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.
“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?”