—Fergus Reilly is on the Trail of the Rapparee—He Escapes—Sir Robert begins to feel Confident of Success.
Lanigan, on passing the dining parlor, heard what he conceived to be loud and angry voices inside the room, and as the coast was clear he deliberately put his ear to the key-hole, which ear drank in the following conversation:
“I say, Sir Robert, I'll shoot the villain. Do not hold me. My pistols are unloaded and loaded every day in the year; and ever since I transported that rebel priest I never go without them. But are you sure, Sir Robert? Is it not possible you may be mistaken? I know you are a suspicious fellow; but still, as I said, you are, for that very reason, the more liable to be wrong. But, if it is he, what's to be done, unless I shoot him?”
“Under the last Administration, sir, I could have answered your question; but you know that if you shoot him now you will be hanged. All that's left for us is simply to effect this marriage the day after tomorrow; the documents are all ready, and in the course of to-morrow the license can be procured. In the meantime, you must dispatch him to-night.”
“What do you mean, Sir Robert?”
“I say you must send him about his business. In point of fact, I think the fellow knows that he is discovered, and it is not unlikely that he may make an effort to carry off your daughter this very night.”
“But, Sir Robert, can we not seize him and surrender him to the authorities? Is he not an outlaw?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Folliard, he is not an outlaw; I stretched a little too far there. It is true I got his name put into the Hew and-Cry, but upon representations which I cannot prove.”
“And why did you do so, Sir Robert?”
“Why, Mr. Folliard, to save your daughter.”
The old man paused.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “that is a bad business—I mean for you; Sir Robert; but we will talk it over. You shall stop and dine with me; I want some one to talk with—some one who will support me and keep me in spirits;” and as he spoke he sobbed bitterly. “I wish to God,” he exclaimed, “that neither I nor Helen—my dear Helen—had ever seen that fellow's face. You will dine with me, Bob?”
“I will, upon the strict condition that you keep yourself quiet, and won't seem to understand any thing.”
“Would you recommend me to lock her up?”
“By no means; that would only make matters worse. I shall dine with you, but you must be calm and quiet, and not seem to entertain any suspicions.”
“Very well, I shall; but what has become of our lunch? Touch the bell.”
This hint sent Lanigan downstairs, who met the butler coming up with it.
“Why, Pat,” said he, “what kept you so long with the lunch?”
“I was just thinking,” replied Pat, “how it would be possible to poison that ugly, ill-made, long-legged scoundrel, without poisoning my master. What's to be done, Lanigan? He will marry this darlin' in spite of us. And sure, now we have our privileges once more, since this great Earl came to rule over us; and sure, they say, he's a greater gentleman than the king himself. All I can say is, that if this same Sir Robert forces the Cooleen Baum to such an unnatural marriage, I'll try a dose, hit or miss, for a cowheel anyway.”
Lanigan laughed, and the butler passed on with the lunch.
We may state here that the squire, notwithstanding his outspoken manner against Popery, like a terrible reverend baronet not long deceased, who, notwithstanding his discovery of the most awful Popish plots, and notwithstanding the most extravagant denunciations against Popery, like him, we say, the old squire seldom had more than one or two Protestant servants under his roof. Pat hated Longshanks, as he termed him, as did all the household, which, indeed, was very natural, as he was such a notorious persecutor of their religion and their clergy.
Lanigan lost no time in acquainting Reilly with what he had heard, and the heart of the latter palpitated with alarm on hearing that the next day but one was likely to join his Cooleen Bawn, by violent and unnatural proceedings, to the man whom she so much detested. He felt that it was now time to act in order to save her. Arrangements were consequently made between them as to the time and manner of their escape, and those arrangements, together with the dialogue he had overheard, Lanigan communicated to the Cooleen Bawn.
The squire on that day experienced strange alternations of feeling. His spirits seemed to rise and sink, as the quicksilver in the glass is affected by the state of the atmosphere. He looked into the future with terror, and again became, to the astonishment of his guest—we now talk of their conduct after dinner—actuated by some thought or impulse that put him into high spirits. Whitecraft, cool and cautious, resolved to let him have his way; for the squire was drinking deeply, and the Burgundy was good and strong.
“Bob, my boy,” said he, “you don't drink, and that is a bad sign. You have either a bad head of late, or a bad heart, which is worse. Hang you, sir, why don't you drink? I have seen you lay lots of my guests under the table when you were quite cool; but now, what are you at? They can't run away to-night. Helen doesn't know that the discovery has been made. And now, Bob, you dog, listen to me, I say—would you have had the manliness and courage to expose yourself for the sake of a pretty girl as he did?—that is—here's a bumper to Helen! Curse you, will nothing make you drink? No, faith, he hadn't seen Helen at the time; it was for a worthless old fellow like me that he exposed himself; but no matter, you may be right; perhaps it was a plot to get acquainted with her. Still, I'm not sure of that; but if it was, I'll make him smart.”
After dinner the squire drank deeply—so deeply, indeed, that Whitecraft was obliged to call up some of the male servants to carry him to his chamber and put him to bed. In this task Lanigan assisted, and thanked his stars that he was incapacitated from watching the lovers, or taking any means to prevent their escape. As for Whitecraft, thought he, I will soon send him about his business. Now, this gentleman's suspicions were the more deeply excited, in consequence of Helen's refusal to meet him at either lunch or dinner, a refusal which she gave on the plea of indisposition. He had therefore made up his mind to watch the motions of Cooleen Bawn, and he would have included Reilly in his surveillance were it not that Lanigan informed him of what he termed the mysterious disappearance of the under-gardener.
“What!” exclaimed Whitecraft, “is he gone?”
“He has gone, Sir Robert, and he left his week's wages behind him, for he never came to the steward to ask it. And now, Sir Robert, to tell you the truth, I'm not sorry he's gone; he was a disagreeable old fellow, that nobody could make either head or tail of; but, Sir Robert, listen—wait, sir, till I shut the door—it will soon be getting dusk: you know you're not liked in the country, and now that we—I mean the Catholics—have the countenance of Government, I think that riding late won't be for your health. The night air, you know, isn't wholesome to some people. I am merely givin' you a hint, Sir Robert, bekaise you are a friend of my masther's, and I hope for your own sake you'll take it. The sooner you mount your horse the better; and if you be guided by me, you'll try and reach your own house before the darkness sets in. Who knows what Reilly may be plotting? You know he doesn't like a bone in your honor's skin; and the Reillys are cruel and desperate.”
“But, Lanigan, are you aware of any plot or conspiracy that has been got up against my life?”
“Not at all, your honor; but I put it to yourself, sir, whether you don't feel that I'm speaking the truth.”
“I certainly know very well,” replied the baronet, “that I am exceedingly unpopular with the Popish party; but, in my conduct towards them, I only carried out the laws that had been passed against them.”
“I know that, Sir Robert, and, as a Catholic, I am sorry that you and others were supported and egged on by such laws. Why, sir, a hangman could—give the same excuse, because if he put a rope about your neck, and tied his cursed knot nately under your left ear, what was he doin' but fulfillin' the law as you did? And now, Sir Robert, who would shake hands with a hangman, unless some unfortunate highway robber or murderer, that gives him his hand because he knows that he will never see his purty face agin. This discourse is all folly, however—you haven't a minute to lose—shall I order your horse?”
“Yes, you had better, Lanigan,” replied the other, with a dogged appearance of cowardice and revenge. He could not forgive Lanigan the illustration that involved the comparison of the hangman; still his conscience and his cowardice both whispered to him that the cook was in the right.
This night was an eventful one. The course of our narrative brings us and our readers to the house of Captain Smellpriest, who had for his next-door neighbor the stalwart curate of the parish, the Rev. Samson Strong, to whom some allusion has been I already made in these pages. Now the difference between Smellpriest and Whitecraft was this—Smellpriest was not a magistrate, as Whitecraft was, and in his priest-hunting expeditions only acted upon warrants issued by some bigoted and persecuting magistrate or other who lived in the district. But as his propensity to hunt those unfortunate persons was known, the execution of the warrants was almost in every instance entrusted to his hands. It was not so with Sir Robert, who, being himself a magistrate, might be said to have been in the position at once of judge and executioner. At all events, the race of blood was pretty equal between them, so far as the clergy was concerned; but in general enmity to the Catholic community at large, Whitecraft was far more cruel and comprehensive in his vengeance. It is indeed an observation founded upon truth and experience, that in all creeds, in proportion to his ignorance and bigotry, so is the violence of the persecutor. Whitecraft, the self-constituted champion of Protestantism, had about as much religion as Satan himself—or indeed less, for we are told that he believes and trembles, while Whitecraft, on the contrary, neither believed nor trembled. But if he did not fear God, he certainly feared man, and on the night in question went home with as craven a heart—thanks to Lanigan—as ever beat in a coward's bosom. Smellpriest, however, differed from Whitecraft in many points; he was brave, though cruel, and addicted to deep potations. Whitecraft, it is true, drank more deeply still than he did; but, by some idiosyncrasy of stomach or constitution, it had no more effect upon him than it had upon the cask from which it had been drawn, unless, indeed, to reduce him to greater sobriety and sharpen his prejudices.
Be this as it may, the Rev. Samson Strong made his appearance in Smellpriest's house with a warrant, or something in the shape of one, which he placed in the gallant captain's hands, who was drunk.
“What's this, oh, Samson the Strong? said Smellpriest, laughing and hiccuping both at the same time.
“It's a hunt, my dear friend. One of those priests of Baal has united in unholy bands a Protestant subject with a subject of the harlot of abominations.”
“Samson, my buck,” said Smellpriest, “I hope this Popish priest of yours will not turn out to be a wild-goose. You know you have sent me upon many a wild-goose chase before; in—in—in fact, you nev—never sent me upon any other. You're a blockhead, oh, divine Samson; and that—that thick head of yours would flatten a cannon-ball. But what is it?—an intermarriage between the two P's—Popish and Protestant?”
“My dear,” said his wife, “you must be aware that the Popishers have only got liberty to clatter their beads in public; but not to marry a Popisher to a Protestanter. This is a glorious opportunity for you to come home with a feather in your cap, my dear. Has he far to go, Mr. Strong? because he never goes out after the black game, as you call them, sir, that I don't feel as if I—but I can't express what I feel at his dear absence.”
Now we have said that Smellpriest was drunk, which, in point of fact, was true; but not so drunk but that he observed some intelligent glances pass between his wife and the broad-shouldered curate.
“No, madam, only about two miles. Smellpriest, you know Jack Houlaghan's stripe?”
“Yes—I know Jack Houlaghan's stripe, in Kilrudden.”
“Well, when you g'et to the centre of the stripe, look a little to your right, and—as the night is light enough—you will see a house—a cottage rather; to this cottage bring your men, and there you will find your game. I would not, captain, under other circumstances, advise you to recruit your spirits with an additional glass or two of liquor; but, as the night is cold, I really do recommend you to fortify yourself with a little refreshment.”
He was easily induced to do so, and he accordingly took a couple of glasses of punch, and when about to mount his horse, it was found that he could not do so without the assistance of his men who were on duty, in all about six, every one of whom, as well as the captain himself, was well armed. It is unnecessary to state to the reader that the pursuit was a vain one. They searched the house to no purpose; neither priest or friar was there, and he, consequently, had the satisfaction of performing another wild-goose chase with his usual success, whenever the Rev. Samson Strong sent him in pursuit. In the meantime the moon went down, and the night became exceedingly dark; but the captain's spirits were high and boisterous, so much so that they began to put themselves forth in song, the song in question being the once celebrated satire upon James the Second and Tyrconnell, called “Lillibullero,” now “The Protestant Boys.” How this song gained so much popularity it is difficult to guess, for we are bound to say that a more pointless and stupid production never came from the brain of man. Be this as it may, we must leave the gallant captain and his gang singing it in full chorus, and request our readers to accompany us to another locality.
The sheriff had now recovered from a dreadful attack of the prevailing epidemic, and was able to resume his duties. In the meantime he had heard of the change which had taken place in the administration of affairs at headquarters—a change at which he felt no regret, but rather a good deal of satisfaction, as it relieved him from the performance of very disagreeable and invidious duties, and the execution of many severe and inhuman laws. He was now looking over and signing some papers, when he rang the bell, and a servant entered. “Tom,” said he, “there is an old man, a poor mendicant, to call here, who was once a servant in our family; when he comes show him into the office. I expect some important family information from him respecting the property which we are disputing about in the Court of Chancery.”
“Very well, sir,” replied the servant, “I shall do so.”
This occurred on the day of Whitecraft's visit to Squire Folliard, and it was on the evening of the same that Smellpriest was sent upon the usual chase, on the information of the Rev. Samson Strong; so that the events to which we have alluded occurred, as if by some secret relation to each other, on the same day.
At length our friend Fergus entered the office, in his usual garb of an aged and confirmed mendicant.
“Well, Reilly,” said the sheriff, “I am glad you have come. I could have taken up this ruffian, this Red Rapparee, as he is properly called, upon suspicion; but that would have occasioned delay; and it is my object to lodge him in jail this night, so as to give him no chance of escape unless he breaks prison; but in order to prevent that, I shall give strict injunctions, in consequence of the danger to be apprehended from so powerful and desperate a character, that he be kept in strong irons.”
“If it be within the strength of man, sir, to break prison, he will; he done it twice before; and he's under the notion that he never was born to be hanged; some of the ould prophecy men, and Mary Mahon, it seems, tould him so.”
“In the meantime, Reilly, we shall test the truth of such prophecies. But listen. What is your wish that I should do for you, in addition to what I have already done. You know what I have promised you, and that for some time past, and that I have the Secretary's letter stating that you are free, and have to dread neither arrest nor punishment; but that is upon the condition that you shall give all the evidence against this man that you are possessed of. In that case the Government will also bountifully reward you besides.”
“The Government need not think of any such thing, your honor,” replied Reilly; “a penny of Government money will never cross my pocket. It isn't for any reward I come against this man, but because he joined the blood-hounds of Sir Robert Whitecraft against his own priests and his own religion; or at last against the religion he professed, for I don't think he ever had any.”
“Well, then, I can make you one of my officers.”
“Is it to go among the poor and distressed, sir, and help, maybe, to take the bed from undher the sick father or the sick mother, and to leave them without a stick undher the ould roof or naked walls? No, sir; sooner than do that I'd take to the highway once more, and rob like a man in the face of danger. That I may never see to-morrow,” he proceeded, with vehemence, “but I'd rather rob ten rich men than harish one poor family. It was that work that druv me to the coorse I left—that an' the persecution that was upon us. Take my word, sir, that in nineteen cases out of twenty it was the laws themselves, and the poverty they brought upon the country, that made the robbers.”
“But could you not give evidence against some others of the gang?”
“No, sir; there is not one of them in this part of the kingdom, and I believe the most of them all are out of it altogether. But, even if they were not, I, sir, am not the man to betray them; the Red Rapparee would, if he could get at them; but, thank God, I've put every man of them beyond his reach.”
“You did! and pray, now, why, may I ask, did that happen?”
“Bekaise it came to my ears that it was his intention to inform against them, and to surrender them all to the Government.”
“Well, Reilly, after all, I believe you to be an honest fellow, even although you were once a robber; but the question now is, what is to be done? Are you sure of his whereabouts?”
“I think so, sir; or, if I am not, I know one that is. But I have an observation to make. You know, sir, I would a' gone abroad, a freeman before this time, only that it's necessary I should still keep on my disguise, in ordher that I may move about as I wish until I secure this Red Rapparee. After that, sir, please God, I'll taste a mouthful of freedom. In the meantime I know one, as I said, that will enable us to make sure of him.”
“Pray, who is that?”
“Tom Steeple, sir.”
“Do you mean the poor fool of that name—or rather, I believe, of that nickname?”
“I do, sir; and in many things he's less of a fool than wiser men. He has been dodg-in' him for the last two or three days; and he's a person that no one would ever suspect, unless, indeed, the cautious and practised Rapparees; but in ordher to meet any such suspicion, I have got upon the right trail myself—we're sure of him now, I think.”
“Well, Reilly,” proceeded the sheriff, “I leave the management of the capture of this man to yourself. You shall have a strong and determined party to support you. Do you only show them the man, and, take my word for it, they will secure the robber. After this affair is over you must throw off those rags. I will furnish you with decent clothes, and you can go out at large without fear or risk, and that under your own name too. I took your hint, and declined swearing the informations against him before the old squire, as I had intended, from an apprehension that he might possibly blab the fact to Whitecraft, who, if your information be correct, would have given him notice to fly, or otherwise concealed him from justice.”
“Well, sir,” said Reilly, “it's my opinion that the Rapparee will lodge in Sligo jail before to-morrow mornin'; and it's a thousand pities that Whitecraft shouldn't be sent there to keep him company.”
“He certainly is the most unpopular man living. In the exuberance of his loyalty he has contrived to offend almost every liberal Protestant in the county, and that with an unjustifiable degree of wanton, and overbearing insolence, arising from his consciousness of impunity. However, thank God, his day is gone by. But, mark me, Reilly—I had almost forgotten—don't neglect to secure the clothes in which the villain robbed me; they will be important.”
“I had no intention of forgetting them, sir; and that scheme for throwing the guilt of his own villany on Mr. Reilly is another reason why I appear against him.”
It was not, indeed, very easy for the Rapparee to escape. Whitecraft got home safe, a little before dusk, after putting his unfortunate horse to more than his natural speed. On his arrival he ordered wine to be brought, and sat down to meditate upon the most feasible plan for reinstating himself in the good graces of the new Government. After pondering over many speculations to that effect, it occurred to him that to secure the Rapparee, now that he could, as an agent and a guide, be of no further use to him, was the most likely procedure to effect his purpose. He accordingly rang for his usual attendant, and asked him if he knew where O'Donnel was. The man replied that he waa generally in or about Mary Mahon's.
“Then,” proceeded his master, “let him be with me to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock.”
“If I see him, sir, I shall tell him.”
“And say that I have something to his advantage to mention to him.”
“Yes, sir; I shan't forget it.”
“Now,” said he, after the servant had withdrawn, and taking a bumper of wine, “I know not how it is, but I feel very uncomfortable somehow. I certaintly did not expect a change in the Administration, nor a relaxation in the carrying out of the laws against Papists; and, under this impression, I fear I have gone too far, and that I may be brought over the coals for my conduct. I understand that the old French Abbe is returned, and once more a resident in the family of that cursed marquis. I think, by the way, I should go and apologize to both the marquis and the Abbe, and throw the blame of my own violence upon the conduct and instructions of the last Government; that, and the giving up of this ruffianly Rapparee to the present, may do something for me. This country, however, now that matters have taken such an unexpected turn, shall not long be my place of residence. As for Reilly, my marriage on the day after tomorrow with that stubborn beauty, Helen Folliard, will place an impassable barrier between him and her. I am glad he has escaped, for he will not be in our way, and we shall start for my English estates immediately after the ceremony. To-morrow, however, I shall secure the Rapparee, and hand him over to the authorities. I could have wished to hang Reilly, but now it is impossible; still, we shall start for England immediately after the nuptial knot is tied, for I don't think I could consider myself safe, now that he is at large, and at liberty to appear in his proper name and person especially after all the mischief I have done him, in addition to the fact of my bearing away his Cooleen Bawn, as she is called.”
In fact, the man's mind was a turbid chaos of reflections upon the past and the future, in which selfishness, disappointed vengeance, terror, hypocritical policy, and every feeling that could fill the imagination of a man possessed of a vacillating, cowardly, and cruel heart, with the exception only of any thing that could border upon penitence or remorse. That Miss Folliard was not indifferent to him is true; but the feeling which he experienced towards her contained only two elements—sensuality and avarice. Of love, in its purest, highest, and holiest sense, he was utterly incapable; and he was not ignorant himself that, in the foul attachment which he bore her, he was only carrying into effect the principles of his previous life—those of a private debauchee, and a miser. That amiable, but unhappy and distracted, lady spent that whole evening in making preparations for her flight with Reilly. Her manner was wild and excited; indeed, so much so that the presence of mind and cool good sense, for which her maid Connor was remarkable, were scarcely sufficient to guide and direct her in this distressing emergency. She seemed to be absorbed by but one thought, and that was of her father. His affection for her enlarged and expanded itself in her loving heart, with a force and tenderness that nearly drove her into delirium. Connor, in the meantime, got all things ready, she herself having entrusted the management of every thing to her. The unhappy girl paced to and fro her room, sobbing and weeping bitterly, wringing her hands, and exclaiming from time to time:
“Oh, my father! my dear and loving father! is this the return I am making you for your tenderness and affection? what am I about to do? what steps am I going to take? to leave you desolate, with no heart for yours to repose upon! Alas! there was but one heart that you cared for, and in the duty and affection of that all your hopes for my happiness lay; and now, when you awake, you will find that that heart, the very heart | on which you rested, has deserted you! When you come down to breakfast in the morning, and find that your own Helen, your only one, has gone—oh! who will sustain, or soothe, or calm you in the frenzied grief of your desolation? But alas! what can I do but escape from that cowardly and vindictive villain—the very incarnation of oppression and persecution; the hypocrite, the secret debauchee, the mean, the dastardly, whose inhuman ambition was based upon and nurtured by blood? Alas! I have but the one remedy—flight with my noble minded lover, whom that dastardly villain would have hunted, even to his murder, or an ignominious death, which would have been worse. This flight is not spontaneously mine; I am forced to it, and of two evils I will choose the least; surely I am not bound to seal my own misery forever.”
Connor had by this time attempted, as far as she could, to disguise her in one of her own dresses; but nothing could conceal the elegance and exquisite proportion of her figure, nor the ladylike harmony and grace of her motions. She then went to the oaken cabinet, mentioned by her father in the opening of our narrative, and as she always had the key of that portion of it which contained her own diamonds, and other property, she took a casket of jewels of immense value from it, and returned to her room, where she found Connor before her.
“Mr. Reilly is ready, miss,” she said, “and is waiting for you behind the garden; the only one I dread in the house is Andy Cummiskey; he is so much attached to the master that I think if he knew you were about to escape he would tell him.”
“Well, Connor, we must only avoid him as well as we can; but where, or how, shall I carry these jewels? in these slight pockets of yours, Connor, they could not be safe.”
“Well, then, can't you give them to him to keep, and they'll be safe?”
“True, Connor, so they will; but I give him a heart which he prizes above them all. But, alas! my father! oh! Connor, shall I abandon him?”
“Do not distress yourself, my dear Miss Folliard; your father loves you too much to hold out his anger against you long. Did you not tell me that if Reilly was a Protestant your father said he would rather marry you to him than to Sir Robert, the villain, with all his wealth?”
“I did, Connor, and my father certainly said so; but the serpent, Connor, entwined himself about the poor credulous man, and succeeded in embittering him against Reilly, who would rather go to the scaffold—yes, and—which he would consider a greater sacrifice—rather abandon even me than his religion. And do you think, Connor, that I do not love my noble-minded Reilly the more deeply for this? I tell you, Connor, that if he renounced his religion upon no other principle than his love for me, I should despise him as a dishonorable, man, to whom it would not be safe for me to entrust my happiness.”
“Well, well; but now it is time to start, and Reilly, as I said, is waiting for you behind the garden.”
“Oh, Connor, and is it come to this? my dear papa! but I cannot go until I see him; no, Connor, I could not; I shall go quietly into his room, and take one look at him; probably it may be the last. Oh, my God! what am I about to do! Connor, keep this casket until I return; I shall not be long.”
She then went to his chamber. The blinds and curtains of the windows had not been drawn, and it occurred to her that as her dress was so different from any which her father had ever seen on her, some suspicion might be created should he observe it. She therefore left the candlestick which she had brought with her on the inside sill of a lobby window, having observed at the door that the moonlight streamed in through the windows upon his bed. Judge of her consternation, however, when, on entering the room, her father, turning himself in the bed, asked:
“Is that Helen?”
“It is, papa; I thought you had been asleep, and I came up to steal my good-night kiss without any intention of awakening you.”
“I drank too much, Helen, with Whitecraft, whom wine—my Burgundy—instead of warming, seems to turn into an icicle. However, he is a devilish shrewd fellow. Helen, darling, there's a jug of water on the table there; will you hand it to me; I'm all in a flame and a fever.”
She did so, and her hand trembled so much that she was near spilling it. He took a long draught, after which he smacked his lips, and seemed to breathe more freely.
“Helen,” said he.
“Well, dear papa.”
“Helen, I had something to mention to you, but—”
“Don't disturb yourself to-night, papa; you are somewhat feverish,” she added, feeling his pulse; if you will excuse me, papa, I think you drank too much; your pulse is very quick; if you could fall into rest again it would be better for you.”
“Yes, it would; but my mind is uneasy and sorrowful. Helen, I thought you loved me, my darling.”
“Oh, could you doubt it, papa? You see I am come as usual—no, not as usual, either—to kiss you; I will place my cheek against yours, as I used to do, dear papa, and you will allow me to weep—to weep—and to say that never father deserved the love of a daughter as you have deserved mine; and never did daughter love an affectionate and indulgent father more tenderly than your Cooleen Bawn does you.”
“I know it, Helen, I know it; your whole life has been a proof of it, and will be a proof of it; I know you have no other object in this world than to make papa happy; I know I feel that you are great-minded enough to sacrifice everything to that.”
“Well, but, papa,” she continued, “for all my former offences against you will you pity and forgive me?”
“I do both, you foolish darling; but what makes you speak so?”
“Because I feel melancholy to-night, papa; and now, papa, if ever I should do any thing wrong, won't you pity and forgive your own Cooleen Bawn?”
“Get along, you gipsy—don't be crying. What could you do that papa wouldn't forgive you, unless to run away with Reilly? Don't you know that you can wind me round your finger?”
“Farewell, papa,” she said, weeping all the time, for, in truth, she found it impossible to control herself; “farewell—good night! and remember that you may have a great deal to forgive your own Cooleen Bawn some of these days.”
On leaving the bedroom, where she was hurried by her feelings into this indiscreet dialogue, she found herself nearly incapable of walking without support. The contending affections for her father and her lover had nearly overcome her. By the aid of the staircase she got to her own room, where she was met by Connor, into whose arms she fell almost helpless.
“Ah, Connor,” she said, alluding to her father, whom she could not trust herself to name, “to-morrow morning what will become of him when he finds that I am gone? But I know his affectionate heart. He will relent—he will relent for the sake of his own Cooleen Bawn. The laws against Catholics are now relaxed, and I am glad of it. But I have one consolation, my dear girl, that I am trusting myself to a man of honor. We will proceed directly to the Continent;—that is, if no calamitous occurrence should take place to prevent us; and there, after our nuptials shall have been duly celebrated, I will live happy with Reilly—that is, Connor, as happy as absence from my dear father will permit me—and Reilly will live happy, and, at least, free from the persecution of bad laws, and such villains as base and vindictive Whitecraft. You, Connor, must accompany me to the back of the garden, and see me off. Take this purse, Connor, as some compensation for your truth and the loss of your situation.”
It was now, when the moment of separation approached, that Connor's tears began to flow, far less at the generosity of her mistress than her affection, and that which she looked upon as probably their final separation.
“Dear Connor,” said her mistress, “I would expect that support to my breaking heart which I have hitherto experienced from you. Be firm now, for you see I am not firm, and your tears only render me less adequate to encounter the unknown vicissitudes which lie before me.”
“Well, then, I will be firm, my dear mistress; and I tell you that if there is a God in heaven that rewards virtue and goodness like yours, you will be happy yet. Come, now, he is waiting for you, and the less time we lose the better. We shall go out by the back way—it is the safest.”
They accordingly did so, and had nearly reached the back wall of the garden when they met Malcomson and Cummiskey, on their way into the kitchen, in order to have a mug of strong ale together. The two men, on seeing the females approach, withdrew to the shelter of a clump of trees, but not until they were known by Connor.
“Come, my dear mistress,” she whispered, “there is not one second of time to be lost. Cummiskey, who is a Catholic, might overlook our being here at this hour; because, although he is rather in the light of a friend than a servant to your father, still he is a friend to Reilly as well; but as for that ugly Scotchman, that is nothing but bone and skin, I would place no dependence whatever upon him.”
We will not describe the meeting between Reilly and the Cooleen Bawn. They had no time to lose in the tender expressions of their feelings. Each shook hands with, and bid farewell to, poor affectionate Connor, who was now drowned in tears; and thus they set off, with a view of leaving the kingdom, and getting themselves legally married in Holland, where they intended to reside.
Cummiskey had a private and comfortable room of his own, to which he and the cannie Scotchman proceeded, after having ordered from the butler a tankard of strong ale. There was a cheerful fire in the grate, and when the tankard and glasses were placed upon the table the Scotchman observed:
“De'il be frae my saul, maisther Cummiskey, but ye're vera comfortable here.”
“Why, in troth, I can't complain, Mr. Malcomson; here's your health, sir, and after that we must drink another.”
“Mony thanks, Andrew.”
“Hang it, I'm not Andrew: that sounds like Scotch; I'm Andy, man alive.”
“Wfiel mony thanks, Andy; but for the maitter o' that, what the de'il waur wad it be gin it were Scotch?”
“Bekaise I wouldn't like to be considered a Scotchman, somehow.”
“Weel, Andrew—Andy—I do just suppose as muckle; gin ye war considered Scotch, muckle more might be expeck' frae you than, being an Irisher as you are, you could be prepared to answer to; whereas—”
“Why, hang it, man alive, we can give three answers for your one.”
“Weel, but how is that now, Andy? Here's to ye in the meantime; and 'am no savin' but this yill is just richt gude drink; it warms the pit o' the stamach, man.”
“You mane by that the pit o' the stomach, I suppose.”
“Ay, just that.”
“Troth, Mr. Malcomson, you Scotchers bring everything to the pit o' the stomach—no, begad, I ax your pardon, for although you take care of the pratie bag, you don't forget the pocket.”
“And what for no, Andy? why the de'il war pockets made, gin they wanna to be filled? but how hae ye Irishers three answers for our ane?”
“Why, first with our tongue; and even with that we bate ye—flog you hollow. You Scotchmen take so much time in givin' an answer that an Irishman could say his pattherin aves before you spake. You think first and spake aftherwards, and come out in sich a way that one would suppose you say grace for every word you do spake; but it isn't 'for what we are to receive' you ought to say 'may the Lord make us thankful, but for what we are to lose'—that is, your Scotch nonsense; and, in troth, we ought to be thankful for losin' it.”
“Weel, man, here's to ye, Andy—ou, man, but this yill is extraordinar' gude.”
“Why,” replied Andy, who, by the way, seldom went sober to bed, and who was even now nearly three sheets in the wind, “it is. Mr. Malcomson, the right stuff. But, as I was sayin', you Scotchmen think first and spake afther—one of the most unlucky practices that ever anybody had. Now, don't you see the advantage that the Irishman has over you; he spakes first and thinks aftherwards, and then, you know, it gives him plenty of time to think—here's God bless us all, anyhow—but that's the way an Irishman bates a Scotchman in givin' an answer; for if he fails by word o' mouth, why, whatever he's deficient in he makes up by the fist or cudgel; and there's our three Irish answers for one Scotch.”
“Weel, man, a' richt—a' richt—we winna quarrel aboot it; but I thocht ye promised to gie us another toast—de'il be frae my; saul, man, but I'll drink as mony as you like wisiccan liquor as this.”
“Ay, troth, I did say so, and devil a thing but your Scotch nonsense put it out o' my head. And now, Mr. Malcomson, let me advise you, as a friend, never to attempt to have the whole conversation to yourself; it I isn't daicent.
“Weel, but the toast, man?”
“Oh, ay; troth, your nonsense would put any thing out of a man's head. Well, you see this comfortable room?”
“Ou, ay; an vara comfortable it is; ma faith, I wuss I had ane like it. The auld squire, however, talks o' buildin' a new gertlen-hoose.”
“Well, then, fill your bumper. Here's to her that got me this room, and had it furnished as you see, in order that I might be at my aise in it for the remaindher o' my life—I mane the Cooleen Bawn—the Lily of the Plains of Boyle. Come, now, off with it; and if you take it from your lantern jaws! till it's finished, divil a wet lip ever I'll give you.”
The Scotchman was not indisposed to honor the toast; first, because the ale was both strong and mellow, and secondly, because the Cooleen Bawn was a great favorite of his, in consequence of the deference she paid to him as a botanist.
“Eh, sirs,” he exclaimed, after finishing | his bumper, “but she's a bonnie lassie that, and as gude as she's bonnie—and de'il a higher compliment she could get, I think. But, Andy, man, don't they talk some clash and havers anent her predilection for that weel-farrant callan, Reilly?”
“All, my poor girl,” replied Cummiskey, shaking his head sorrowfully; “I pity her there; but the thing's impossible—they can't be married—the law is against them.”
“Weel, Andy, they must e'en thole it; but 'am thinkin' they'll just break bounds at last, an' tak' the law, as you Irish do, into their am hands.”
“What do you mane by that?” asked Andy, whose temper began to get warm by the observation.
“Ah, man,” replied the Scotchman, “dinna let your birses rise at that gate. Noo, there's the filbert trees, ma friend, of whilk ane is male and the tither female; and the upshot e'en is, Andy, that de'il a pickle o' fruit ever the female produces until there's a braw halesome male tree planted in the same gerden. But, ou, man, Andy, wasna yon she and that bonnie jaud, Connor, that we met the noo? De'il be frae my laul, but I jalouse she's aff wi' him this vara nicht.”
“Oh, dear, no!” replied Cummiskey, starting; “that would kill her father; and yet there must be something in it, or what would bring them there at such an hour? He and she may love one another as much as they like, but I must think of my mas-ther.”
“In that case, then, our best plan is to gie the alarm.”
“Hould,” replied Andy; “let us be cautious. They wouldn't go on foot, I think; and before we rise a ruction in the house, let us find out whether she has made off or not. Sit you here, and I'll try to see Connor, her maid.”
“Ah, but, Andy, man, it's no just that pleasant to sit hei-e dry-lipped; the tankard's, oot, ye ken.”
“Divil tankard the Scotch sowl o'you—who do you suppose could think of a tankard, or any thing else, if what we suspect has happened? It will kill him.”
He then proceeded to look for Connor, whom he met in tears, which she was utterly unable to conceal.
“Well, Miss Connor,” he asked, “what's the matther? You're cryin', I persave.”
“All, Cummiskey, my mistress is unwell.”
“Unwell! why she wasn't unwell a while ago, when the gardener and I met her and you on your way to the back o' the garden.”
“Oh, yes,” replied Connor; “I forced her to come out, to try what a little cool air-might do for her.”
“Ay, but, Connor, did you force her to come in again?”
“Force! there was no force necessary, Cummiskey. She's now in her own room, quite ill.”
“Oh, then, if she's quite ill, it's right that her father should know it, in ordher that a docther may be sent for.”
“Ah, but she's now asleep, Cummiskey—that sleep may set her to rights; she may waken quite recovered; but you know it might be dangerous to disturb her.”
“Ah, I believe you,” he replied, dissembling; for he saw at once, by Connor's agitated manner, that every word she uttered was a lie; “the sleep will be good for her, the darlin'; but take care of her, Connor, for the masther's sake; for what would become of him if any thing happened her? You know that if she died he wouldn't live a week.”
“That's true, indeed,” she replied; “and if she get's worse, Cummiskey, I'll let the master know.”
“That's a good girl; ma gragal that you! war—good-by, acushla,” and he immediately! returned to his own room, after having observed that Connor went down to the kitchen.
“Now, Mr. Malcomson,” said he, “there is a good fire before you. I ax your pardon—just sit in the light of it for a minute or so; I want this candle.”
“'Am sayin', Andy, gin ye haud awa to the kitchen, it wadna be a crime to send up anither tankard o' that yill.”
To this the other made no reply, but walked out of the room, and very deliberately proceeded to that of Helen. The door was open, the bed unslept upon, the window-curtains undrawn; in fact, the room was tenantless, Connor a liar and an accomplice, and the suspicions of himself and Malcomson well founded. He then followed Connor to the kitchen; but she too had disappeared, or at least hid herself from him. He then desired the other female servants to ascertain whether Miss Folliard was within or not, giving it as his opinion that she had eloped with Willy Reilly. The uproar then commenced, the house was searched, but no Cooleen Bawn was found. Cummiskey himself remained comparatively tranquil, but his tranquillity was neither more nor less than an inexpressible sorrow for what he knew the affectionate old man must suffer for the idol of his heart, upon whom he doted with such unexampled tenderness and affection. On ascertaining that she was not in the house, he went upstairs to his master's bedroom, having the candlestick in his hand, and tapped at the door. There was no reply from within, and on his entering he found the old man asleep. The case, however, was one that admitted of no delay; but he felt that to communicate the melancholy tidings was a fearful task, and he scarcely knew in what words to shape the event which had occurred. At length he stirred him gently, and the old man, half asleep, exclaimed:
“Good-night, Helen—good-night, darling! I am not well; I had something to tell you about the discovery of—but I will let you know it to-morrow at breakfast. For your sake I shall let him escape: there now, go to bed, my love.”
“Sir,” said Cummiskey, “I hope you'll excuse me for disturbing you.”
“What? who? who's there? I thought it was my daughter.”
“No, sir, I wish it was; I'm come to tell you that Miss Folliard can't be found: we have searched every nook and corner of the house to no purpose: wherever she is, she's not undher this roof. I came to tell you, and to bid you get up, that we may see what's to be done.”
“What,” he exclaimed, starting up, “my child!—my child—my child gone! God of heaven! God of heaven, support me!—my darling! my treasure! my delight!—Oh, Cummiskey!—but it can't be—to desert me!—to leave me in misery and sorrow, brokenhearted, distracted!—she that was the prop of my age, that loved me as never child loved a, father! Begone, Cummiskey, it is not so, it can't be, I say: search again; she is somewhere in the house; you don't know, sirra, how she loved me: why, it was only this night that, on taking her good-night kiss, she—ha—what? what?—she wept, she wept bitterly, and bade me farewell! and said—Here, Cummiskey, assist me to dress. Oh, I see it, Cummiskey, I see it! she is gone! she is gone! yes, she bade me farewell; but I was unsteady and unsettled after too much drink, and did not comprehend her meaning.”
It is impossible to describe the almost frantic distraction of that loving father, who, as he said, had no prop to lean upon but his Cooleen Bawn, for he himself often loved to call her by that appellation.
“Cummiskey,” he proceeded, “we will pursue them—we must have my darling back: yes, and I will forgive her, for what is she but a child, Cummiskey, not yet twenty. But in the meantime I will shoot him dead—dead—dead—if he had a thousand lives; and from this night out I shall pursue Popery, in all its shapes and disguises; I will imprison it, transport it, hang it—hang it, Cummiskey, as round as a hoop. Ring the bell, and let Lanigan unload, and then reload my pistols; he always does it; his father was my grandfather's gamekeeper, and he understands fire-arms. Here, though, help me on with my boots first, and then I will be dressed immediately. After giving the pistols to Lanigan, desire the grooms and hostlers to saddle all the horses in the stables. We must set out and pursue them. It is possible we may overtake them yet. I will not level a pistol against my child; but, by the great Boyne! if we meet them, come up with them, overtake them, his guilty spirit will stand before the throne of judgment this night. Go now, give the pistols to Lanigan, and tell him to reload them steadily.”
We leave them now, in order that we may follow the sheriff and his party, who went to secure the body of the Red Rapparee. This worthy person, not at all aware of the friendly office which his patron, Sir Robert, intended to discharge towards him, felt himself quite safe, and consequently took very little pains to secure his concealment. Indeed, it could hardly be expected that he should, inasmuch as Whitecraft had led him to understand, as we have said, that Government had pardoned him his social trangressions, as a per contra for those political ones which they still expected from him. Such was his own view of the case, although he was not altogether free from misgiving, and a certain vague apprehension. Be this as it may, he had yet to learn a lesson which his employer was not disposed to teach him by any other means than handing him over to the authorities on the following day. How matters might have terminated between him and the baronet it is out of our power to detail. The man was at all times desperate and dreadful, where either revenge or anger was excited, especially as he labored under the superstitious impression that he was never to be hanged or perish by a violent death, a sentiment then by no means uncommon among persons of his outrageous and desperate life. It has been observed, and with truth, that the Irish Rapparees seldom indulged in the habit of intoxication or intemperance, and this is not at all to be wondered at. The meshes of authority were always spread for them, and the very consciousness of this fact sharpened their wits, and kept them perpetually on their guard against the possibility of arrest. Nor was this all. The very nature of the lawless and outrageous life they led, and their frequent exposure to danger, rendered habits of caution necessary—and those were altogether incompatible with habits of intemperance. Self-preservation rendered this policy necessary, and we believe there are but few instances on record of a Rapparee having been arrested in a state of intoxication. Their laws, in fact, however barbarous they were in other matters, rendered three cases of drunkenness a cause of expulsion from the gang. O'Donnel, however, had now relaxed from the rigid observation of his own rules, principally for the reasons we have already stated—by which we mean, a conviction of his own impunity, as falsely communicated to him by Sir Robert Whitecraft. The sheriff had not at first intended to be personally present at his capture; but upon second consideration he came to the determination of heading the party who were authorized to secure him. This resolution of Oxley's had, as will presently be seen, a serious effect upon the fate and fortunes of the Cooleen Bawn and her lover. The party, who were guided by Tom Steeple, did not go to Mary Mahon's, but to a neighboring cottage, which was inhabited by a distant relative of O'Donnel. A quarrel had taken place between the fortune-teller and him, arising from his jealousy of Sir Robert, which caused such an estrangement as prevented him for some time from visiting her house. Tom Steeple, however, had haunted him as his shadow, without ever coming in contact with him personally, and on this night he had him set as a soho man has a hare in her form. Guided, therefore, by the intelligent idiot and Fergus, the party readied the cottage in which the Rapparee resided. The house was instantly surrounded and the door knocked at, for the party knew that the man was inside.
“Who is there?” asked the old woman who kept the cottage.
“Open the door instantly,” said the sheriff, “or we shall smash it in.”
“No, I won't,” she replied; “no, I won't, you bosthoon, whoever you are. I never did nothin' agin the laws, bad luck to them, and I won't open my door to any strolling vagabone like you.”
“Produce the man we want,” said the sheriff, “or we shall arrest you for harboring an outlaw and a murderer. Your house is now surrounded by military, acting under the king's orders.”
“Give me time,” said the crone; “I was at my prayers when you came to disturb me, and I'll finish them before I open the door, if you were to burn the house over my head, and myself in it. Up,” said she to the Rapparee, “through the roof—get that ould table undher your feet—the thatch is thin—slip out and lie on the roof till they go, and then let them whistle jigs to the larks if they like.”
The habits of escape peculiar to the Rapparees were well known to Fergus, who cautioned those who surrounded the house to watch the roof. It was well they did so, for in less-time than we have taken to describe it the body of the Rapparee was seen projecting itself upwards through the thin thatch, and in an instant several muskets were levelled at him, accompanied by instant orders to surrender on pain of being shot. Under such circumstances there was no alternative, and in a few minutes he was handcuffed and a prisoner. The party then proceeded along the road on which some of the adventures already recorded in this narrative had taken place, when they were met, at a sharp angle of it, by Reilly and his Cooleen Bawn, both of whom were almost instantly recognized by the sheriff and his party. Their arrest was immediate.
“Mr. Reilly,” said the sheriff, “I am sorry for this. You must feel aware that I neither am or ever was disposed to be your enemy; but I now find you carrying away a Protestant heiress, the daughter of my friend, contrary to the laws of the land, a fact which in itself gives me the power and authority to take you into custody, which I accordingly do in his Majesty's name. I owe you no ill will, but in the meantime you must return with me to Squire Folliard's house. Miss Folliard, you must, as you know me to be your father's friend, consider that I feel it my duty to restore you to him.”
“I am not without means of defence,” replied Reilly, “but the exercise of such means would be useless. Two of your lives I might take; but yours, Mr. Sheriff, could not be one of them, and that you must feel.”
“I feel, Mr. Reilly, that you are a man of honor; and, in point of fact, there is ample apology for your conduct in the exquisite beauty of the young lady who accompanies you; but I must also feel for her father, whose bereavement, occasioned by her loss, would most assuredly break his heart.”
Here a deep panting of the bosom, accompanied by violent sobs, was heard by the party, and Cooleen Bawn whispered to Reilly, in a voice nearly stifled by grief and excitement:
“Dear Reilly, I love you; but it was madness in us to take this step; let me return to my father—only let me see him safe?”
“But Whitecraft?”
“Death sooner. Reilly, I am ill, I am ill; this struggle is too much for me. What shall I do? My head is swimming.”