereditary property, and when my title to it, in point of law, as a
Catholic, was questioned, and when one of my family, as a Protestant,
put in his claim for it, Mr. Hastings came in as the purchaser, and
ousted him. The money was supplied by me. The moment, however, that I
found Whitecraft was after me, I immediately surrendered the whole of
it back to him; so that Sir Robert, in burning what he considered my
property, in fact burned Mr. Hastings."

"And I have reason to know, Mr. Reilly, that it will be the blackest
act of his guilty life. This, however, I mention to you in the strictest
confidence. Keep the secret, for if it transpired the scoundrel might
escape from the consequences of his own cruelty and oppression. In the
meantime, do you take care of yourself--keep out of his way, and, as I
said, above all things, procure a disguise. Let the consequences be what
they may, I don't think the beautiful _Cooleen Baum_ will ever marry
him."

"But," replied Reilly, "is there no risk of compulsion by her father?"

"Why, I must confess there is," replied the sheriff; "he is obstinate
and headstrong, especially if opposed, and she will find it necessary
to oppose him--and she will oppose him. I myself have had a conversation
with her on the subject, and she is firm as fate against such a union;
and I will tell you more, Reilly--it was she who principally engaged me
to protect you as far as I could, and so I shall, you may rest assured
of it. I had only to name you a few minutes ago, and your fate was
sealed. But, even if she had never spoken to me on the subject, I
could not fend myself to the cruel plots of that villain. God knows, in
consequence of my official situation, I am put upon tasks that are very
painful to me; levying fines from men who are harmless and inoffensive,
who are peaceable members of society, who teach the people to be moral,
well-conducted, and obedient to the laws, and who do not themselves
violate them. Now," he added, "be advised by me, and disguise yourself."

"Sir," said Reilly, "your sentiments do you honor; I am this moment on
my way to put on a disguise, which has been procured for me. I agree
with you and other friends that it would be impossible for me to remain
in the country in my own natural aspect and dress. Allow me, before I
go, to express my sense of your kindness, and believe me I shall never
forget it."

"The disguise, above all things," said the sheriff, smiling and holding
out his hand. Reilly seized it with a warm pressure; they bid each other
farewell, and so they parted.

Reilly then wound his way to the cottage of Mrs. Buckle, but not by
the public road. He took across the fields, and, in due time, reached
her humble habitation. Here he found the disguise, which his friend
Fergus had provided-a half-worn frieze coat, a half-worn caubeen, and
a half-worn pair of corduroy breeches, clouted brogues, and Connemara
stockings, also the worse for the wear, with two or three coarse shirts,
in perfect keeping with, the other portion of the disguise.

"Well, Mrs. Buckley," said he, "how have you been since I saw you last?"

"Oh, then, Mr. Reilly," said she, "it's a miracle from God that you did
not think of stopping here! I had several visits from the sogers who
came out to look for you."

"Well, I suppose so, Mrs. Buckley; but it was one comfort that they did
not find me."

"God be praised for that!" replied the poor woman, with tears in her
eyes; "it would a' broken my heart if you had been catched in my little
place."

"But, Mrs. Buckley," said Reilly, "were there any plain clothes left for
me here?"

"Oh, indeed there was, sir," she replied, "and I have them safe for
you; but, in the meantime, I'll go outside, and have an eye about the
country, for somehow they have taken it into their heads that this would
be a very likely place to find you."

While she was out, Reilly changed his dress, and in a few minutes
underwent such a metamorphosis that poor Mrs. Buckley, on reentering the
house, felt quite alarmed.

"Heavenly Father! my good man, where did you come from? I thought I left
Mr. --" here she stopped, afraid to mention Reilly's name.

"Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Buckley," said Reilly; "I am only changed in
outward appearance; I am your true friend still; and now accept this for
your kindness," placing money in her hand.

"I can't, Mr. Reilly; you are under the persecutions, and will want all
the money you have to support yourself. Didn't the thieves of the devil
burn you out and rob you, and how can you get through this wicked world
without money--keep it yourself, for I don't want it."

"Come, come, Mrs. Buckley, I have money enough; you must take this;
I only ask you to conceal these clothes in some place where the
hell-hounds of the law can't find them. And now, good-by, Mrs. Buckley;
I shall take care that, whatever may happen me, you shall not be
disturbed out of your little cabin and your garden."

The tears ran down the poor old woman's cheeks, and Reilly left her
sobbing and crying behind him. This indeed was an eventful day to him,
Strong in the confidence of his disguise, he took the public road, and
had not gone far when he met a party of Sir Robert Whitecraft's. To fly
would have been instant ruin; he accordingly commenced an old Irish song
at the very top of his lungs. Sir Robert Whitecraft was not himself of
the party, but scarcely any individual was met by them whom they did not
cross-examine.

"Hallo, my good fellow," said the leader of the party, "what is that
you're singin'?"

Reilly stared at him like a man who was sorely puzzled; "_Ha neil bearla
agum;_" that is, "I have no English."

"Here, Connor, you can speak Irish; sift this able-bodied tyke."

A conversation in that language then took place between them which
reflected everlasting honor upon Connor, who, by the way, was one of
Reilly's tenants, but himself and his progenitors were Protestants for
three generations. He was a sharp, keen man, but generous and honorable,
and after two or three glances at our hero, at once recognized him.
This he could only intimate by a wink, for he knew that there were other
persons there who spoke Irish as well as either of them. The dialogue,
however, was not long, neither was it kind-hearted Connor's wish that
it should be so. He was asked, however, if he knew any thing about Willy
Reilly, to which he replied that he did not, only by all accounts he had
left the country. This, indeed, was the general opinion.

"This blockhead," said Connor, "knows nothing about him, only what
he has heard; he's a pig dealer, and is now on his way to the fair of
Sligo; come on."

They passed onwards, and Reilly resumed his journey and his song.

On reaching the farmer's house where he and the bishop lodged, the
unhappy prelate felt rather annoyed, at the appearance of a stranger,
and was about to reprove their host for his carelessness in admitting
such persons.

"What do you want here, my good man?" inquired the farmer.

"Do you wish to say anything to me?" asked the bishop.

"A few words," replied Reilly; but, on consideration, he changed his
purpose of playing off a good-humored joke on his lordship and the
farmer. For the melancholy prelate he felt the deepest compassion and
respect, and apprehended that any tampering with his feelings might be
attended with dangerous consequences to his intellect. He consequently
changed his purpose, and added, "My lord, don't you know me?"

The bishop looked at him, and it was not without considerable scrutiny
that he recognized him.

In the meantime the farmer, who had left the room previous to this
explanation, and who looked upon Reilly as an impostor or a spy,
returned with a stout oaken cudgel, exclaiming, "Now, you damned
desaver, I will give you a jacketful of sore bones for comin' to pry
about here. This gintleman is a doctor; three of my family are lying ill
of faver, and that you may catch it I pray gorra this day! but if you
won't catch that, you'll catch this," and he whirled the cudgel about
his head, and most unquestionably it would have descended on Reilly s
cranium were it not for the bishop, who interposed and prevented the
meditated violence.

"Be quiet, Kelly," said he, "be quiet, sir; this is Mr. Reilly
disguised."

"Troth, I must look closely at him first," replied Kelly; "who knows but
he's imposin' upon you, Dr. Wilson?"

Kelly then looked closely into his face, still holding a firm grip of
the cudgel.

"Why, Kelly," said Reilly, "what the deuce are you at? Don't you know my
voice at least?"

"Well," replied Kelly, "bad luck to the like o' that ever I see. Holy
Moses, Mr. Reilly, but you had a narrow escape, Devil a man in the
barony can handle a cudgel as I can, and it was a miracle, and you
may thank his lordship here for it that you hadn't a shirtful of sore
bones."

"Well, my dear friend," said Reilly, "put up your cudgel; I really don't
covet a shirtful of sore bones; but, after all, perhaps you would have
found my fist a match for your cudgel."

"Nonsense!" replied Kelly; "but God be praised that you escaped the
welting anyhow; I would never forgive myself, and you the friend of his
lordship."

He then left the room, his terrific cudgel under his arm, and Reilly,
after his absence, related to the bishop the events of the day,
involving, as they did, the two narrow escapes which he had had. The
bishop thanked God, and told Reilly to be of good courage, for that he
thought the hand of Providence was protecting him.

The life they led here was, at all events, quiet and peaceable. The
bishop was a man of singular, indeed of apostolic, piety. He spent most
of the day in meditation and prayer; fasting beyond the powers of his
enfeebled constitution: and indeed it was fortunate that Reilly had
accompanied him, for so ascetic were his habits that were it not for his
entreaties, and the influence which he had gained over him, it is not
at all unlikely that his unfortunate malady might have returned. The
neighborhood in which they resided was, as wo have said, remote, and
exclusively Catholic; and upon Sundays the bishop celebrated mass upon
a little grassy platform--or rather in a little cave, into which it
led. This cave was small, barely large enough to contain a table, which
served as a temporary altar, the poor shivering congregation kneeling
on the platform outside. At this period of our story all the Catholic
chapels and places of worship were, as we have said, closed by
proclamation, and the poor people were deprived of the means of meeting
to worship God. It had soon, however, become known to them that an
opportunity of public worship was to be had every Sunday, at the place
we have described.

Messengers had been sent among them with information to that effect; and
the consequence was that they not only kept the secret, but flocked
in considerable numbers to attend mass. On the Sunday following the
adoption of Reilly's disguise, the bishop and he proceeded to the little
cave, or rather cleft, where a table had been placed, together with
the vestments necessary for the ceremony. They found about two or three
hundred persons assembled--most of them of the humblest class. The day
was stormy in the extreme. It was a hard frost, and the snow, besides,
falling heavily, the wind strong, and raging in hollow gusts about the
place. The position of the table-altar, however, saved the bishop and
the chalice, and the other matters necessary for the performance of
worship, from the direct fury of the blast, but not altogether; for
occasionally a whirlwind would come up, and toss over the leaves of the
missal in such a way, and with such violence, that the bishop, who was
now trembling from the cold, was obliged to lose some time in finding
out the proper passages. It was a solemn sight to see two or three
hundred persons kneeling, and bent in prostrate and heartfelt adoration,
in the pious worship of that God who sends and withholds the storm;
bareheaded, too, under the piercing drift of the thick-falling granular
snow, and thinking of nothing but their own sins, and that gladsome
opportunity of approaching the forbidden altar of God, now doubly dear
to them that it ivas forbidden. As the ceremony was proceeding the
bishop was getting on to that portion of the sacred rites where the
consecration and elevation of the Host are necessary, and it was
observed by all that an extraordinary and sudden lull took place, and
that the rage of the storm had altogether ceased. He proceeded, and had
consecrated the Host--hoc est corpus meum--when cry of terror arose from
the affrighted congregation.

"Mylord, fly, and save yourself! Captain Smellpriest and his gang are
upon us."

The bishop never once turned round, nor seemed to hear them; but Reilly
did, and saw that the whole congregation had fled, and that there only
remained the bishop and himself.

"Our day of doom," said he to himself, "is come. Nothing now can save
us."

Still the bishop proceeded undisturbed in the worship of the Almighty;
when, lo! the military party, headed and led on by the notorious Captain
Smellpriest, came thundering up, the captain exclaiming:

"You idolatrous Papist, stop that mummery--or you shall have twelve
bullets in your heart before half a minute's time."

The bishop had consecrated the Host, as we have said, but had not yet
had time to receive it.

"Men," said Smellpriest, "you are all primed and loaded. Present."

They accordingly did so; every musket was levelled at him. The bishop
now turned round, and, with the calmness of a martyr--a calmness and
conduct that were sublime--he said:

"Sir, I am engaged in the worship of the Eternal God, and if you wish
to shed my blood I should rather it were here and now than in any other
place. Give me but a few minutes--I do not ask more."

"Oh," said Smellpriest, "we will give you ten, if you wish it, and the
more so because we are sure of you."

When the bishop turned round again, after having received the Host,
his pale face had altogether changed its complexion--it burned with
an expression which it is difficult to describe. A lofty sense of
the sacrifice he was about to make was visible in his kindling and
enthusiastic eye; his feeble frame, that had been, dining the ceremony
of mass, shivering under the effects of the terrible storm that howled
around them, now became firm, and not the slightest mark of fear or
terror was visible in his bearing; calmly and undauntedly he turned
round, and with a voice full and steady he said:

"I am willing to die for my religion, but I say to you that the
slaughter of an inoffensive man at the foot of God's altar will not
smooth the pillow of your deathbed, nor of those who shoot down
a minister of God while in the act of worshipping his Creator, My
congregation, poor timid creatures, have fled, but as for me, I will
not! I dare not! Here, now, I spread out my arms--fire!"

[Illustration: PAGE 91--Here, now, I spread out my arms--fire!]

"I also," said Reilly, "will partake of whatever fate may befall the
venerable clergyman who is before you," and he stood up side by side
with the bishop.

The guns were still levelled, the fingers of the men on the triggers,
when Smellpriest shouted out, "Ground arms! By ---," says he, "here is
a new case; this fellow has spunk and courage, and curse me, although I
give the priests a chase wherever I can, still I am a soldier, and a man
of courage, and to shoot down a priest in the worship of God would be
cowardly. No, I can't do it--nor I won't; I like pluck, and this priest
has shown it. Had he taken to his heels, by ---, he would have had half
a dozen bullets in his rear; but, as I said, I like pluck, and on that
account we shall pass him by this time. To the right about. As to the
clerk, by ---, he has shown pluck too, but be hanged to him, what do we
care about him?"

We must say a word or two here about Smellpriest. He was, in the true
sense of the word, a priest-hunter; but yet, with all his bigotry, he
was a brave man, and could appreciate courage wherever he found it.
The reader already knows that his range of persecution was by no means
either so wide or so comprehensive as that of the coward Whitecraft.
He was a dashing, outspoken fellow, with an equal portion of boisterous
folly and mischief; whereas Whitecraft was a perfect snake--treacherous,
cruel, persevering in his enmity, and unrelenting in his vengeance. Such
was the difference in the character of these two worthies.

After Smellpriest had drawn off his men, the bishop concluded the
ceremony of the mass; but when he turned round to announce its
conclusion in the words, _ite, missa est_, there was not a soul before
him, the terrified congregation, as we have said, having all betaken
themselves to flight. Reilly then assisted him to unrobe, and placed
the vestments, the chalice, pix, and every thing connected with the
ceremony, in a pair of saddle-bags, which belonged to the parish priest,
whose altar was then closed, as we said, by proclamation.

Reilly and the bishop then proceeded to the farmer's house, Reilly
carrying the saddlebags, and as they went along the following
conversation took place between them:

"My lord," said his companion, "if I might presume to advise you, I
think it would be more prudent for you to retire to the Continent for a
time. This ferocious captain, who, subdued by the sublime tenor of
your conduct, spared you on this occasion, may not under other and less
impressive circumstances, exercise a similar forbearance."

"But, my dear Reilly," replied the bishop, in a tone of deep melancholy,
"I am not in circumstances to go to the Continent; I am poor; most of my
available money I have distributed among the unhappy people, until I am
now nearly as poor as themselves; but, independently of that, I do not
think it would be right to abandon the charge which God has entrusted to
my keeping. The shepherd should not desert his flock, especially in the
moment of danger, when the wolves ire abroad."

"But, my lord," replied Reilly, "under the present circumstances of the
country your residence here can be of no service to them. The chapels
are all closed, and public worship forbidden by law. This cannot, and, I
hope, will not, last long; but in the meantime, think if it be not wiser
in you to go for a time into what I may call a voluntary exile, than be
forced into banishment by a cruel edict of the law, as you will be if
you should be discovered."

"There is great truth in what you say, my dear Reilly, and on thinking
over the circumstances of the country, I am indeed of opinion that your
advice is good; but, unfortunately, my present poverty prevents me from
acting on it."

"But that shall not be, my lord; I have the means--amply, too--of
enabling your lordship to withdraw to the Continent, where you can
remain quite safe until better times return, as I hope in God they will
soon."

"And yourself, Reilly? why not accompany me? You, it is said, are
outlawed; why then remain in a country where your danger is still
greater than mine?"

"My lord," replied Reilly, "do not press me on that subject."

"I do not wish to do so, Reilly; but here are the circumstances: you and
the beautiful daughter of that old squire are attached--in other words,
you love each other passionately. Now, you know, marriage is impossible,
unless you should abandon the creed of your fathers."

"I think, my lord," replied Reilly, in a very serious and somewhat
offended tone, "that my conduct this day, and within the last half hour,
was not that of a man likely to abandon the creed of his fathers."

"Certainly not--most certainly not," replied the bishop. "I would have
died this day for my religion, and so would you."

"And so would I certainly, my lord, any day, sooner than renounce it for
the love of woman. So far let your lordship's mind be at rest. But in
the meantime, let me impress upon your lordship's consideration the
absolute necessity of retiring to the Continent for a time. Your
lordship's charity has made you poor; but, thank God, I am not poor--but
in a position to place £200 in your hands to enable you to bear the
expenses of your voyage, and to maintain your ecclesiastical rank and
position for a time, when you get there."

"Oh," replied the bishop, "if I were once there, very little money
would be necessary; I could almost immediately get a professorship
of divinity, especially in the College of Louvain, where I held a
professorship for several years."

It was arranged that the bishop should go, at least until the times
should change, and in the course of a week, Reilly having furnished
him with the necessary funds, he departed and reached the Continent in
safety.

Their separation was extremely affecting. The bishop wept bitterly, not
only in consequence of his parting with Reilly, but still more because
he was forced to separate himself from his flock. Reilly was deeply
affected, nor could he restrain his tears. The bishop put his hand on
his head and blessed him. "I feel," said he, "as if it were a prophetic
impulse, that God will bring you out of the tribulations that encompass
you. Forget not his word nor his law; love and adhere to your religion;
be guided by its precepts, let them sink deeply into your heart. Take
care, also, that the love of woman shall not seduce you from your
allegiance to our Church. And now, may the Almighty God bless and
protect you, and rescue you from the hands and the snares of your
enemies!" And so they parted.

No stronger proof could exist, so far as the _Cooleen Bawn_ was
concerned, than her extraordinary power of conciliating love and
attachment from all who approached her, or were engaged in attending
upon her person. The singular softness of her sweet and mellow voice
was in itself an exponent of the remarkable suavity and benignity of her
disposition. In fact, she carried a charm about her--an atmosphere
of kindness and benevolence that no human being who came within its
influence could resist. Her smile was a perfect fascination, which, in
addition to her elegance of form--her grace and harmony of motion--her
extensive charity--her noble liberality of sentiment--and, above all,
her dazzling beauty, constituted a character which encircled her with
admiration and something almost bordering on worship.

At this time a scheme came into the fertile brain of Whitecraft, worthy
of being concocted only in the infernal pit itself. This was to prevail
on the squire to remove her faithful, attached, and confidential
maid, Ellen Connor, from about her person, under the plea that as,
unfortunately, Miss Folliard had been seduced into an affection for
Reilly, it was not only probable that her attendant had originated and
encouraged her passion, but that it was also likely that, as Reilly was
a Catholic, Connor, the confidant, being herself of that persuasion,
might so work upon the feelings and principles of his daughter as
to induce her, for the sake of the more easily bringing about their
marriage, to abandon her own religion, and embrace that of her lover.
The old man became instantly alarmed, and, with his usual fiery
impetuosity, lost not a moment in dismissing her altogether from his
family.

When this faithful girl found that she was about to be separated from
her fair and affectionate young mistress, no language could depict
the violence of her grief, nor could that mistress herself refuse the
tribute of her tears to her sense of the loss which she knew she must
sustain by her absence at a crisis when she stood so much in need of her
friendship and attachment.

"Oh! it is not for myself, my dear mistress, that I feel this grief,"
exclaimed Connor, weeping bitterly as she spoke, "but for you. Here
you will be alone," she proceeded, "without one being on whom you can
depend, or to whom you can open your heart--for many a time you eased
that poor heart by telling me of your love for him, and by dwellin' upon
his accomplishments and beauty--and, indeed, it's no wonder you should,
for where, oh! where is his aiquil to be found? Like yourself, every
one that comes near him must love him; and, like you, again, isn't he
charity itself to the poor, no matter what their creed may be--oh, no!
it's he that is neither the bigot nor the oppressor, although God
he knows what he himself is sufferin' from both. God's curse on that
blasted Sir Robert Whitecraft! I declare to mercy, I think, if I was a
man, that I'd shoot him, like a mad dog, and free the country of him at
wanst."

The Cooleen was herself in tears, occasioned by such a glowing picture
of her lover, as well as by the loss of this faithful and devoted girl.
Yet she could not repress a smile at the indignation expressed by
Ellen against the man whom she looked upon with such detestation and
abhorrence,

"My dear Ellen," said she, drying her tears, "we must only have
patience. Every thing is in the hands of God, and in him let us trust.
Do not weep so. It is true that, without your society, I shall feel
as if I were in a desert, or rather, I should say, in a dungeon; for,
indeed, I fear that I am about to become a prisoner in my father's
house, and entangled more and more every day in the meshes of that
detestable villain. In the meantime, we must, as I said, have courage
and patience, and trust to a change of circumstances for better times."

"May the Lord in heaven grant them soon and sudden, for both your
sakes," ejaculated Ellen. "I pray the Saviour that he may!"

"But, Ellen," said the Cooleen, "didn't you hint to me, once or twice,
that you yourself have, or had, a lover named Reilly!"

"I did," she replied, "not that I have, but that I had--and, what is
more, an humble and distant relation of him."

"You say you had. What do you mean by that, Ellen? Have you, too,
experienced your crosses and calamities?"

"Indeed, ma'am, I have had my share; and I know too well what it is to
have the heart within as full of sorrow, and all but broken."

"Why, my poor girl, and have you too experienced disappointment and
affliction?"

"God, ma'am, has given me my share; but, in my case, the affliction was
greater than the disappointment, although that too came soon enough upon
me."

"Why, did not the affliction, in your case, proceed from the
disappointment?"

"Not exactly, miss, but indeed partly it did. It's but a short story,
my dear mistress, and I'll tell it to you. Fergus is his name--Fergus
O'Reilly. His father, for doin' something or other contrary to the
laws--harborin' some outlaw, I believe, that was a relation of his own,
and who was found by the army in his house--well, his father, a very
ould man, was taken prisoner, and put into jail, where he died before
they could try him; and well it was he did so, for, by all accounts,
they'd have transported or hanged the poor ould man, who was then past
seventy. Now, over and above that, they'd have done the same thing with
his son Fergus, but that he disappeared and but few knows what became of
him."

"Why, did he go without having had an interview with you?" asked the
Cooleen.

"Indeed he did, miss, and small blame to him; for the truth is, he had
little time for leave-takin'--it was as much as he could do to make his
escape, which, thank God, he did. But, indeed, I oughtn't to thank God
for it, I doubt, because it would have been better, and ten times
more creditable to himself, if he had been transported, or hanged
himself--for that, ma'am, is many a good man's case, as every one
knows."

"I agree with you, Ellen. There is, indeed, a most essential difference
between flagitious crimes, such as theft, robbery, murder, and other
dreadful outrages of that character, and those which may be termed
offences arising from political opinions, which are often honestly
entertained by individuals who, in all the relations of life,
are sometimes the most exemplary members of society. But proceed,
Ellen--what was the result?"

Poor Ellen's eyes filled with tears, and she could scarcely summon
composure enough to reply:

"Worse than transportation or even death, my dear mistress; oh! far
worse--guilt and crime. Yes: he that had gained my affections, and gave
me his, joined the Red Rapparee and his gang, and became--a robber.
I was goin' to say an outlaw, but he was that before he joined them,
because he wouldn't submit to the laws--that is, wouldn't submit to be
transported, or maybe hanged--or you know, ma'am, how little a thing it
is that will either hang or transport any one of our unfortunate creed
now."

"Alas! my dear Ellen, you forget that I am a living witness of it, and
an afflicted one; but proceed. Have you ever seen your lover since?"

"I did, ma'am, but at that time he mentioned nothing about his havin'
joined the Rapparees. He came, he said, to bid me farewell, and to tell
me that he wasn't worthy of me. 'The stain that's upon me,' said he,
'draws a gulf between you and me that neither of us can ever pass.'
He could scarcely speak, but he dashed away the tears that came to his
eyes--and--and--so he took his departure. Now, my dear young mistress,
you see how well I can understand your case, and the good reason I have
to feel for you, as I do, and ever will, until God in his mercy may set
you both free from what you're sufferin'."

"But, are you certain, Ellen, that he actually has joined the
Rapparees?"

"Too sure, ma'am--too sure; my father had it in private from his own
lips, for, as the poor boy said, he hadn't the courage himsell to tell
me."

"But, Ellen," asked Miss Folliard, "where had you an opportunity of
seeing and becoming acquainted with this young man? You surely could
not have known him, or conceived an attachment for him, previous to your
coming to reside with us?"

"Oh, no, ma'am," replied Ellen; "it was at my father's I became
acquainted with him, principally whenever I got lave to spend a Sunday
at home. And now, my dear mistress," she proceeded, sobbing, "I must
go--your poor, faithful Ellen will never let you, nor the thought of
your sorrows, out of her heart. All she can do now is to give you her
prayers and her tears. Farewell! my darlin' mistress--may the blessing
of God guard and prosper you both, and bring you to the happiness you
deserve." She wept bitterly as she concluded.

"Ellen," replied her mistress, and she paused--"Ellen," said she
again--she would, indeed, have spoken, but, after a silent struggle, she
covered her eyes with her handkerchief, and was fairly carried away
by her emotions--"Ellen," said she, taking her hand, and recovering
herself, "be of courage; let neither of us despair--a brighter light
may shine on our path yet. Perhaps I may have it in my power to befriend
you, hereafter. Farewell, Ellen; and if I can prevail on my father to
bring you back, I will." And so they parted.

Connor's father was a tenant of the squire's, and held rather a
comfortable farm of about eighteen or twenty acres. Ellen herself had,
when very young, been, by some accident or other, brought within the
notice of Mrs. Folliard, who, having been struck by her vivacity,
neatness of figure, and good looks, begged permission from her parents
to take the little girl under her care, and train her up to wait upon
her daughter. She had now been eight years in the squire's family--that
is, since her fourteenth--and was only two years older than the _Cooleen
Baum_, who was now, and had been for the last three years, her only
mistress. She had consequently grown, is it were, into all her habits,
and we may justly say that there was not an individual in existence who
had a better opportunity of knowing and appreciating her good qualities
and virtues; and, what was much to her honor, she never for a moment
obtruded her own private sorrows upon the ear or heart of her mistress,
who, she saw, had a sufficient number of her own to bear.

It was late in the evening when she took farewell of her mistress, and
twilight had come on ere she had got within half mile of her father's
house. On crossing a stile which led, by a pathway, to the little
hamlet in which her father lived, she was both surprised and startled by
perceiving Fergus Reilly approach her. He was then out of his disguise,
and dressed in his own clothes, for he could not prevail upon himself to
approach her father's house, or appear before any of the family, in the
tattered garb of a mendicant. On this occasion he came to tell them
that he had abandoned the gang of the Red Rapparee, and come to the
resolution of seeking his pardon from the Government, having been
informed that it offered protection to all who would come in and submit
to the laws, provided they had not been guilty of shedding human blood.
This intelligence, however, was communicated to the family, as a means
of preparing them for still more important information upon the subject
of his own liberty--a matter with which the reader will soon become
acquainted, as he will with the fact of his having left off his disguise
only for a brief period. In the meantime, he felt perfectly conscious of
the risk he ran of a failure in the accomplishment of his own project,
by throwing off his disguise, and was then hastening on his way to the
cottage of widow Buckley, where he had left his mendicant apparel for
the time being.

When Ellen saw him she felt a tumult in her bosom which almost overcame
her. Her heart palpitated almost audibly, and her knees became feeble
under her. There was something so terrible associated with the idea of a
Rapparee that she took it for granted that some frightful transformation
of person and character must have taken place in him, and that she would
now meet a man thoroughly imbued with all the frightful and savage vices
which were so frequently, and too often so generally, attributed to that
fierce and formidable class. Still, the recollection of their former
affection, and her knowledge of the oppression which had come upon
himself and his family, induced her to hope that the principles of
humanity could not have been altogether effaced from his heart. Full of
doubt and anxiety, therefore, she paused at the stile, against which she
felt it necessary to lean for support, not without a touch of interest
and somewhat of curiosity, to control the vague apprehensions which
she could not help feeling. We need scarcely inform the reader that the
meeting on both sides was accidental and unexpected.

"Heavenly Father!" exclaimed Ellen, in a voice trembling with agitation,
"is this Fergus O'Reilly that I see before me? Fergus, ruined and
undone!" She then looked cautiously about her, and added, "Fergus, the
Rapparee!"

"God bless me!" he exclaimed in return, "and may I ask, is this Ellen
Connor on my path?"

"Well, I think I may say so, in one sense. Sure enough, I am Ellen
Connor; but, unfortunately, not the Ellen Connor that you wanst knew;
neither, unfortunately again, are you the Fergus O'Reilly that I wanst
knew. We are both changed, Fergus--I into sorrow, and you into crime."

"Ellen," said he, nearly as much agitated as herself, "I stand before
you simply as Fergus O'Seilly, but not Fergus the Rapparee."

"You will not deny your own words to my father," she replied.

"No, Ellen, I will not--they were true then, but, thank God, they are
not true now."

"How is that, Fergus?"

"Simply because I was a Rapparee when I spoke to your father; but I have
left them, once and for ever."

"How long have you left them?"

"Ever since that night. If it were not for Reilly and those that were
out with him duck-shooting, the red villain would have murdered the
squire and Andy Cummiskey, as sure as there is life in my body. After
all, it is owin' to Mr. Reilly that I left him and his cursed crew. And
now, Ellen, that I have met you, let me spake to you about ould times.
In the first place, I am heart sorry for the step I took; but you know
it was oppression and persecution that drove me to it."

"Fergus," she replied, "that's no excuse. Persecution may come upon us,
but that's no reason why we should allow it to drive us into evil
and crime. Don't you know that it's such conduct that justifies the
persecutors in their own eyes and in the eyes of the world. What will
become of you now? If you're caught, you must die a shameful death."

"Devil a fear of it, my darlin' Ellen. I could tell you something, if
I thought myself at liberty to do so--something _mavourneen_, that 'ud
give you a light heart."

"Indeed, Fergus, I don't wish to hear any of your secrets. It's my
opinion they would not be fit for me to hear. But in the mane time," she
added--prompted by the undying principle of female curiosity, and, let
us add, a better and more generous feeling--"in the mane time, Fergus,
if it's any thing about yourself, and that it would give me a light
heart, as you say it would, and that there is nothing wrong and
dishonorable in it, I would, for your sake, be glad to hear it."

"Well then, Ellen, I will tell it; but it must, for reasons that there's
no use in mentionin' to you, be a secret between us, for some time--not
a long time, I hope. I am, thank God, free as the air of heaven, and
may walk abroad, openly, in the face of day, if I like, without any one
darin' to ask me a question."

"But, Fergus," said Ellen, "I don't undherstand this. You were a
robber--a Rapparee--and now you are a free man. But what did you do to
deserve this at the hands of the Government?"

"Don't be alarmed, my darlin' Ellen--nothing imbecomin' an honest man."

"I hope," she proceeded--her cheeks mantling with indignation and
scorn--"I hope, Fergus, you wouldn't think of stoopin' to treachery
against the unfortunate, ay, or even against the guilty. I hope you
wouldn't sell yourself to the Government, and got your liberty, affcher
all, only as a bribe for villany, instead of a free gift."

"See, now," he returned, "what I have brought on myself by tellin' you
any thing at all about it--a regular ould house on my shouldhers. No,
darlin'," he proceeded, "you ought to know me better."

"Oh, Fergus," she replied quickly, "I thought I knew you wanst."

"Is that generous, Ellen?" he said, in a tone of deep and melancholy
feeling, "afther statin' my sorrow for that step?"

"Well," she replied, moved by what she saw he suffered in consequence of
her words, "if I have given you pain, Fergus, forgive me--you know it's
not in my nature to give pain to any one, but, above all persons in the
world, to you."

"Well, darlin'," said he, "you will know all in time; but there is a
good deal to be done yet. All I can say, and all I will say, is, that
if God spares me life, I will take away one of the blackest enemies that
Willy Reilly and the _Cooleen Bawn_ has in existence. He would do any
thing that the villain of perdition he's a slave to would bid him.
Now, I'll say no more; and I'm sure, as the friend of your beautiful
mistress, the fair _Cooleen Bawn_, you'll thank me for what I have
promised to do against the Red Bapparee."

"I will pry no further into your affairs or intentions, Fergus; but, if
you can take danger out of the way of the _Cooleen Bawn_ or Reilly, I
will forgive you a great deal--every thing, indeed, but treachery or
dishonor. But, Fergus, I have something to mention, that will take a,
start out of you. I have been discharged by the squire from his family,
and--_mavrone_, oh!--I can now be of no service to the _Cooleen Bawn_."

"Discharged!" replied Fergus with astonishment; "why, how did that come?
But I suppose I needn't ask--some of the mad old Squire's tantrums, I
suppose? And what did the _Cooleen Bawn_ herself say?"

"Why, she cried bitterly when I was lavin' her; indeed if I had been her
sister she couldn't feel more; and, as might be expected from her, she
promised to befriend me as long as she had it in her power; but, poor
thing, if matters go against her, as I'm afeared they will--if she's
forced to marry that villain, it is little for any thing that's either
good or generous ever she'll have in her power; but marry him she never
will I heard her say more than wanst that she'd take her own life first;
and indeed I'm sartain she will, too, if she is forced to it. Either
that, or she'll lose her senses; for, indeed, Fergus, the darlin' girl
was near losin' them wanst or twist as it is--may God pity and relieve
her."

"Amen," replied Fergus. "And you're now on your way home, I suppose?"

"I am," said Ellen, "and every thing belongin' to me is to be sent to my
father's; but indeed, Fergus, I don't much care now what becomes of me.
My happiness in this world is bound up in hers; and if she's to be sunk
in grief and sorrow, I can never be otherwise--we'll have the one
fate, Fergus, and God grant it may be a happy one, although I see no
likelihood of it."

"Come, come, Ellen," replied Fergus, "you think too much of it. The
one fate!--No, you won't, unless it is a happy one. I am now free, as I
said; and at present I see nothing to stand between your happiness and
mine. We loved one another every bit as well as Reilly and she does--ay,
and do still, I hope; and, if they can't be happy, that's no raison why
you and I shouldn't. Happy! There's nothing to prevent us from bein' so.
I am free, as I said; and all we have to do is to lave this unfortunate
country and go to some other, where there's neither oppression nor
persecution. If you consent to this, Ellen, I can get the means of
bringing us away, and of settlin' comfortably in America."

"And I to leave the _Cooleen Bawn_ in the uncertain state she's in? No,
never, Fergus--never."

"Why? of what use can you be to her now, and you separated from her--ay,
and without the power of doin' any thing to sarve her?"

"Fergus," said she, resolutely, "it's useless at the present time to
speak to me on this subject. I'm glad you've got yourself from among
these cruel and unconscionable Rapparees--I'm glad you're free; but
I tell you that if you had the wealth of Squire Folliard--ay, or of
Whitecraft himself, which they say is still greater, I wouldn't become
your wife so long as she's in the state she's in."

"That's strong language, Ellen, and I am sorry to hear it from you. My
God! can you think of nobody's happiness but the _Cooleen Bawn_'s? As
for me, it's my opinion I like Reilly as well every bit as you do her;
but, for all that, not even the state he's in, nor the danger that
surrounds him, would prevent me from marryin' a wife--from bindin' your
heart and mine together for life, my darlin' Ellen."

"Ah! Fergus, you're a man--not a woman--and can't undherstand what true
attachment is. You men never can. You're a selfish set--at least the
most of you are--with some exceptions, I grant."

"And, upon my soul, Ellen," replied Fergus, with a good-humored
smile, "I'm one of the choicest and natest of the exceptions. I prefer
everybody's happiness to my own--poor Sir Robert Whitecraft's, for
instance. Now, don't you call that generosity?"

She gave a mournful smile, and replied, "Fergus, I can't join in your
mirth now as I used to do. Many a pleasant conversation we've had; but
then our hearts were light, and free from care. No, Fergus, you must
lave all thoughts of me aside, for I will have nothing of either love or
courtship till I know her fate. Who can say but I may be brought back?
She said she'd try what she could do with her father to effect it. You
know how whimsical the old Squire is; and who knows whether she may not
stand in need of me again? But, Fergus, there's one thing strikes me
as odd, and, indeed, that doesn't rise you much in my good opinion. But
first, let me ask you, what friend it is who'd give you the means of
going to another country?"

"Why, who else but Reilly?" he replied.

"And could you," she returned, with something like contempt stamped upon
her pretty features--"could you be mane and ungrateful enough to leave
him now in the trouble and sorrow that he's in, and think only of
yourself?"

"No, indeed, my dear Ellen; but I was only layin' the plan whenever
we might be able to put it in practice. I'm not exactly a boy of that
kidney--to desart my friend in the day of his trouble--devil a bit of
it, my darlin'."

"Well, I am glad to hear you speak as you do," she said, with a smile;
"and now, to reward your constancy to him, I tell you that whenever
they're settled, or, at all events, out of their troubles, if you think
me worth your while, I won't have any objection to become your wife;
and--there--what are you about, Fergus? See this, now--you've almost
broken the tortoise-shell crooked-comb that she made me a present of."

"Why, blood alive, Ellen, sure it was only sealin' the bargain I was."

"But remember it is a bargain, and one I'll stick to. Now leave me; it's
gettin' quite dark; or, if you like, you may see me across the fields."

Such, in fact, was the indomitable attachment of this faithful girl
to her lovely and affectionate mistress that, with a generosity as
unselfish as it was rare, and almost heroic, she never for a moment
thought of putting her own happiness or prospects in life in competition
with those of the _Cooleen Bawn_. The latter, it is true, was conscious
of this unparalleled attachment, and appreciated it at its true value.
How nobly this admirable girl fulfilled her generous purpose of abiding
by the fate and fortunes of her unhappy mistress will be seen as the
narrative goes along.

Ellen's appearance in her father's house surprised the family not
a little. The expression of sorrow which shaded her very handsome
features, and a paleness which was unusual to her, alarmed them
considerably--not so much from any feeling connected with herself, as
from an apprehension that some new-distress or calamity had befallen the
_Cooleen Bawn_, to whom they all felt almost as deeply attached as she
did herself. After the first affectionate salutations were over, she
said, with a languid smile:

"I suppose you all wonder to see me here at this hour; or, indeed, to
see me here at all."

"I hope, Ellen," said-her father, "that nothing unpleasant has happened
to her."

"May the Lord forbid," said her mother, "and may the Lord take the
darlin' creature out of all her troubles. But has there, Ellen--has
anything happened to her?"

"Nothing more than usual," replied their daughter, "barring that I have
been sent away from her--I am no longer her own maid now."

"_Chierna_!" exclaimed her mother; "and what is that for, _alanna_?"

"Well, indeed, mother, I can't exactly say," replied Ellen, "but I
suppose it is because they knew I loved her too much to be a spy upon
her. I have raison, however, to suspect that the villain is at the
bottom of it, and that the girl who came in my place will act more like
a jailer than a maid to her. Of course they're all afraid that she'll
run away with Reilly."

"And do you think she will, Ellen?" asked her father.

"Don't ask me any such questions," she replied. "It's no matter what I
think--and, besides, it's not my business to mention my thoughts to any
one--but one thing I know, it'll go hard if she ever leaves her father,
who, I really think, would break his heart if she did."

"Oh!" observed the father, with a smile, "divil a one o' you girls,
Ellen, ever thinks much of father or mother when you have made up your
minds to run away wid your _buchaleens_--sorra a taste."

"_Arra_, Brian, will you have sinse," said his wife; "why wouldn't they
think o' them?"

"Did you do it?" he asked, winking at the rest, "when you took a brave
start wid myself across Crockaniska, one summer Sunday night, long ago.
Be me sowl, you proved youself as supple as a two-year-old--cleared,
drain and ditch like a bird--and had me, when we reached my uncle's,
that the ayes wor startin' out o' my head."

"Bad scran to him, the ould slingpoker! Do you hear him," she exclaimed,
laughing--"never mind him, children!--troth, he went at sich a snail's
pace that one 'ud think it was to confession he was goin', and that he
did nothing but think of his sins as he went along."

"That was bekaise I knew that I had the penance before me," he replied,
laughing also.

"Any how," replied his wife, "our case was not like their's. We were
both Catholics, and knew that we'd have the consent of our friends,
besides; we only made a runaway because it was the custom of the
counthry, glory be to God!"

"Ay, ay," rejoined her husband; "but, faith, it was you that proved
yourself the active girl that night, at any rate. However, I hope the
Lord will grant her grace to go, wid him, at all events, for, upon my
sowl, it would be a great boast for the Catholics--bekaise we know there
is one thing sure, and that is, that the divil a long she'd be wid
him till he'd have left her fit to face Europe as a Christian and a
Catholic, bekaise every wife ought to go wid her husband, barrin' he's a
Prodestant."

Poor Ellen paid little attention to this conversation. She felt deeply
depressed, and, after many severe struggles to restrain herself, at last
burst into tears.

"Come, darlin'," said her father, "don't let this affair cast you
down so much; all will yet turn out for the betther, I hope. Cheer up,
_avillish_; maybe that, down-hearted as you are, I have good news for
you. Your ould sweetheart was here this evenin', and hopes soon to have
his pardon--he's a dacent boy, and has good blood in his veins; and as
for his joinin' O'Donnel, it wasn't a a bad heart set him to do it, but
the oppression that druv him, as it did many others, to take the steps
he took--oppression on the one side, and bitterness of heart on the
other."

"I saw him awhile ago," she replied, "and he tould me a good deal about
himself. But, indeed, father, it's not of him I'm thinkin', but on the
darlin' girl that's on the brink of destruction, and what I know she's
sufferin'."

"I wondher where Reilly is," said her mother. "My goodness! sure he
ought to make a push, and take her off at wanst. I dunna is he in the
country at all? What do you think, Ellen?"

"Indeed, mother," she replied, "very few, I believe, knows any thing
about him. All I'm afraid of is, that, wherever he may be, he'll hardly
escape discovery."

"Well," said her father, "I'll tell you what we'll do. Let us kneel
down and offer up ten pathers, ten aves, and a creed, that the Lord may
protect them both from their enemies, and grant them a happy marriage,
in spite of laws, parliaments, magistrates, spies, persecutors and
priest-hunters, and, as our hands are in, let us offer up a few that
God may confound that villain, Whitecraft, and bring him snugly to the
gallows."

This was immediately complied with, in a spirit of earnestness
surpassing probably what they might have felt had they been praying
for their own salvation. The prayers having been concluded, and supper
prepared, in due time the family retired to rest for the night.

When Fergus Reilly took his leave of Ellen, he directed his steps to the
cottage of Mrs. Buckley, where, for certain purpose connected with his
designs on the Red Rapparee, he had been in the habit of meeting: the
sagacious fool, Tom Steeple. It was there, besides, that he had left his
disguise, which the unaccomplished progress of his projects rendered it
necessary that he should once more resume. This, in fact, was the place
of their rendezvous, where they generally met at night. These meetings,
however, were not always very regular; for poor Tom, notwithstanding his
singular and anomalous: cunning, was sometimes led away by his gastric
appetite to hunt for a bully dinner, or a bully supper, or a mug of
strong beer, as the case might be, and after a gorge he was frequently
so completely overtaken by laziness and a consequent tendency to sleep,
that he retired to the barn, or some other outhouse, where he stretched
his limbs on a shake-down of hay or straw, and lapped himself into a
state of luxury which many an epicure of rank and wealth might envy.

On reaching the widow's cottage, Fergus felt somewhat disappointed that
Tom was not there, nor had he been seen that day in any part of the
neighborhood. Fergus, however, whilst the widow was keeping watch
outside, contrived to get on his old disguise once more, after which
he proceeded in the direction of his place of refuge for the night. On
crossing the fields, however, towards the wild and lonely road, which
was at no great distance from the cottage, he met Tom approaching it, at
his usual sling-trot pace.

"Is that Tom?" said he--"tall Tom?"

"Hicco, hicco!" replied Tom, quite gratified with the compliment. "You
be tall, too--not as tall as Tom dough. Tom got bully dinner to-day, and
bully sleep in de barn, and bully supper, but wasn't sleepy den--hicco,
hicco."

"Well, Tom, what news about what you know?"

"In toder house," replied Tom; "him sleeps in Peg Finigan's sometimes,
and sometimes in toder again--dat is, Mary Mahon's. Him's afeared o'
something--hard him say so, sure, to ould Peg."

"Well, Tom, if you will keep your eye on him, so as that you can let us
know where to find him, we engage to give you a bully dinner every day,
and, a bully supper every night of your life, and a swig of stout ale to
wash it down, with plenty of straw to sleep on, and a winnow-cloth and
lots of sacks to keep you as warm and cosey as a winter hob. You know
where to find me every evenin' after dusk, Tom, and when you come with
good news, you'll be a made man; and, listen, Tom, it'll make you a foot
taller, and who knows, man alive, but we may show you for a giant, now."

"Hicco, hicco!" said Tom; "dat great--never mind; me catch him for you.
A giant!--oh, gorramarcy!--a giant!--hicco!--gorramarcy!" and with these
words he darted off in some different direction, whilst Fergus went to
his usual place of rest for the night.

It would seem by the Red Rapparee s movements at this time as if he
entertained some vague suspicions of awakened justice, notwithstanding
the assurances of safety previously communicated to him by Sir Robert
Whitecraft. Indeed, it is not impossible that even the other individuals
who had distinguished themselves under that zealous baronet might, in
their conversations with each other, have enabled the Rapparee to get
occasional glimpses of the new state of things which had just taken
place, and that, in consequence, he shifted about a good deal, taking
care never to sleep two nights in succession under the same roof. Be
this as it may, the eye of Tom Steeple was on him, without the least
possible suspicion on his part that he was under his surveillance.




CHAPTER XIV.--Reilly takes Service with Squire Folliard.


Reilly led a melancholy life after the departure of the pious bishop. A
week, however, had elapsed, and he felt as if it had been half a year.
His anxiety, however, either to see or hear from his _Cooleen Bawn_
completely overcame him, and he resolved, at all events, to write to
her; in the meantime, how was he to do this? There was no letter-paper
in the farmer's house, nor any to be procured within miles, and, under
these circumstances, he resolved to pay a visit to Mr. Brown. After some
trouble he was admitted to the presence of that gentleman, who could
scarcely satisfy himself of his identity; but, at length, he felt
assured, and asked him into the study.

"My dear Reilly," said he, "I think you are infatuated. I thought you
had been out of the country long before this. Why, in heaven's name, do
you remain in Ireland, when you know the difficulty of escape? I
have had, since I saw you last, two or three domiciliary visits from
Whitecraft and his men, who searched my whole house and premises in a
spirit of insolence that was, most indelicate and offensive. Hastings
and I have sent a memorial to the Lord Lieutenant, signed by some of the
most respectable Protestant gentry in the, country, in which we
stated his wanton tyranny as well as his oppression of his Majesty's
subjects--harmless and loyal men, and whom he pursues with unsatiable
vengeance, merely because they are Roman Catholics. I certainly do not
expect that our memorial will be attended to by this Administration.
There is a report, however, that the present Ministry will soon go out,
and be succeeded by one more liberal."

"Well," replied Reilly, "since I saw you last I have had some narrow
escapes; but I think it would be difficult to know me in my present
disguise."

"I grant that," said Mr. Brown, "but then is there nothing to be
apprehended from treachery?"

"I think not," replied the other. "There is only the farmer and his
family, with whom the bishop and I harbored, who are aware of my
disguise, and to that number I must now add yourself."

"Well," replied Mr. Brown, smiling, "I do not think you have much to
apprehend from me."

"No," said Reilly, "you have given me too many substantial proofs of
your confidence for that. But I wish to write a letter; and I have
neither pen, ink, nor paper; will you be good enough to lend me the use
of your study for a few minutes, and your writing materials?"

The excellent clergyman immediately conducted him to the study, and
placed the materials before him with his own hands, after which he left
the room. Reilly then sat down, and penned the following letter to his
dear _Cooleen Bawn_:

"I am now thoroughly disguised, indeed so effectually that my nearest
and dearest friends could not know me; nay, I question whether even you
yourself would, except by the keen intuition of affection, which is said
to penetrate all disguises, unless those of falsehood and hypocrisy.
These, however, are disguises I have never worn, nor ever shall
wear--either to you or any human being. I had intended to go to the
Continent until this storm of persecution might blow over; but on
reflection I changed my purpose, for I could not leave you to run the
risk of being ensnared in the subtle and treacherous policy of that
villain. It is my intention to visit your father's house and to see
you if I can. You need not, for the sake of my safety, object to this,
because no one can know me. The description of my dress, though somewhat
undignified, I must give you. In the first place, then, I am, to all
outward appearance, as rude-looking a country lout as ever you looked
upon. My disguise consists, first, of a pair of brogues embroidered with
clouts, or what is vulgarly denominated patches, out of the point of one
of which--that of the right foot--nearly half my toe visibly projects.
The stockings are coarse Connemaras, with sufficient air-holes, both in
feet and legs, to admit the pure atmosphere, and strengthen the muscular
system. My small-clothes are corduroys, bought from a hard-working
laborer, with a large patch upon each knee. A tailor, however, has
promised to get some buttons for them and sew them on. The waistcoat is
altogether indescribable; because, as its materials seem to have been
rescued, that is, stolen, from all the scarecrows in the country, I am'
unable to come at the first fabric. The coat itself is also beautifully
variegated, its patches consisting of all the colors of the rainbow,
with two or three dozen that never appeared in that beautiful
phenomenon. But what shall I say of the pendiment, or caubeen, which is
a perfect gem of its kind? The villain who wore it, I have been told by
the person who acted as factor for me in its purchase, was one of the
most quarrelsome rascals in Ireland, and seldom went without a black eye
or a broken pate. This, I suppose, accounts for the droop in the leaf,
which covers the left eye so completely, as well as for the ventilator,
which so admirably refreshes the head, and allows the rain to come in so
abundantly to cool it. I cannot help reflecting, however, on the fate of
those who have nothing better to wear, and of the hard condition which
dooms them to it. And now, my beloved _Cooleen Bawn_, whilst I have
thus endeavored to make you smile, I assure you I have exaggerated
very little. This dress, you know, is precisely that of a wretched
Connaught-man looking for employment. The woman, who will, through our
confidant, Lanigan, deliver this to you, is a poor faithful creature,
a pensioner of mine, who may be trusted. Appoint through her a day and
hour when, as a man seeking for labor, I will stand at the hall-door. I
am quite satisfied that neither your father, nor the villain, will know
me from Adam. The woman who is to bring this will call on the second day
after its delivery, and I shall be guided by whatever message you may
send me. On one thing, however, I am determined, which is that if it
should cost me my life, I will prevent the meditated marriage between
you and him. Sooner than such an event should take place, I would put
a pistol to his head and blow his guilty soul into that perdition which
awaits it. Don't write; let your message be verbal, and destroy this."

On going to widow Buckley's, he learned--after some trouble in
identifying himself--that she had several visits from Sir Robert and his
men, at all hours, both by night and day. He therefore hastily gave her
the necessary instructions how to act, and, above all things, to ask to
see Lanigan, and, if possible, to bring some eggs or chickens for sale,
which fact, he said, would give a color to her appearance there, and
prevent the possibility of any suspicion. Having placed the letter in
her keeping, together with some silver to enable her to purchase either
the eggs or the chickens, in case she had them not herself, he then
returned to the farmer's, where he remained quietly and without
disturbance of any kind until the third day, when widow Buckley made
her appearance. He brought her out to the garden, because in discussing
matters connected with his _Cooleen Bawn_ he did not wish that even the
farmer's family should be auditors--although we may say here that not
only were the loves of Willy Reilly and _Cooleen Bawn_ known to the
farmer and his family, but also to the whole country, and, indeed,
through the medium of ballads, to the greater portion of the kingdom.

"Well, Mrs. Buckley," said he, "did you see her?"

"Oh, bad scran to you, Mr. Reilly! you're the very sarra among the
girls when you could persuade that lovely creature to fall in love with
you--and you a Catholic, an' her a Protestant! May I never, if I think
there's her angil out o' heaven! Devil an angel I think in it could
hould a candle to her for beauty and figure. She only wants the wings,
sir--for they say that all the angels have wings; and upon my conscience
if she had them I know the man she'd fly to."

"But what happened, Mrs. Buckley?"

"Why, I sould some chickens and eggs to the cook, who at wanst knew me,
because I had often sould him chickens and eggs before. He came up to
the hall-door, and--'Well, Mrs. Buckley,' says he, 'what's the news?'
'_Be dhe husth_,' says I, 'before I sell you the chickens, let me ax
is the _Cooleen Bawn_ at home?' 'She is,' says he, lookin' me sharp and
straight in the face; 'do you want her?' 'I would like to see her,' says
I, 'for a minute or two.' 'Ay,' says he, back agin to me, 'you have a
message--and you know besides that she never buys chickens; that's my
business.' 'But,' says I, back agin, 'I was tould by him that you were
faithful, and could be depinded on.' 'Ay,' says he; 'but I thought he
had left the counthry.' 'Troth, then,' says I, 'he's to the fore still,
and won't lave the counthry till he sees her wanst more, at all events.'
'Have you a letther?' 'Betherahin,' says I, 'could you let me see her;
for he tould me to say to her that she is not, to indite letthers to
him, for fraid of discovery.' 'Well,' says he, 'as the master's at home,
I'll have some difficulty in spakin' to her. Devil a move she gives but
he watches; and we got a new servant the other day, and devil a thing
she is but a spy from Sir Robert Whitecraft, and some people say that
her master and she forgot the Gospel between them. Indeed I believe
that's pretty well known; and isn't he a horrid villain to send such a
vagabone to attend and be about the very woman that he expects to be his
own wife?'"

"Don't be so particular in your descriptions, Mrs. Buckley," said
Reilly. "Did you see the _Cooleen Bawn_?"

"Look at that," she replied, opening her hand, and showing him a golden
guinea--"don't you know by that that I seen her? but you must let me go
on my own way. 'Well,' says Lanigan, the cook, 'I must go and see what
I can do.' He then went upstairs, and contrived to give her a hint, and
that was enough. 'The Lord bless us, Mr. Reilly, what won't love do?
This girl--as Lanigan tould me--that the villain Whitecraft had sent as
a spy upon her actions, was desired to go to her wardrobe, to pick out
from among her beautiful dresses one that she had promised her as a
present some days before. The cook had this from the girl herself, who
was the sarra for dress; but, anyhow, while the the spy was tumbling
about _Cooleen Bawn_'s dresses, the darlin' herself whipped downstairs,
and coming to me says, 'The cook tells me you have a message for
me.' Jist at this moment, and after she had slipped the letter into
her bosom, her father turns a corner round the garden, and seeing his
daughter, which was a very unusual thing, in conversation with a person
like myself, he took the alarm at once. 'How, Helen? who is this you
are speaking to'? No go-between, I hope? Who are you, you blasted old
she-whelp?' 'I am no more a she-whelp than you are.' 'Then maybe you are
a he one in disguise. What brought you here?' 'Here! I came to sell
my eggs and my chickens, as I done for years.' 'Your eggs and your
chickens! curse you, you old Jezebel, did you ever lay the eggs or hatch
the chickens? And if you did, why not produce the old cock himself, in
proof of the truth of what you say? I'll have you searched, though, in
spite of your eggs and chickens. Here,' he said to one of the footmen,
who was passing through the hall--'here, Jones, send up Lanigan, till we
see whether he knows this old faggot, who has the assurance to tell me
that she lays eggs and hatches chickens.' When Lanigan came up again,
he looked at me as at an old acquaintance, which, in point of fact, we
were. 'Why, your honor,' said he, 'this is a poor, honest creature that
has been selling us eggs and chickens for many years.' 'She wouldn't be
a go-between, Lanigan--eh? What's your name, you old faggot--eh?'
'My name | is Scrahag, your honor,' says I, 'one of the Scrahags of
Ballycumpiatee--an honest and dacint family, sir; but if your honor
would buy the eggs, at any rate, and hatch them yourself,' says I to him
(for she had a large stock of Irish humor), 'you know, sir, you could
have the chickens at first cost.' 'Ha, ha, ha,' and the squire laughed
till he nearly split his sides; 'by --- I'm hit'--God pardon me for
repeatin' his oaths. 'Here, Lanigan, bring her down to the kitchen, and
give her a fog meal.' 'I understand you, sir,' said Lanigan, smiling at
him. 'Yes, Lanigan, give her a cargo of the best in the pantry. She's
a shrewd and comical old blade,' said he; 'give her a kegful of beef
or mutton, or both, and a good swill of ale or porter, or whatever she
prefers. Curse me, but I give the old whelp credit for the hit she gave
me. Pay her, besides, whatever she asks for her eggs and chickens. Here,
you bitter old randle-tree, there are three thirteens for you; and
if you will go down to the kitchen with the cook, he will give you a
regular skinful.' The cook, knowing that the _Cooleen Bawn_ wished to
send some message back to you, sir, brought me down, and gave me not
only plenty to ait and drink, but stuffed the praskeen that I had
carried the eggs and chickens in with as much cold meat and bread as it
could contain."

"Well, but did you not see her afterwards? and did she send no message?"

"Only two or three words; the day afther to-morrow, at two o'clock, come
to look for labor, and she will contrive to see you."

This was enough, and Reilly did not allow his ambassadress to leave him
without substantial marks of his bounty also.

When the old squire went to his study, he desired the gardener to be
sent for, and when that individual entered, he found his master in a
towering passion.

"What is the reason, Malcomson," said he, "that the garden is in such a
shameful state? I declare to God it is scandalous."

"Ou, your honor," replied Malcomson, who was a Scotchman, "e'en because
you will not allow me an under gerdener. No one man could manage
your gerden, and it canna be managed without some clever chiel, what
understands the sceence."

"The what?"

"The sceence, your honor."

"Why, confound you, sir, what science is necessary in gardening?"

"I tell your honor that the management of a gerden requires baith skeel
and knowledge, and feelosophy."

"Why, confound you, sir, again, what kind of doctrine is this?"

"It's vera true doctrine, sir. You have large and spacious green-hooses,
and I wad want some one to assist me wha understands buttany."

"Buttony--Buttony--why, confound you, sirra, send for a tailor, then,
for he understands buttony."

"I see your honor is detarmined to indulge in a jocular spirit the day.
The truth is, your honor, I hae no men to assist me but common laborers,
who are athegether ignorant of gerdening; now, if I had a man who could
direct the operations--"

"Operations! curse your Scotch impudence, do you think yourself a
general?"

"Na, na, sir; but a better man; and I tell ye that I winna remain in
your service unless I get an assistant; and I say that, if it
were-na for the aid of Miss Folliard, I wouldna been able to keep the
green-hoose e'en in its present state. She has trailed the passionflower
wi' her ain hands until it is nourishing. Then she has a beautiful
little plot of forget-me-nots; but, above a', it wad do your honor's
heart gude to see the beautiful bed she has of sweet-william and
love-lies-bleeding."

"Ay, ay! love-lies-bleeding; no doubt but she'll take care of that.
Well, go and get an under-gardener wherever you can, and let my garden
be, at all events, such as a stranger can walk through, and such as
becomes my name and property. Engage such a person, give him whatever
you consider fair wages, and the house-steward will pay him weekly.
These are matters I can't trouble myself with now-I have other things to
think of."

On the day mentioned in _Cooleen Bawn's_ message, Reilly hazarded a
visit to the squire's house, and after giving a single knock, begged to
see the cook. The porter having looked at him with the usual contempt
which menials of his class bestow upon poor persons, went down to the
kitchen with a good deal of reluctance, and told the cook, with a grin,
that one of his relations wanted to see him.

"Well," replied Lanigan, who had been made aware of the intended visit,
"it's wonderful, in these hard times, the number of respectable but
reduced families that's goin' about. What kind of a gentleman is he,
John? because I am very busy now. To be sure there is a great deal of
cold vittles left, that would be lost and destroyed if we didn't give
them to the poor; and you know the masther, who is a charitable man,
desired us to do so. I'll go up and see what the poor devil wants."

He accordingly went up to the hall-door, and found Reilly there. It was
to no purpose that he had been already apprised of his disguise--it was
so complete that he did not know him--his beard was half an inch long;
and, besides, Reilly, knowing the risk he ran in this daring adventure,
had discolored his complexion with some wash that gave it the tinge of a
mulatto. The cook was thunderstruck.

"Well, my good fellow," said he, not in the slightest degree recognizing
him, "what do you want with me?"

"Lanigan," replied Reilly, "don't you know me?"

"Know you! how the devil should I know you?--I never saw you before.
What do you want with me?"

"Lanigan," whispered the other, "did you never hear of Willy Reilly?"

"Yes, I did; have you any message from him?"

"I am the man myself," said Reilly, "but you don't know me, I am so
completely disguised. Don't you know my voice?"

"Merciful Father!" said the cook, "I'm in a doldrum; can I be sure that
you don't come from Sir Robert Whitecraft, the notorious blackguard?"

"Lanigan, I am Willy Reilly: my voice ought to tell you so; but I wish
to see and speak with my dear _Cooleen Bawn_."

"Oh, my God, sir!" replied Lanigan, "but this love makes strange
transmigrations. She won't know you, sir."

"Make your mind easy on that point," replied Reilly; "only let her know
that I am here."

"Come down to the kitchen then, sir, and I shall put you into the
servants' hall, which branches off it. It is entered, besides, by a
different door from that of the kitchen, and while you stay there--and
you can pass into it without going through the kitchen--I will try to
let her know where you are. She has at present a maid who was sent by
Sir Robert Whitecraft, and she is nothing else than a spy; but it'll go
hard, or I'll baffle her."

He accordingly placed Reilly in the servants' hall, and on his way to
the drawing-room met Miss Folliard going to her own apartment, which
commanded a view of the front of the house. He instantly communicated
to her the fact of Reilly's presence in the servants' hall; "but,"
added Lanigan, "you won't know him--his own mother, if she was livin',
wouldn't know a bone in his body."

"Oh!" she replied, whilst her eyes flashed fearfully, in fact, in a
manner that startled the cook--"oh! if he is there I shall soon know
him. He has a voice, I think--he has a voice! Has he not, Lanigan?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Lanigan, "he has a voice, and a heart too."

"Oh! yes, yes," she said, "I must go to him; they want to marry me to
that monster--to that bigot and persecutor, on this very day month; but,
Lanigan, it shall never be--death a thousand times sooner than such
a union. If they attempt to bind us, death shall cut the link
asunder--that I promise you, Lanigan. But I must go to him--I must go to
him."

She ran down the stairs as she spoke, and Lanigan, having looked after
her, seemed deeply concerned.

"My God!" he exclaimed, "what will become of that sweet girl if she is
forced to marry that wealthy scoundrel? I declare to my God I hardly
think she is this moment in her proper senses. There's a fire in her
eyes; and something in her manner, that I never observed before. At
all events, I have locked the door that opens from the kitchen into the
servants' hall, so that they cannot be interrupted from that quarter."

When the _Cooleen Bawn_ entered, she shrank back instinctively.
The disguise was so complete that she could not impose even on her
imagination or her senses. The complexion was different, in fact, quite
sallow; the beard long, and the costume such as we have described it.
There was, in fact, something extremely ludicrous in the meeting. Here
was an elegant and beautiful young woman of fashion, almost ready, as it
were, to throw herself in the arms of a common pauper, with a beard upon
him better than half an inch long. As it was, she stopped suddenly and
retreated a step or two, saying, as she did so:

"This must be some mistake. Who are you?"

"Helen!"

"Reilly! oh, that voice has set all right. But, my God, who could know
you--in this disguise?"

They approached, and Reilly, seizing her hand, said, "I will shake hands
with you; but until this disguise is off I would consider it sacrilege
to approach nearer to your person."

"No disguise can ever shut you out from my heart, dear Reilly; but what
is to be done? I have discovered, by one of my maids, who overheard
my father say, in a short soliloquy--'Well, thank God, she'll be Sir
Robert's wife within a month, and then my mind will be easy at last.'
Oh! I'm glad you did not leave this country. But, as I said, what is to
be done? What will become of us?"

"Under our peculiar circumstances," replied Reilly, "the question
cannot, for the present at least, be answered. As for leaving the
country, I might easily have done it, but I could not think of leaving
you to the snares and windings of that villain. I declare solemnly, I
would rather die than witness a union between you and him."

"But what, think you, should I feel? You would be only a spectator of
the sacrifice, whereas I should be the victim."

"Do not be cast down, my love; whilst I have life, and a strong arm, it
snail never be. Before I go I shall make arrangements with Lanigan when
and where to see you again."

"It will be a matter of some difficulty," she replied, "for I am
now under the strictest surveillance. I am told, and I feel it, that
Whitecraft has placed a spy upon all my motions."

"How is that?" inquired Reilly. "Are you not under the protection
of your father, who, when occasion is necessary, has both pride and
spirit?"

"But my poor credulous father is, notwithstanding, easily imposed on. I
know not exactly the particulars," replied the lovely girl, "but I can
easily suspect them. My father it was, certainly, who discharged my last
maid, Ellen Connor, because, he said, he did not like her, and because,
he added, he would put a better and a more trustworthy one in her place.
I cannot move that she is not either with me or after me; nay, I cannot
write a note that she does not immediately acquaint papa, who is certain
to stroll into my apartment and ask to see the contents of it, adding,
'Helen, when a young lady of rank and property forms a clandestine
and disgraceful attachment it is time that her father should be on the
lookout; so I will just take the liberty of throwing my eye over this
little billet-doux.' I told him often that he was at liberty to inspect
every line I should write, but that I thought that very few parents
would express such want of confidence in their daughters, if, like me,
the latter had deserved such confidence at their hands as I did at his."

"What is the name of your present maid?" asked Reilly, musing.

"Oh," replied Miss Folliard, "I have three maids altogether, but she has
been installed as own maid. Her name is Eliza Herbert."

"A native of England, is she not? Eliza Herbert!" he exclaimed; "in the
lowermost depths of perdition there is not such a villain. This Eliza
Herbert is neither more nor less than one of his--but I will not pain
your pure and delicate mind by mentioning at further length what she is
and was to him. The clergyman of the parish, Mr. Brown, knows the whole
circumstances. See him at church, and get him to communicate them to
your father. The fact is, this villain, who is at once cunning and
parsimonious, had a double motive, each equally base and diabolical, in
sending her here. In the first place, he wished, by getting her a
good place, to make your father the unconscious means of rewarding her
profligacy; and in the second of keeping her as a spy upon you."

A blush, resulting from her natural sense of delicacy, as well as from
the deepest indignation at a man who did not scruple to place the woman
whom he looked upon as almost immediately to become his wife, in the
society of such a wretch--such a blush, we say, overspread her whole
neck and face, and for about two minutes she shed bitter tears. But she
felt the necessity of terminating their interview, from an apprehension
that Miss Herbert, as she was called, on not finding her in the room,
might institute a search, and in this she was not mistaken.

She had scarcely concluded when the shrill voice of Miss Herbert was
heard, as she rushed rapidly down the stairs, screaming, "Oh, la! oh,
dear me! oh, my goodness! Where, where--oh, bless me, did any one see
Miss Folliard?"

Lanigan, however, had prepared for any thing like a surprise. He planted
himself, as a sentinel, at the foot of the stairs, and the moment he
heard the alarm of Miss Herbert on her way down, he met her half way up,
after having given a loud significant cough.

"Oh, cook, have you seen Miss Folliard? I can't find her in the house!"

"Is her father in his study, Miss Herbert? because I want to see him;
I'm afeared there's a screw loose. I did see Miss Folliard; she went out
a few minutes ago--indeed she rather stole out towards the garden, and,
I tell you the truth, she had a--condemned look of her own. Try the
garden, and if you don't find her there, go to the back gate, which
you'll be apt to find open."

"Oh, I will, I will; thank you, cook. I'm certain it's an elopement."

"Indeed, I wouldn't be surprised to find," replied Lanigan, "that she is
with Reilly this moment; any way you haven't a minute to lose."

She started towards the garden, which she ran over and over; and there
we shall leave her, executing the fool's errand upon which Lanigan had
sent her. "Now," said he, going in, "the coast's clear; I have sent that
impertinent jade out to the garden, and as the back gate is open--the
gardener's men are wheeling out the rubbish--and they are now at
dinner--I say, as the back gate is open, it's ten to one but she'll
scour the country. Now, Miss Folliard, go immediately to your room; as
for this poor man, I will take care of him."

"Most sincerely do I thank you, Lanigan; he will arrange with you when
and where to see me again. Farewell, Reilly--farewell; rely upon my
constancy;" and so they parted, Reilly to the kitchen, and the _Cooleen
Bawn_ to her own room.

"Come into the pantry, poor man," said good-natured Lanigan, addressing
our hero, "till I give you' something to eat and drink."

"Many thanks to you, sir," replied he; "troth and whaix, I didn't taste
a morshel for the last fwhour--hugh--hugh-and twenty hours; and sure,
sir, it's this cough that's killin' me by inches."

A thought struck Lanigan, who had been also spoken to by the gardener,
about half an hour before, to know if he could tell him where he might
have any chance of finding an assistant. At all events they went into
the pantry, when Lanigan, after having pulled to the door, to prevent
their conversation from being overheard, disclosed a project, which had
just entered his head, of procuring Reilly employment in the garden.
Here it was arranged between them that the latter, who was both a
good botanist and florist, should be recommended to the gardener as
an assistant. To be sure, his dress and appearance were both decidedly
against him; but still they relied upon the knowledge which Reilly
confidently assured the cook that he possessed. After leaving the pantry
with Lanigan, whom our hero thanked in a thorough brogue, the former
called after him, as he was going away:

"Come here again, my good man."

"What is it, shir? may God bless you anyhow, for your charity to
the--hugh--hugh--hugh--to the poor man. Oh, then, but it's no wondher
for you all to be fat and rosy upon sich beautiful vittles as you gave
to me, shir. What is it, achora? and may the Lord mark you with grace!"

"Would you take employment from the master, his honor Mr. Folliard, if
you got it?"

"Arrah now, shir, you gave me my skinful of what was gud; but don't be
luakin' fwhun o' me after. Would I take employment, achora?--ay, but
where would I get it?"

"Could you work in a garden? Do you know any thing about plants or
flowers?"

"Oh thin, that I may never sup sarra (sorrow), but that's just what I'm
fwhit fwhor."

"I'm afeared this scoundrel is but an imposthor afther all," whispered
Lanigan to the other servants; "but in ordher to make sure, we'll try
him. I say--what's this your name is?"

"Solvesther M'Bethershin, shir."

"Well, now, would you have any objection to come with me to the garden
and see I the gardener? But hould, here he is. Mr. Malcomson," continued
Lanigan, "here is a poor man, who says he understands plants and
flowers, and weeds of that kind."

"Speak wi' reverence, Mr. Lanigan, o' the art o' gerdening. Dinna ye ken
that the founder o' the hail human race was a gerdener?-Hout awa, moil;
speak o' it wi' speck."

"Upon my conscience," replied Lanigan, "whether he was a good gardener
or not is more than I know; but one thing I do know, that he didn't
hould his situation long, and mismanaged his orchard disgracefully; and,
indeed, like many more of his tribe, he got his walkin' papers in double
quick--was dismissed without a characther--ay, and his wife, like many
another gardener's wife, got a habit of stalin' the apples. However, I
wish Mr. Malcomson, that you, who do undherstand gardenin', would thry
this fellow, because I want to know whether he's an imposthor or not."

"Weel," replied Malcomson, "I dinna care if I do. We'll soon find that
out. Come wi' me and Maisther Lanigan here, and we'll see what you ken
about the sceentific profession."

They accordingly went to the garden, and it is unnecessary to say that
Reilly not only bore the examination well, but proved himself by far the
better botanist of the two. He tempered his answers, however, in such a
way as not to allow the gardener's vanity to be hurt, in which case he
feared that he might have little chance of being engaged.




CHAPTER XV.--More of Whitecraft's Plots and Pranks


On the Sunday following, Miss Folliard, as was her usual custom,
attended divine service at her parish church, accompanied by the
virtuous Miss Herbert, who scarcely ever let her for a moment out of her
sight, and, in fact, added grievously to the misery of her life. After
service had been concluded, she waited until Mr. Brown had descended
from the pulpit, when she accosted him, and expressed a wish to have
some private conversation with him in the vestry-room. To this room
they were about to proceed, when Miss Herbert advanced with an evident
intention of accompanying them.

"Mr. Brown," said the _Cooleen Bawn_, looking at him significantly, "I
wish that our interview should be private."

"Certainly, my dear Miss Folliard, and so it shall be. Pray, who is this
lady?"

"I am forced, sir, to call her my maid."

Mr. Brown was startled a good deal, not only at the words, but the tone
in which they were uttered.

"Madam," said he, "you will please to remain here until your mistress
shall return to you, or, if you wish, you can amuse yourself by reading
the inscriptions on the tombstones."

"Oh, but I have been ordered," replied Miss Herbert, "by her father and
another gentleman, not to let her out of my sight."

Mr. Brown, understanding that something was wrong, now looked at her
more closely, after which, with a withering frown, he said,

"I think I know you, madam, and I am very sorry to hear that you are
an attendant upon this amiable lady. Remain where you are, and don't
attempt to intrude yourself as an ear-witness to any communication Miss
Folliard may have to make to me."

The profligate creature and unprincipled spy bridled, looked disdain and
bitterness at the amiable clergyman, who, accompanied by our heroine,
retired to the vestry. It is unnecessary to detail their conversation,
which was sustained by the _Cooleen Bawn_ with bitter tears. It is
enough to say that the good and pious minister, though not aware until
then that Miss Herbert had, by the scoundrel baronet, been intruded into
Squire Folliard's family, was yet acquainted, from peculiar sources,
with the nature of the immoral relation in which she stood to that
hypocrite. He felt shocked beyond belief, and assured the weeping girl
that he would call the next day and disclose the treacherous design
to her father, who, he said, could not possibly have been aware of
the wretch's character when he admitted her into his family. They then
parted, and our heroine was obliged to take this vile creature into the
carriage with her home. On their return, Miss Herbert began to display
at once the malignity of her disposition, and the volubility of her
tongue, in a fierce attack upon, what she termed, the ungentlemanly
conduct of Mr. Brown. To all she said, however, Helen uttered not one
syllable of reply. She neither looked at her nor n