On the day after the outrage we have described, the indignant old squire's carriage stopped at the hall-door of Sir Robert Whitecraft, whom he found at home. As yet, the latter gentleman had heard nothing of the contumelious dismissal of Miss Herbert; but the old squire was not ignorant of the felonious abduction of the priest. At any other time, that is to say, in some of his peculiar stretches of loyalty, the act might, have been a feather in the cap of the loyal baronet; but, at present, he looked both at him and his exploits through the medium of the insult he had offered to his daughter. Accordingly, when he entered the baronet's library, where he found him literally sunk in papers, anonymous letters, warrants, reports to Government, and a vast variety of other documents, the worthy Sir Robert rose, and in the most cordial manner, and with the most extraordinary suavity of aspect, held out his hand, saying:
“How much obliged am I, Mr. Folliard, at the kindness of this visit, especially from one who keeps at home so much as you do.”
The squire instantly repulsed him, and replied:
“No, sir; I am an honest, and, I trust, and honorable man. My hand, therefore, shall never touch that of a villain.”
“A villain!—why, Mr. Folliard, these are hard and harsh words, and they surprise me, indeed, as proceeding from your lips. May I beg, my friend, that you will explain yourself?”
“I will, sir. How durst you take the liberty of sending one of your cast-off strumpets to attend personally upon my pure and virtuous daughter? For that insult I come this day to demand that satisfaction which is due to the outraged feelings of my daughter—to my own also, as her father and natural protector, and also as an Irish gentleman, who will brook no insult either to his family or himself. I say, then, name your time and place, and your weapon—sword or pistol, I don't care which, I am ready.”
“But, my good sir, there is some mystery here; I certainly engaged a female of that name to attend on Miss Folliard, but most assuredly she was a well-conducted person.”
“What! Madam Herbert well conducted! Do you imagine, sir, that I am a fool? Did she not admit that you debauched her?”
“It could not be, Mr. Folliard; I know nothing whatsoever about her, except that she was daughter to one of my tenants, who is besides a sergeant of dragoons.”
“Ay, yes, sir,” replied the squire sarcastically; “and I tell you it was not for killing and eating the enemy that he was promoted to his seirgeantship. But I see your manoeuvre, Sir Robert; you wish to shift the conversation, and sleep in a whole skin. I say now, I have provided myself with a friend, and I ask, will you fight?”
“And why not have sent your friend, Mr. Folliard, as is usual upon such occasions?”
“Because he is knocked up, after a fit of drink, and I cannot be just so cool, under such an insult, as to command patience to wait. My friend, however, will attend us on the ground; but, I ask again, will you fight?”
“Most assuredly not, sir; I am an enemy to duelling on principle; but in your case I could not think of it, even if I were not. What! raise my hand against the life of Helen's father!—no, sir, I'd sooner die than do so. Besides, Mr. Folliard, I am, so to speak, not my own property, but that of my King, my Government, and my country; and under these circumstances not at liberty to dispose of my life, unless in their quarrel.”
“I see,” replied the squire bitterly; “it is certainly an admirable description of loyalty that enables a man, who is base enough to insult the very woman who was about to become his wife, and to involve her own father in the insult, to ensconce himself, like a coward, behind his loyalty, and refuse to give the satisfaction of a man, or a gentleman.”
“But, Mr. Folliard, will you hear me? there must, as I said, be some mystery here; I certainly did recommend a young female named Herbert to you, but I was utterly ignorant of what you mention.”
Here the footman entered, and whispered something to Sir Robert, who apologized to the squire for leaving him two or three minutes. “Here is the last paper,” said he, “and I trust that before you go I will be able to remove clearly and fully the prejudices which you entertain against me, and which originate, so far as I am concerned, in a mystery which I am unable to penetrate.”
He then followed the servant, who conducted him to Hennessy, whom he found in the back parlor.
“Well, Mr. Hennessy,” said he, impatiently, “what is the matter now?”
“Why,” replied the other, “I have one as good as bagged, Sir Robert.”
“One what?”
“Why, a priest, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Hennessy, I am particularly engaged now; but as to Reilly, can you not come upon his trail? I would rather have him than a dozen priests; however, remain here for about twenty minutes, or say half an hour, and I will talk with you at more length. For the present I am most particularly engaged.”
“Very well, Sir Robert, I shall await your leisure; but, as to Reilly, I have every reason to think that he has left the country.”
Sir Robert, on going into the hall, saw the porter open the door, and Miss Herbert presented herself.
“Oh,” said he, “is this you? I am glad you came; follow me into the front parlor.”
She accordingly did so; and after he had shut the door he addressed her as follows:
“Now, tell me how the devil you were discovered; or were you accessory yourself to the discovery, by your egregious folly and vanity?”
“Oh, la, Sir Robert, do you think I am a fool?”
“I fear you are little short of it,” he replied; “at all events, you have succeeded in knocking up my marriage with Miss Folliard. How did it happen that they found you out?”
She then detailed to him the circumstances exactly as the reader is acquainted with them.
He paused for some time, and then said, “There is some mystery at the bottom of this which I must fathom. Have you any reason to know how the family became acquainted with your history?”
“No, sir; not in the least.”
“Do you think Miss Folliard meets any person privately?”
“Not, sir, while I was with her.”
“Did she ever attempt to go out by herself?”
“Not, sir, while I was with her.”
“Very well, then, I'll tell you what you must do; her father is above with me now, in a perfect hurricane of indignation. Now you must say that the girl Herbert, whom I recommended to the squire, was a friend of yours; that she gave you the letter of recommendation which I gave her to Mr. Folliard; that having married her sweetheart and left the country with him, you were tempted to present yourself in her stead, and to assume her name. I will call you up by and by; but what name will you take?”
“My mother's name, sir, was Wilson.”
“Very good; what was her Christian name?”
“Catherine, sir.”
“And you must say that I know nothing whatsoever of the imposture you were guilty of. I shall make it worth your while; and if you don't get well through with it, and enable me to bamboozle the old fellow, I have done with you. I shall send for you by and by.”
He then rejoined the squire, who was walking impatiently about the room.
“Mr. Folliard,” said he, “I have to apologize to you for this seeming neglect; I had most important business to transact, and I merely went downstairs to tell the gentleman that I could not possibly attend to it now, and to request him to come in a couple of hours hence; pray excuse me, for no business could be so important as that in which I am now engaged with you.'”
“Yes, but in the name of an outraged father, I demand again to know whether you will give me satisfaction or not?”
“I have already answered you, my dear sir, and if you will reflect upon the reasons I have given you, I am certain you will admit that I have the laws both of God and man on my side, and I feel it my duty to regulate my conduct by both. As to the charge you bring against me, about the girl Herbert, I am both ignorant and innocent of it.”
“Why, sir, how can you say so? how have you the face to say so?—did you not give her a letter of recommendation to me, pledging yourself for her moral character and fidelity?”
“I grant it, but still I pledge you my honor that I looked upon her as an extremely proper person to be about your daughter; you know, sir, that you as well as I have had—and have still—apprehensions as to Reilly's conduct and influence over her; and I did fear, and so did you, that the maid who then attended her, and to whom I was told she was attached with such unusual affection, might have availed herself of her position, and either attempted to seduce her from her faith, or connive at private meetings with Reilly.”
“Sir Robert, I know your plausibility—and, upon my soul, I pay it a high compliment when I say it is equal to your cowardice.”
“Mr. Folliard, I can bear all this with patience, especially from you—What's this?” he exclaimed, addressing the footman, who rushed into the room in a state of considerable excitement.
“Why, Sir Robert, there is a young woman below, who is crying and lamenting, and saying she must see Mr. Folliard.”
“Damnation, sir,” exclaimed Sir Robert, “what is this? why am I interrupted in such a manner? I cannot have a gentleman ten minutes in my study, engaged upon private and important business, but in bolts some of you, to interrupt and disturb us. What does the girl want with me?”
“It is not you she wants, sir,” replied the footman, “but his honor, Mr. Folliard.”
“Well, tell her to wait until he is disengaged.”
“No,” replied Mr. Folliard, “send her up at once; what the devil can this be? but you shall witness it.”
The baronet smiled knowingly. “Well,” said he, “Mr. Folliard, upon my honor, I thought you had sown your wild oats many a year ago; and, by the way, according to all accounts—hem—but no matter; this, to be sure, will be rather a late crop.”
“No, sir, I sowed my wild oats in the right season, when I was hot, young, and impetuous; but long before your age, sir, that field had been allowed to lie barren.”
He had scarcely concluded when Miss Herbert, acting upon a plan of her own, which, were not the baronet a man of the most imperturbable coolness, might have staggered, if not altogether confounded him, entered the room.
“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, with a flood of tears, kneeling before Mr. Folliard, “can you forgive and pardon me?”
“It is not against you, foolish girl, that my resentment is or shall be directed, but against the man who employed you—and there he sits.”
“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, again turning to that worthy gentleman, who seemed filled with astonishment.
“In God's name!” said he, interrupting his accomplice, “what can this mean? Who are you, my good girl?”
“My name's Catherine Wilson, sir.”
“Catherine Wilson!” exclaimed the squire—“why, confound your brazen face, are you not the person who styled yourself Miss Herbert, and who lived, thank God, but for a short time only, in my family?”
“I lived in your family, sir, but I am not the Miss Herbert that Sir Robert Whitecraft recommended to you.”
“I certainly know nothing about you, my good girl,” replied Sir Robert, “nor do I recollect having ever seen you before; but proceed with what you have to say, and let us hear it at once.”
“Yes, sir; but perhaps you are not the gentleman as is known to be Sir Robert Whitecraft—him as hunts the priests. Oh, la, I'll surely be sent to jail. Gentlemen, if you promise not to send me to jail, I'll tell you everything.”
“Well, then, proceed,” said the squire; “I will not send you to jail, provided you tell the truth.”
“Nor I, my good girl,” added Sir Robert, “but upon the same conditions.”
“Well, then, gentlemen, I was acquainted with Miss Herbert—she is Hirish, but I'm English. This gentleman gave her a letter to you, Mr. Folliard, to get her as maid to Miss Helen—she told me—oh, my goodness, I shall surely be sent to jail.”
“Go on, girl,” said the baronet somewhat sternly, by which tone of voice he intimated—to her that she was pursuing the right course, and she was quick enough to understand as much.
“Well,” she proceeded, “after Miss Herbert had got the letter, she told her sweetheart, who wouldn't by no means allow her to take service, because as why, he wanted to marry her; well, she consented, and they did get married, and both of them left the country because her father wasn't consenting. As the letter was of no use to her then, I asked her for it, and offered myself in her name to you, sir, and that was the way I came into your family for a short time.”
The baronet rose up, in well-feigned agitation, and exclaimed, “Unfortunate girl! whoever you may be, you know not the serious mischief and unhappiness that your imposture was nearly entailing upon me.”
“But did you not say that you bore an illegitimate child to this gentleman?” asked the squire.
“Oh, la! no, sir; you know I denied that; I never bore an illegitimate child; I bore a love-child, but not to him; and there is no harm in that, sure.”
“Well, she certainly has exculpated you, Sir Robert.”
“Gentlemen, will you excuse and pardon me? and will you promise not to send me to jail?”
“Go about your business,” said Sir Robert, “you unfortunate girl, and be guilty of no such impostures in future. Your conduct has nearly been the means of putting enmity between two families of rank; or rather of alienating one of them from the confidence and good-will of the other. Go.”
She then courtesied to each, shedding, at the same time, what seemed to be bitter tears of remorse—and took her departure, each of them looking after her, and then at the other, with surprise and wonder.
“Now, Mr. Folliard,” said Sir Robert solemnly, “I have one question to ask you, and it is this: could I possibly, or by any earthly natural means, have been apprised of the honor of your visit to me this day? I ask you in a serious—yes, and in a solemn spirit; because the happiness of my future life depends on your reply.”
“Why, no,” replied the credulous squire, “hang it, no, man—no, Sir Robert; I'll do you that justice; I never mentioned my intention of coming to call you out, to any individual but one, and that on my way hither; he was unwell, too, after a hard night's drinking; but he said he would shake himself up, and be ready to attend me as soon as the place of meeting should be settled on. In point of fact, I did not intend to see you to-day, but to send him with the message; but, as I said, he was knocked up for a time, and you know my natural impatience. No, certainly not, it was in every sense impossible that you could have expected me: yes, if the devil was in it, I will do you that justice.”
“Well, I have another question to ask, my dear friend, equally important with, if not more so than, the other. Do you hold me free from all blame in what has happened through the imposture of that wretched girl?”
“Why, after what has occurred just now, I certainly must, Sir Robert. As you laid no anticipation of my visit, you certainly could not, nor had you time to get up a scene.”
“Well, now, Mr. Folliard, you have taken a load off my heart; and I will candidly confess to you that I have had my frailties like other men, sown my wild oats like other men; but, unlike those who are not ashamed to boast of such exploits, I did not think it necessary to trumpet my own feelings. I do not say, my dear friend, that I have always been a saint.”
“Why, now, that's manly and candid, Sir Robert, and I like you the better for it. Yes, I do exonerate you from blame in this. There certainly was sincerity in that wench's tears, and be hanged to her; for, as you properly said, she was devilish near putting between our families, and knocking up our intimacy. It is a delightful thing to think that I shall be able to disabuse poor Helen's mind upon the subject; for, I give you my honor, it caused her the greatest distress, and excited her mind to a high pitch of indignation against you; but I shall set all to rights.”
“And now that the matter is settled, Mr. Folliard, we must have lunch. I will give you a glass of Burgundy, which, I am sure, you will like.”
“With all my heart,” replied the placable and hearty old squire; “after the agitation of the day a good glass of Burgundy will serve me certainly.”
Lunch was accordingly ordered, and the squire, after taking half a dozen bumpers of excellent wine, got into fine spirits, shook hands as cordially as ever with the baronet, and drove home completely relieved from the suspicions which he had entertained.
The squire, on his return home, immediately called for his daughter, but for some time to no purpose. The old man began to get alarmed, and had not only Helen's room searched, but every room in the house. At length a servant informed him that she was tending and arranging the green-house flowers in the garden.
“Oh, ay!” said he, after he had dismissed the servants, “Thank God—thank God! I will go out to the dear girl; for she is a dear girl, and it is a sin to suspect her. I wish to heaven that that scoundrel Reilly would turn Protestant, and he should have her with all the veins of my heart. Upon my soul, putting religion out of the question, one would think that, in other respects, they were made for each other. But it's all this cursed pride of his that prevents him; as if it signified what any person's religion is, provided he's an honest man, and a loyal subject.”
He thus proceeded with his soliloquy until he reached the garden, where he found Reilly and her arranging the plants and flowers in a superb green-house.
“Well, Helen, my love, how is the greenhouse doing? Eh! why, what is this?”
At this exclamation the lovers started, but the old fellow was admiring the improvement, which even he couldn't but notice.
“Why, what is this?” he proceeded; “by the light of day, Helen, you have made this a little paradise of flowers.”
“It was not I, papa,” she replied; “all that I have been able to contribute to the order; and beauty of the place has been very slight indeed. It is all the result of this poor man's taste and skill. He's an admirable botanist.”
“By the great Boyne, my girl, I think he could lick Malcomson himself, as a botanist.”
“Shir,” observed Reilly, “the young lady is underwaluin' herself; sure, miss, it was yourself directed me what to do, and how to do it.”
“Look at that old chap, Helen,” said her father, who felt in great good humor; first, because he found that Helen was safe; and again, because Sir Robert, as the unsuspecting old man thought, had cleared up the circumstances of Miss Herbert's imposture; “I say, Helen, look at that old chap: isn't he a nice bit of goods to run away with a pretty girl? and what a taste she must have had to go with him! Upon my soul, it beats cock-fighting—confound me, but it does.”
Helen's face became crimson as he spoke; and yet, such was the ludicrous appearance which Reilly made, when put in connection with the false scent on which her father was proceeding at such a rate, and the act of gallantry imputed to him, that a strong feeling of humor overcame her, and she burst into a loud ringing laugh, which she could not, for some time, restrain; in this she was heartily joined by her father, who laughed till the tears came down his cheeks.
“And yet, Helen—ha—ha—ha, he's a stalwart old rogue still, and must have been a devil of a tyke when he was young.”
After another fit of laughter from both father and daughter, the squire said:
“Now, Helen, my love, go in. I have good news for you, which I will acquaint you with by and by.”
When she left the garden, her father addressed Reilly as follows:
“Now, my good fellow, will you tell me how you came to know about Miss Herbert having been seduced by Sir Robert Whitecraft?”
“Fvhy, shir, from common report, shir.”
“Is that all? But don't you think,” he replied, “that common report is a common liar, as it mostly has been, and is, in this case. That's all I have to say upon the subject. I have traced the affair, and find it to be a falsehood from beginning to ending. I have. And now, go on as you're doing, and I will make Malcomson raise your wages.”
“Thank you, shir,” and he touched his nondescript with an air of great thankfulness and humility.
“Helen, my darling,” said her father, on entering her own sitting-room, “I said I had good news for you.”
Helen looked at him with a doubtful face, and simply said, “I hope it is good, papa.”
“Why, my child, I won't enter into particulars; it is enough to say that I discovered from an accidental meeting with that wretched girl we had here that she was not Miss Herbert, as she called herself, at all, but another, named Catherine Wilson, who, having got from Herbert the letter of recommendation which I read to you, had the effrontery to pass herself for her; but the other report was false. The girl Wilson, apprehensive that either I or Sir Robert might send her to jail, having seen my carriage stop at Sir Robert's house, came, with tears in her eyes, to beg that if we would not punish her she would tell us the truth, and she did so.”
Helen mused for some time, and seemed to decide instantly upon the course of action she should pursue, or, rather, the course which she had previously proposed to herself. She saw clearly, and had long known that in the tactics and stratagems of life, her blunt but honest father was no match at all for the deep hypocrisy and deceitful plausibility of Sir Robert Whitecraft, the consequence was, that she allowed her father to take his own way, without either remonstrance or contradiction. She knew very well that on this occasion, as on every other where their wits and wishes came in opposition, Sir Robert was always able to outgeneral and overreach him; she therefore resolved to agitate herself as little as possible, and to allow matters to flow on tranquilly, until the crisis—the moment for action came.
“Papa,” she replied, “this intelligence must make your mind very easy; I hope, however, you will restore poor faithful Connor to me. I never had such an affectionate and kind creature; and, besides, not one of them could dress me with such skill and taste as she could. Will you allow me to have her back, sir?”
“I will, Helen; but take care she doesn't make a Papist of you.”
“Indeed, papa, that is a strange whim: why, the poor girl never opened her lips to me on the subject of religion during her life; nor, if I saw that she attempted it, would I permit her. I am no theologian, papa, and detest polemics, because I have always heard that those who are most addicted to polemical controversy have least religion.”
“Well, my love, you shall have back poor Connor; and now I must go and look over some papers in my study. Good-by, my love; and observe, Helen, don't stay out too late in the garden, lest the chill of the air might injure your health.”
“But you know I never do, and never did, papa.”
“Well, good-by again, my love.”
He then left her, and withdrew to his study to sign some papers, and transact some business, which he had allowed to run into arrear. When he had been there better than an hour, he rang the bell, and desired that Malcomson, the gardener, should be sent to him, and that self-sufficient and pedantic person made his appearance accordingly.
“Well, Malcomson,” said he, “how do you like the bearded fellow in the garden?”
“Ou, yer honor, weel eneugh; he does ken something o' the sceence o' buttany, an' 'am thinkin' he must hae been a gude spell in Scotland, for I canna guess whare else he could hae become acquent wi' it.”
“I see Malcomson, you'll still persist in your confounded pedantry about your science. Now, what the devil has science to do with botany or gardening?”
“Weel, your honor, it wadna just become me to dispute wi' ye upon that or any ither subjeck; but for a' that, it required profoond sceence, and vera extensive learnin' to classify an' arrange a' the plants o' the yearth, an' to gie them names, by whilk they dan be known throughout a' the nations o' the warld.”
“Well, well—I suppose I must let you have your way.”
“Why, your honor,” replied Malcomson, “'am sure it mair becomes me to let you hae yours; but regerding this ould carl, I winna say, but he has been weel indoctrinated in the sceence.”
“Ahem! well, well, go on.”
“An' it's no easy to guess whare he could hae gotten it. Indeed, 'am of opinion that he's no without a hantle o' book lair; for, to do him justice, de'il a question I spier at him, anent the learned names o' the rare plants, that he hasna at his finger ends, and gies to me off-hand. Naebody but a man that has gotten book lair could do yon.”
“Book lair, what is that?”
“Ou, just a correck knowledge o' the learned names of the plants. I dinna say, and I winna say, but he's a velliable assistant to me, an' I shouldna wish to pairt wi' him. If he'd only shave off yon beard, an' let himsel' be decently happed in good claiths, why he might pass in ony gentleman's gerden for a skeelful buttanist.”
“Is he as good a kitchen gardener as he is in the green-house, and among the flowers?”
“Weel, your honor, guid troth, 'am sairly puzzled there; hoot, no, sir; de'il a thing almost he kens about the kitchen gerden—a' his strength lies among the flowers and in the green-house.”
“Well, well, that's where we principally want him. I sent for you, Malcomson, to desire you'd raise his wages—the laborer is worthy of his hire; and a good laborer of good hire. Let him have four shillings a week additional.”
“Troth, your honor, 'am no sayin' but he weel deserves it; but, Lord haud a care o' us, he's a queer one, yon.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“Why, de'il heat he seems to care about siller any mair than if it was sklate stains. On Saturday last, when he was paid his weekly wages by the steward, he met a puir sickly-lookin' auld wife, wi' a string o' sickly-looking weans at the body's heels; she didna ask him for charity, for, in troth, he appeared, binna it wearna for the weans, as great an objeck as hersel'; noo, what wad yer honor think? he gaes ower and gies till her a hale crown o' siller out o' his ain wage. Was ever onything heard like yon?”
“Well, I know the cause of it, Malcomson. He's under a penance, and can neither shave nor change his dress till his silly penance is out; and I suppose it was to wash off a part of it that he gave this foolish charity to the poor woman and her children. Come, although I condemn the folly of it, I don't like him the worse for it.”
“Hout awa', your honor, what is it but rank Papistry, and a dependence upon filthy works. The doited auld carl, to throw aff his siller that gate; but that's Papistry a' ower—substituting works for grace and faith—a' Papistry, a' Papistry! Well, your honor, I sal be conform to your wushes—it's my duty, that.”
After Malcomson quitted him, the squire, with his golden-headed cane, went to saunter about his beautiful grounds and his noble demesne, proud, certainly, of his property, nor insensible to the beautiful scenery which it presented from so many points of observation. He had not been long here when a poor-looking peasant, dressed in shabby frieze, approached him at as fast a pace as he could accomplish; and the squire, after looking at him, exclaimed, in an angry tone:
“Well, you rascal, what the devil brings you here?”
The man stood for a little, and seemed so much exhausted and out of breath that he could not speak.
“I say, you unfortunate old vagrant,” repeated the squire, “what brought you here?”
“It is a case of either life or death, sir,” replied the poor peasant.
“Why,” said the squire, “what crime did you commit? Or, perhaps, you broke prison, and are flying from the officers of justice; eh! is that it? And you come to ask a magistrate to protect you!”
“I am flying from the agents of persecution, sir, and know not where to hide my head in order to avoid them.”
The hard-pressed but amiable priest—for such he was—adopted this language of truth, because he knew the squire's character, and felt that it would serve him more effectually than if he had attempted to conceal his profession. “I am a Catholic priest, sir, and felt from bitter experience that this disguise was necessary to the preservation of my life. I throw myself upon your honor and generosity, for although hasty, sir, you are reported to have a good and kind heart.”
“You are disposed to place confidence in me, then?”
“I am, sir; my being before you now, and putting myself in your power, is a proof of it.”
“Who are pursuing you? Sir Robert Whitecraft—eh?”
“No, sir, Captain Smellpriest and his gang.”
“Ay, out of the frying pan into the fire; although I don't know that, either. They say Smellpriest can do a generous thing sometimes—but the other, when priest-hunting, never. What's your name?”
“I'll tell you, without hesitation, sir—Macguire; I'm of the Macguires of Fermanagh.”
“Ay! ay! why, then, you have good blood in your veins. But what offence were you guilty of that you—but I need not ask; it is enough, in the present state of the laws, that you are a Catholic priest. In the meantime, are you aware that I myself transported a Catholic priest, and that he would have swung only for my daughter, who went to the viceroy, and, with much difficulty, got his sentence commuted to transportation for life? I myself had already tried it, and failed; but she succeeded, God bless her!”
“Yes, God bless her!” replied the priest, “she succeeded, and her fame has gone far and near, in consequence; yes, may God of his mercy bless and guard her from all evil!” and as the poor hunted priest spoke, the tears came to his eyes. This symptom of respect and affection, prompted by the generous and heroic conduct of the far-famed Cooleen Bawn, touched her father, and saved the priest.
“Well,” said he, after musing for a while, “so you say Smellpriest is after you?”
“He is, sir; they saw me at a distance, across the country, scrambling over the park wall, and indeed I was near falling into their hands by the difficulty I had in getting over it.”
“Well, come,” replied the squire, “since you have had the courage to place confidence in me, I won't abuse it; come along, I will both conceal and protect you. I presume there is little time to be lost, for those priest hounds will be apt to ride round to the entrance gate, which I will desire the porter to close and lock, and then leave the lodge.”
On their way home he did so, and ordered the porter up to the house. The magnificent avenue was a serpentine one, and our friends had barely time to get out of sight of the lodge, by a turn in it, when they heard the voices of the pursuers, hallooing for the porter, and thundering at the gate.
“Ay, thunder away, only don't injure my gate, Smellpriest, or I'll make you replace it; bawl yourselves hoarse—you are on the wrong side for once!”
When they were approaching the hall-door, which generally lay open—
“Confound me,” said the squire, “if I know what to do with you; I trust in God I won't get into odium by this. At all events, let us steal upstairs as quietly as we can, and, if possible, without any one seeing us.”
To the necessity of this the priest assented, and they had reached the first landing of the staircase when out popped right in their teeth two housemaids each with brush in hand. Now it instantly occurred to the squire that in this unlucky crisis bribery was the safest resource. He accordingly addressed them:
“Come here, you jades, don't say a word about this man's presence here—don't breathe it; here's five shillings apiece for you, and let one of you go and bring me up, secretly, the key of the green-room in the garret; it has not been opened for some time. Be quick now; or stay, desire Lanigan to fetch it, and refreshment also; there's cold venison and roast beef, and a bottle of wine; tell Lanigan I'm going to lunch, and to lay the table in my study. Lanigan can be depended on,” he added, after the chambermaid had gone, “for when I concealed another priest here once, he was entrusted with the secret, and was faithful.”
Now it so happened that one of those maids, who was a bitter Protestant, at once recognized Father Maguire, notwithstanding his disguise. She had been a servant for four or five years in the house of a wealthy farmer who lived adjoining him, and with whom he had been in the habit of frequently dining when no danger was to be apprehended from the operation of the laws. Indeed, she and Malcomson, the gardener, were the only two individuals in the squire's establishment who were not Catholics. Malcomson was a manoeuvrer, and, as is pretty usual with individuals of his class and country, he looked upon “Papistry” as an abomination that ought to be removed from the land. Still, he was cautious and shrewd, and seldom or never permitted those opinions to interfere with or obstruct his own interests. Be this is it may, the secret was not long kept. Esther Wilson impeached her master's loyalty, and she herself was indignantly assailed for her treachery by Molly Finigan, who hoped in her soul that her master and young mistress would both die in the true Church yet.
The whole kitchen was in a buzz; in fact, a regular scene ensued. Every one spoke, except Lanigan, who, from former experience, understood the case perfectly; but, as for Malcomson, whose zeal on this occasion certainly got the better of his discretion, he seemed thunderstruck.
“Eh, sirs! did ony one ever hear the like o' this?—to hide a rebel priest frae the offended laws! But it canna be that this puir man is athegether right in his head. Lord ha'e a care o' us! the man surely must be demented, or he wouldna venture to bring such a person into his ain house—into the vara house. I think, Maisther Lanigan, it wad be just a precious bit o' service to religion and our laws to gang and tell the next magistrate. Gude guide us! what an example he is settin' to his loyal neighbors, and his hail connections! That ever we should see the like o' this waefu' backsliding at his years! Lord ha'e a care o' us, I say aince mair.”
“Oh, but there's more to come,” said one of them, for, in the turmoil produced by this shocking intelligence, they had forgotten to deliver the message to Lanigan.
“Mr. Lanigan,” said Esther, and her breath was checked by a hysteric hiccup, “Mr. Lanigan, you are to bring up the key of the green-room, and plenty of venison, roast beef, and a bottle of wine! There!”
“Baal, Maisther Lanigan, I winna stay langer under this roof; it's nae cannie; I'll e'en gang out, and ha'e some nonsense clavers wi' yon queer auld carl i' the gerden. The Lord ha'e a eare o' us!—what will the warld come to next!”
He accordingly repaired to the garden, where the first thing he did was to give a fearful account to Reilly of their master's political profligacy. The latter felt surprised, but not at all at Malcomson's narrative. The fact was, he knew the exact circumstances of the case, because he knew the squire's character, which was sometimes good, and sometimes the reverse—just according to the humor he might be in: and in reply observed to Malcomson, that—
“As his honor done a great dale o' good! to the poor o' the counthry, I think it wouldn't be daicent in us, Misther Malcomson, to go for to publish this generous act to the poor priesht; if he is wrong, let us lave him to Gad, shir.”
“Ou ay, weel I dinna but you're richt; the mair that we won't hae to answer for his transgressions; sae e'en let every herring hang by its ain tail.”
In the meantime, Lanigan, who understood the affair well enough, addressed the audience in the kitchen to the following effect:
“Now,” said he, “what a devil of a hubbub you all make about nothing! Pray, young lady,” addressing Esther Wilson, who alone had divulged the circumstance, “did his honor desire you to keep what you seen saicret?”
“He did, cook, he did,” replied Esther; “and gave us money not to speak about it, which is a proof of his guilt.”
“And the first thing you did was to blaze it to the whole kitchen! I'll tell you what it is now—if he ever hears that you breathed a syllable of it to mortal man, you won't be under his roof two hours.”
“Oh, but, surely, cook—”
“Oh, but, surely, madam,” replied Lanigan, “you talk of what you don't understand; his honor knows very well what he's about, mid has authority for it.”
This sobered her to some purpose; and Lanigan proceeded to execute his master's orders.
It is true Miss Esther and Malcomson were now silent, for their own sakes; but it did not remove their indignation; so far from that, Lanigan himself came in for a share of it, and was secretly looked upon in the light of the squire's confidant in the transaction.
Whilst matters were in this position, the Red Rapparee began gradually to lose the confidence of his unscrupulous employer. He had promised that worthy gentleman to betray his former gang, and deliver them up to justice, in requital for the protection which he received from him. This he would certainly have done, were it not for Fergus, who, happening to meet one of them a day or two after the Rapparee had taken service with Whitecraft upon the aforesaid condition,—informed the robber of that fact, and advised him, if he wished to provide for his own safety and that of his companions, to desire them forthwith to leave the country, and, if possible, the kingdom. They accordingly took the hint; some of them retired to distant and remote places, and others went beyond seas for their security. The promise, therefore, which the Rapparee had made to the baronet as a proof of gratitude for his protection, he now found himself incapable of fulfilling, in consequence of the dispersion and disappearance of his band. When he stated this fact to Sir Robert, he gained little credit from him; and the consequence was that his patron felt disposed to think that he was not a man to be depended on. Still, what he had advanced in his own defence might be true; and although his confidence in him was shaken, he resolved to maintain him yet in his service, and that for two reasons—one of which was, that by having him under his eye, and within his grasp, he could pounce upon him at any moment; the other was, that, as he knew, from the previous shifts and necessities of his own lawless life, all those dens and recesses and caverns to which the Catholic priesthood, and a good number of the people, were obliged to fly and conceal themselves, he must necessarily be a useful guide to him as a priest-hunter. It is true he assured him that he had procured his pardon from Government, principally, he said, in consequence of his own influence, and because, in all his robberies, it had not been known that he ever took away human life. In general, however, this was the policy of the Rapparees, unless when they identified themselves with political contests and outrages, and on those occasions they were savage and cruel as fiends. In simple robbery on the king's highway, or in burglaries in houses, they seldom, almost never, committed murder, unless when resisted, and in defence of their lives. On the contrary, they were quite gallant to females, whom they treated with a kind of rude courtesy, not unfrequently returning the lady of the house her gold watch—but this only on occasions when they had secured a large booty of plate and money. The Threshers of 1805-6 and '7, so far as cruelty goes, were a thousand times worse; for they spared neither man nor woman in their infamous and nocturnal visits; and it is enough to say, besides, that their cowardice was equal to their cruelty. It has been proved, at special commissions held about those periods, that four or five men, with red coats on them, have made between two or three hundred of the miscreants run for their lives, and they tolerably well-armed. Whether Sir Robert's account of the Rapparee's pardon was true or false will appear in due time; for the truth is, that Whitecraft was one of those men who, in consequence of his staunch loyalty and burning zeal in carrying out the inhuman measures of the then Government, was permitted with impunity to run into a licentiousness of action, as a useful public man, which no modern government would, or dare, permit. At the period of which we write, there was no press, so to speak, in Ireland, and consequently no opportunity of at once bringing the acts of the Irish Government, or of public men, to the test of public opinion. Such men, therefore, as Whitecraft, looked upon themselves as invested with irresponsible power; and almost in every instance their conduct was approved of, recognized, and, in general, rewarded by the Government of the day. The Beresford family enjoyed something like this unenviable privilege, during the rebellion of '98, and for some time afterwards. We have alluded to Mrs. Oxley, the sheriffs, fat wife; whether fortunately or unfortunately for the poor sheriff, who had some generous touches of character about him, it so happened, at this period of our narrative she popped off one day, in a fit of apoplexy, and he found himself a widower. Now, our acquaintance, Fergus Reilly, who was as deeply disguised as our hero, had made his mind up, if possible, to bring the Rapparee into trouble. This man had led his patron to several places where it was likely that the persecuted priests might be found; and, for this reason, Fergus knew that he was serious in his object to betray them. This unnatural treachery of the robber envenomed his heart against him, and he resolved to run a risk in watching his motions. He had no earthly doubt that it was he who robbed the sheriff. He knew, from furtive observations, as well as from general report, that a discreditable intimacy existed between him and Mary Mahon. This woman's little house was very convenient to that of Whitecraft, to whom she was very useful in a certain capacity. She had now given up her trade of fortune-telling—a trade which, at that period, in consequence of the ignorance of the people, was very general in Ireland. She was now more beneficially employed. Fergus, therefore, confident in his disguise, resolved upon a bold and hazardous stroke. He began to apprehend that if ever Tom Steeple, fool though he was, kept too much about the haunts and resorts of the Rapparee, that cunning scoundrel, who was an adept in all the various schemes and forms of detection, might take the alarm, and, aided probably by Whitecraft, make his escape out of the country. At best, the fool could only assure him of his whereabouts; but he felt it necessary, in addition to this, to procure, if the matter were possible, such evidence of his guilt as might render his conviction of the robbery of the sheriff complete and certain. One evening a wretched-looking old man, repeating his prayers, with beads in hand, entered her cottage, which consisted of two rooms and a kitchen; and after having presented himself, and put on his hat—for we need scarcely say that no Catholic ever prays covered—he asked lodging in Irish, for the night, and at this time it was dusk.
“Well, good man,” she replied, “you can have lodgings here for this night. God forbid I'd put a poor wandherer out, an' it nearly dark.”
Fergus stared at her as if he did not understand what she said; she, however, could speak Irish right well, and asked him in that language if he could speak no English—“Wuil Bearlha agud?” (Have you English?)
“Ha neil foccal vaun Bearlha agum.” (I haven't one word of English.)
“Well,” said she, proceeding with the following short conversation in Irish, “you can sleep here, and I will bring you in a wap o' straw from the garden, when I have it to feed my cow, which his honor, Sir Robert, gives me grass for; he would be a very kind man if he was a little more generous—ha! ha! ha!”
“Ay, but doesn't he hunt an' hang, an' transport our priests?”
“Why, indeed, I believe he doesn't like a bone in a priest's body; but then he's of a different religion—and it isn't for you or me to construe him after our own way.”
“Well, well,” said Fergus, “it isn't him I'm thinking of; but if I had a mouthful or two of something to ait I'd go to sleep—for dear knows I'm tired and hungry.”
“Why, then, of coorse you'll have something to ait, poor man, and while you're eatin' it I'll fetch in a good bunch of straw, and make a comfortable shake-down for you.”
“God mark you to grace, avourneen!”
She then furnished him with plenty of oaten bread and mixed milk, and while he was helping himself she brought in a large launch of straw, which she shook out and settled for him.
“I see,” said she, “that you have your own blankets.”
“I have, acushla. Cheerna, but this is darlin' bread! Arra was this baked upon a griddle or against the muddhia arran?”*.