“Take a stool and sit down, honest man,” she said, addressing Fergus; “and you, Mr. Reilly, take my chair; it's the one you sent me yourself, and if anybody is entitled to a sate in it, surely you are. I must light a rush.”
“No, Molly,” replied Reilly, “I would be too heavy for your frail chair. I will take one of those stout stools, which will answer me better.”
She then lit a rush-light, which she pressed against a small cleft of iron that was driven into a wooden shaft, about three feet long, which stood upon a bottom that resembled the head of a churn-staff. Such are the lights, and such the candlesticks, that are to be found in the cabins and cottages of Ireland. “I suppose, Molly,” said Reilly, “you are surprised at a visit from me just now?”
“You know, Mr. Reilly,” she replied, “that if you came in the deadest hours of the night you'd be welcome, as I said—and this poor man is welcome too—sit over to the fire, poor man, and warm yourself. Maybe you're hungry; if you are I'll get you something to eat.”
“Many thanks to you, ma'am,” replied Fergus, “I'm not a taste hungry, and could ait nothing now; I'm much obliged to you at the same time.”
“Mr. Reilly, maybe you'd like to ait a bit. I can give you a farrel of bread, and a sup o' nice goat's milk. God preserve him from evil that gave me the same goats, and that's your four quarthers, Mr. Reilly. But sure every thing I have either came or comes from your hand; and if I can't thank you, God will do it for me, and that's betther still.”
“No more about that, Molly—not a word more. Your long residence with my poor mother, and your affection for her in all her trials and troubles, entitle you to more than that at the hands of her son.”
“Mrs. Buckley,” observed Fergus, “this is a quiet-looking little place you have here.”
“And it is for that I like it,” she replied. “I have pace here, and the noise of the wicked world seldom reaches me in it. My only friend and companion here is the Almighty—praise and glory be to his name!”—and here she devoutly crossed herself—“bar-rin', indeed, when the light-hearted girshas (young girls) comes a kailyee* wid their wheels, to keep the poor ould woman company, and rise her ould heart by their light and merry songs, the cratures.”
“That must be a relief to you, Molly,” observed Reilly, who, however, could with difficulty take any part in this little dialogue.
“And so indeed it is,” she replied; “and, poor things, sure if their sweethearts do come at the dusk to help them to carry home their spinning-wheels, who can be angry with them? It's the way of life, sure, and of the world.”
She then went into another little room—for the cabin was divided into two—in order to find a ball of woollen thread, her principal occupation being the knitting of mittens and stockings, and while bustling about Fergus observed with a smile,
“Poor Molly! little she thinks that it's the bachelors, rather than any particular love for her company, that brings the thieves here.”
“Yes, but,” said Reilly, “you know it's the custom of the country.”
“Mrs. Buckley,” asked Fergus, “did the sogers ever pay you a visit?”
“They did once,” she replied, “about six months ago or more.”
“What in the name of wondher,” he repeated, “could bring them to you?”
“They were out huntin' a priest,” she replied, “that had done something contrary to the law.”
“What did they say, Mrs. Buckley, and how did they behave themselves?”
“Why,” she answered, “they axed me if I had seen about the country a tight-looking fat little man, wid black twinklin' eyes and a rosy face, wid a pair o' priest's boots upon him, greased wid hog's lard? I said no, but to the revarse. They then searched the cabin, tossed the two beds about—poor Jemmy's—God rest my boy's sowl!—an'—afterwards my own. There was one that seemed to hould authority over the rest, and he axed who was my landlord? I said I had no landlord. They then said that surely I must pay rent to some one, but I said that I paid rent to nobody; that Mr. Reilly here, God bless him, gave me this house and garden free.”
“And what did they say when you named Mr. Reilly?”
“Why, they said he was a dacent Papish, I think they called it; and that there wasn't sich another among them. They then lighted their pipes, had a smoke, went about their business, and I saw no more of them from that day to this.”
Reilly felt that this conversation was significant, and that the widow's cabin was any thing but a safe place of refuge, even for a few hours. We have already said that he had been popular with all parties, which was the fact, until his acquaintance with the old squire and his lovely daughter. In the meantime the loves of Willy Reilly and the far-famed Cooleen Bawn had gone abroad over the whole country; and the natural result was that a large majority among those who were anxious to exterminate the Catholic Church by the rigor of bigoted and inhuman laws, looked upon the fact of a tolerated Papist daring to love a Protestant heiress, and the daughter of a man who was considered such a stout prop of the Establishment, as an act that deserved death itself. Reilly's affection for the Cooleen Bawn was considered, therefore, not only daring but treasonable. Those men, then, he reflected, who had called upon her while in pursuit of the unfortunate priest, had become acquainted with the fact of her dependence upon his bounty; and he took it for granted, very naturally and very properly, as the event will show, that now, while “on his keeping,” it would not be at all extraordinary if they occasionally searched her remote and solitary cabin, as a place where he might be likely to conceal himself. For this night, however, he experienced no apprehension of a visit from them, but with what correctness of calculation we shall soon see.
“Molly,” said he, this poor man and I must sit with you for a couple of hours, after which we will leave you to your rest.”
“Indeed, Mr. Reilly,” she replied, “from what I heard this day I can make a party good guess at the raison why you are here now, instead of bein' in your own comfortable house. You have bitther enemies; but God—blessed be his name—is stronger than any of them. However, I wish you'd let me get you and that poor man something to eat.”
This kind offer they declined, and as the short rush-light was nearly burned out, and as she had not another ready, she got what is called a cam or grisset, put it on the hearth-stone, with a portion of hog's lard in it; she then placed the lower end of the tongs in the fire, until the broad portion of them, with which the turf is gripped, became red hot; she then placed the lard in the grisset between them, and squeezed it until nothing remained but pure oil; through this she slowly drew the peeled rushes, which were instantly saturated with the grease, after which she left them on a little table to cool. Among the poorer classes—small farmers and others—this process is performed every evening a little before dusk. Having thus supplied them with these lights, the pious widow left them to their own conversation and retired to the little room in order to repeat her rosary. We also will leave them to entertain themselves as best they can, and request our readers to follow us to a different scene.
We return to the party from whom Fergus Reilly had so narrow an escape. As our readers may expect, they bent their steps to the magnificent residence of Sir Robert Whitecraft. That gentleman was alone in his library, surrounded by an immense collection of books which he never read. He had also a fine collection of paintings, of which he knew no more than his butler, nor perhaps so much. At once sensual, penurious, and bigoted, he spent his whole time in private profligacy—for he was a hypocrite, too—in racking his tenantry, and exhibiting himself as a champion for Protestant principles. Whenever an unfortunate Roman Catholic, whether priest or layman, happened to infringe a harsh and cruel law of which probably he had never heard, who so active in collecting his myrmidons, in order to uncover, hunt, and run down his luckless victim? And yet he was not popular. No one, whether of his own class or any other, liked a bone in his skin. Nothing could infect him with the genial and hospitable spirit of the country, whilst at the same time no man living was so anxious to partake of the hospitality of others, merely because it saved him a meal. All that sustained his character at the melancholy period of which we write was what people called the uncompromising energy of his principles as a sound and vigorous Protestant.
“Sink them all together,” he exclaimed upon this occasion, in a kind of soliloquy—“Church and bishop and parson, what are they worth unless to make the best use we can of them? Here I am prevented from going to that girl to-night—and that barbarous old blockhead of a squire, who was so near throwing me off for a beggarly Papist rebel: and doubly, trebly, quadruply cursed be that same rebel for crossing my path as he has done. The cursed light-headed jade loves him too—there's no doubt of that—but wait until I get him in my clutches, as I certainly shall, and, by —-, his rebel carcass shall feed the crows. But what noise is that? They have returned; I must go down and learn their success.”
He was right. Our friend the tipsy sergeant and his party were at the hall-door, which was opened as he went down, and he ordered lights into the back parlor. In a few minutes they were ushered in, where they found him seated as magisterially as possible in a large arm-chair.
“Well, Johnston,” said he, assuming as much dignity as he could, “what has been your success?”
“A bad evening's sport, sir; we bagged nothing—didn't see a feather.”
“Talk sense, Johnston,” said he sternly, “and none of this cant. Did you see or hear any thing of the rebel?”
“Why, sir, we did; it would be a devilish nice business if a party led and commanded by George Johnston should go out without hearin' and seein' something.”
“Well, but what did you see and hear, sir?”
“Why, we saw Reilly's house, and a very comfortable one it is; and we heard from the servants that he wasn't at home.”
“You're drunk, Johnston.”
“No, sir, begging your pardon, I'm only hearty; besides, I never discharge my duty half so well as when I'm drunk; If feel no colors then.”
“Johnston, if I ever know you to get drunk on duty again I shall have you reduced.”
“Reduced!” replied Johnston, “curse the fig I care whether you do or not; I'm actin' as a volunteer, and I'll resign.”
“Come, sir,” replied Sir Robert, “be quiet; I will overlook this, for you are a very good man if you could keep yourself sober.”
“I told you before, Sir Robert, that I'm a better man when I'm drunk.”
“Silence, sir, or I shall order you out of the room.”
“Please your honor,” observed Steen, “I have a charge to make against George Johnston.”
“A charge, Steen—what is it? You are a staunch, steady fellow, I know; what is this charge?”
“Why, sir, we met a suspicious character on the old bridle road beyond Reilly's, and he refused to take him prisoner.”
“A poor half-Papist beggarman, sir,” replied Johnston, “who was on his way to my uncle's to stop there for the night. Divil a scarecrow in Europe would exchange clothes with him without boot.”
Steen then related the circumstances with which our readers are acquainted, adding that he suggested to Johnston the necessity of sending a couple of men up with him to ascertain whether what, he said was true or not; but that he flatly refused to do so—and after some nonsense about a barn he let him off.
“I'll tell you what, sir,” said Johnston, “I'll hunt a priest or a Papish that breaks the law with any man livin', but hang me if ever I'll hunt a harmless beggarman lookin' for his bit.”
At this period of the conversation the Red Rapparee, now in military uniform, entered the parlor, accompanied by some others of those violent men.
“Steen,” said the baronet, “what or who do you suppose this ragged ruffian was?”
“Either a Rapparee, sir, or Reilly himself.”
“O'Donnel,” said he, addressing the Red Robber, “what description of disguises do these villains usually assume? Do they often go about as beggarmen?”
“They may have changed their hand, sir, since I became a legal subject, but, before that, three-fourths of us—of them—the villains, I mane—went about in the shape of beggars.”
“That's important,” exclaimed the baronet. “Steen, take half a dozen mounted men—a cavalry party have arrived here a little while ago, and are waiting further orders—I thought if Reilly had been secured it might have been necessary for them to escort him to Sligo. Well, take half a dozen mounted I men, and, as you very properly suggested, proceed with all haste to farmer Graham's, and see whether this mendicant is there or not; if he is there, take him into custody at all events, and if he is not, then it is clear he is a man for whom we ought to be on the lookout.”
“I should like to go with them, your honor,” said the Red Rapparee.
“O'Donnel,” said Sir Robert, “I have other business for you to-night.”
“Well, plaise your honor,” said O'Donnel, “as they're goin' in that direction, let them turn to the left after passin' the little stranie that crosses the road, I mane on their way home; if they look sharp they'll find a little boreen that—but indeed they'll scarcely make it out in the dark, for it's a good way back in the fields—I mane the cabin of widow Buckley. If there's one house more than another in the whole countryside where! Reilly is likely to take shelter in, that's it. He gave her that cabin and a large garden free, and besides allows her a small yearly pension. But remember, you can't bring your horses wid you—you must lave some of the men to take charge of them in the boreen till you come back. I wish you'd let me go with them, sir.”
“I cannot, O'Donnel; I have other occupation for you to-night.”
Three or four of them declared that they knew the cottage right well, and could find it out without much difficulty. “They had been there,” they said, “some six or eight months before upon a priest chase.” The matter was so arranged, and the party set out upon their expedition.
It is unnecessary to say that these men had their journey for nothing; but at the same time one fact resulted from it, which I was, that the ragged mendicant they had met must have been some one well worth looking after. The deuce of it was, however, that, owing to the darkness of the night, there was not one among them who could have known Fergus the next day if they had met him. They knew, however, that O'Donnel, the Rapparee, was a good authority on the subject, and the discovery of the pretended mendicant's imposture was a proof of it. On this account, when they had reached the boreen alluded to, on their return from Graham's, they came to the resolution of leaving their horses in charge, as had been suggested to them, and in silence, and with stealthy steps, pounce at once into the widow's cabin. Before they arrived there, however, we shall take the liberty of preceding them for a few minutes, and once more transport our readers to its bright but humble hearth.
About three hours or better had elapsed, and our two friends were still seated, maintaining the usual chat with Mrs. Buckley, who had finished her prayers and once, more rejoined them.
“Fergus, like a good fellow,” whispered Reilly, “slip out for a minute or two; there's—a circumstance I wish to mention to Molly—I assure you it's of a very private and particular nature and only for her own ear.”
“To be sure,” replied Fergus; “I want, at all events, to stretch my legs, and to see what the night's about.”
He accordingly left the cabin.
“Mrs. Buckley,” said Reilly, “it was not for nothing I came here to-night. I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Your favor's granted, sir,” she replied—“granted, Mr. Reilly, even before I hear it—that is, supposin' always that it's in my power—to do it for you.”
“It is simply to carry a letter—and be certain that it shall be delivered to the proper person.”
“Well,” she replied, “sure that's aisily done. And where am I to deliver it?” she asked.
“That I shall let you know on some future occasion—perhaps within the course of a week or so.”
“Well, sir,” she replied, “I'd go twenty miles to deliver it—and will do so wid a heart and a half.”
“Well, Molly, I can tell you your journey won't be so far; but there is one thing you are to observe—you must never breathe it to a human creature.”
“I thought you knew me better, Mr. Reilly.”
“It would be impossible, however, to be too strict here, because you don't know how much depends upon it.”
At this moment Fergus put in his head, and said, “For Christ's sake, snuff out the candle, and Reilly—fly!—There are people in the next field!—quick!—quick!”
Reilly snatched up his hat, and whispered to the widow, “Deny that you saw me, or that there was any one here!—Put out the candle!—they might see our figures darkening the light as we go out!”
Fergus and Reilly immediately planted themselves behind a whitethorn hedge, in a field adjoining the cabin, in order to reconnoitre the party, whoever they might be, which they could do in safety. This act of reconnoitering, however, was performed by the ear, and not at all by the eye; the darkness of the night rendered that impossible. Of course the search in the widow's cabin was equally fruitless.
“Now,” whispered Reilly, “we'll go in a line parallel with the road, but at a safe distance from them, until they reach the cross-roads. If they turn towards my house, we are forewarned, but if they turn towards Sir Robert's, it is likely that I may have an opportunity of securing my cash and papers.” On reaching the cross-roads alluded to, the party, much to the satisfaction of Reilly and his companion, did turn towards the residence of Sir Robert Whitecraft, thus giving the fugitives full assurance that nothing further was to be apprehended from them that night. The men in fact felt fatigued and were anxious to get to bed.
After approaching Reilly's house very cautiously, and with much circumspection—not an outhouse, or other place of concealment, having been left unexamined—they were about to enter, when Reilly, thinking that no precaution on such an occasion ought to be neglected, said:
“Fergus, we are so far safe; but, under all circumstances, I think it right and prudent that you should keep watch outside. Mark me, I will place Tom Corrigan—you know him—at this window, and if you happen to see anything in the shape of a human being, or to hear, for instance, any noise, give the slightest possible tap upon the glass, and that will be sufficient.”
It was so arranged, and Reilly entered the house; but, as it happened, Fergus's office proved a sinecure; although, indeed, when we consider his care and anxiety, we can scarcely say so. At all events, Reilly returned in about half an hour, bearing under his arm a large dark portfolio, which, by the way, was securely locked.
“Is all right?” asked Fergus.
“All is right,” replied the other. “The servants have entered into an arrangement to sit up, two in turn each night, so as to be ready to give me instant admittance whenever I may chance to come.”
“But now where are you to place these papers?” asked his companion. “That's a difficulty.”
“It is, I grant,” replied Reilly, “but after what has happened, I think widow Buckley's cabin the safest place for a day or two. Only that the hour is so unseasonable, I could feel little difficulty in finding a proper place of security for them, but as it is, we must only deposit them for the present with the widow.”
The roads of Ireland at this period—if roads they could be called—were not only in a most shameful, but dangerous, state. In summer they were a foot deep with dust, and in winter at least eighteen inches with mud. This, however, was by no means the worst of it. They were studded, at due intervals, with ruts so deep that if a horse! happened to get into one of them he went down to the saddle-skirts. They were treacherous, too, and such as no caution could guard against; because, where the whole surface of the road was one mass of mud, it was impossible to distinguish these horse-traps at all. Then, in addition to these, were deep gullies across the roads, worn away by small rills, proceeding from rivulets in the adjoining uplands, which were; principally dry, or at least mere threads of | water in summer, but in winter became pigmy torrents that tore up the roads across which they passed, leaving them in the dangerous state we have described.
As Reilly and his companion had got out upon the road, they were a good deal surprised, and not a little alarmed, to see a horse, without a rider, struggling to extricate himself out of one of the ruts in question. “What is this?” said Fergus. “Be on your guard.”
“The horse,” observed Reilly, “is without! a rider; see what it means.”
Fergus approached with all due caution, and on examining the place discovered a man lying apparently in a state of insensibility.
“I fear,” said he, on returning to Reilly, “that his rider has been hurt; he is lying senseless about two or three yards before the horse.”
“My God!” exclaimed the other, “perhaps he has been killed; let us instantly assist him. Hold this portfolio whilst I render him whatever assistance I can.”
As he spoke they heard a heavy groan, and on approaching found the man sitting; but still unable to rise.
“You have unfortunately been thrown, sir,” said Reilly; “I trust in God you are not seriously hurt.”
“I hope not, sir,” replied the man, “but I was stunned, and have been insensible for some time; how long I cannot say.”
“Good gracious, sir!” exclaimed Reilly, “is this Mr. Brown?”
“It is, Mr. Reilly; for heaven's sake aid me to my limbs—that is, if I shall be able to stand upon them.” Reilly did so, but found that he could not stand or walk without' assistance. The horse, in the meantime, had extricated himself.
“Come, Mr. Brown,” said Reilly, “you! must, allow me to assist you home. It is very fortunate that you have not many perches to go. This poor man will lead your horse up to the stable.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reilly,” replied the gentleman, “and in requital for your kindness you must take a bed at my house tonight. I am aware of your position,” he added in a confidential voice, “and that you cannot safely sleep in your own; with me you will be secure.”
Reilly thanked him, and said that this kind offer was most welcome and acceptable, as, in point of fact, he scarcely knew that night where to seek rest with safety. They accordingly proceeded to the parsonage—for Mr. Brown was no other than the Protestant rector of the parish, a man with whom Reilly was on the most friendly and intimate terms, and a man, we may add, who omitted no opportunity of extending shelter, protection, and countenance to such Roman Catholics as fell under the suspicion or operation of the law. On this occasion he had been called very suddenly to the deathbed of a parishioner, and was then on his return home, after having administered to the dying man the last consolations of religion.
On reaching the parsonage, Fergus handed the portfolio to its owner, and withdrew to seek shelter in some of his usual haunts for the night; but Mr. Brown, aided by his wife, who sat up for him, contrived that Reilly should be conducted to a private room, without the knowledge of the servants, who were sent as soon as possible to bed. Before Reilly withdrew, however, that night, he requested Mr. Brown to take charge of his money and family papers, which the latter did, assuring him that they should be forthcoming whenever he thought proper to call for them. Mr. Brown had, not been seriously hurt, and was able in a day or two to pay the usual attention to the discharge of his duties.
Reilly, having been told where to find his bedroom, retired with confidence to rest. Yet we can scarcely term it rest, after considering the tumultuous and disagreeable events of the evening. He began to ponder upon the life of persecution to which Miss Folliard must necessarily be exposed, in consequence of her father's impetuous and fiery temper; and, indeed, the fact was, that he felt this reflection infinitely more bitter than any that touched himself. In these affectionate calculations of her domestic persecution he was a good deal mistaken, however, Sir Robert Whitecraft had now gained a complete ascendancy over the disposition and passions of her father. The latter, like many another country squire—especially of that day—when his word and will were law to his tenants and dependants, was a very great man indeed, when dealing with them. He could bluster and threaten, and even carry his threats into execution with a confident swagger that had more of magisterial pride and the pomp of property in it, than a sense of either light or justice. But, on the other hand, let him meet a man of his own rank, who cared nothing about his authority as a magistrate, or his assumption as a man of large landed property, and he was nothing but a poor weak-minded tool in his hands. So far our description is correct; but when such a knave as Sir Robert Whitecraft came in his way—a knave at once calculating, deceitful, plausible, and cunning—why, our worthy old squire, who thought himself a second Solomon, might be taken by the nose and led round the whole barony.
There is no doubt that he had sapiently laid down his plans—to harass and persecute his daughter into a marriage with Sir Robert, and would have probably driven her from under his roof, had he not received the programme of his conduct from Whitecraft. That cowardly caitiff had a double motive in this. He found that if her father should “pepper her with persecution,” as the old fellow said, before marriage, its consequences might fall upon his own unlucky head afterwards—in other words, that Helen would most assuredly make him then suffer, to some purpose, for all that his pretensions to her hand had occasioned her to undergo previous to their union; for, in truth, if there was one doctrine which Whitecraft detested more than another—and with good reason too—it was that of Retribution.
“Mr. Folliard,” said Whitecraft in the very last conversation they had on this subject, “you must not persecute your daughter on my account.”
“Mustn't I? Why hang it, Sir Robert, isn't persecution the order of the day? If she doesn't marry you quietly and willingly, we'll turn her out, and hunt her like a priest.”
“No, Mr. Folliard, violence will never do. On the contrary, you must change your hand, and try an opposite course. If you wish to rivet her affections upon that Jesuitical traitor still more strongly, persecute her; for there is nothing in this life that strengthens love so much as opposition and violence. The fair ones begin to look upon themselves as martyrs, and in proportion as you are severe and inexorable, so in proportion are they resolved to win the crown that is before them. I would not press your daughter but that I believe love to be a thing that exists before marriage—never after. There's the honeymoon, for instance. Did ever mortal man or mortal woman hear or dream of a second honeymoon? No, sir, for Cupid, like a large blue-bottle, falls into, and is drowned, in the honey-pot.”
“Confound me,” replied the squire, “if I understand a word you say. However, I dare say it may be very good sense for all that, for you always had a long noddle. Go on.”
“My advice to you then, sir, is this-make as few allusions to her marriage with me as possible; but, in the meantime, you may praise me a little, if you wish; but, above all things, don't run down Reilly immediately after paying either my mind or person any compliment. Allow the young lady to remain quiet for a time. Treat her with your usual kindness and affection; for it is possible, after all, that she may do more from her tenderness and affection for you than we could expect from any other motive; at all events, until we shall succeed in hanging or transporting this rebellious scoundrel.”
“Very good—so he is. Good William! what a son-in-law I should have! I who transported one priest already!”
“Well, sir, as I was saying, until we shall have succeeded in hanging or transporting him. The first would be the safest, no doubt: but until we shall be able to accomplish either one or the other, we have not much to expect in the shape of compliance from your daughter. When the villain is removed, however, hope, on her part, will soon die out—love will lose its pabulum.”
“Its what?” asked the squire, staring at him with a pair of round eyes that were full of perplexity and wonder.
“Why, it means food, or rather fodder.”
“Curse you, sir,” replied the squire indignantly; “do you want to make a beast of my daughter?”
“But it's a word, sir, applied by the poets, as the food of Cupid.”
“Cupid! I thought he was drowned in the honey-pot, yet he's up again, and as brisk as ever, it appears. However, go on—let us understand fairly what you're at. I think I see a glimpse of it; and knowing your character upon the subject of persecution as I do, it's more, I must say, than I expected from you. Go on—I bid you.”
“I say, then, sir, that if Reilly were either hanged or out of the country, the consciousness of this would soon alter matters with Miss Folliard. If you, then, sir, will enter into an agreement with me, I shall undertake so to make the laws bear upon Reilly as to rid either the world or the country of him; and you shall promise not to press upon your daughter the subject of her marriage with me until then. Still, there is one thing you must do; and that is, to keep her under the strictest surveillance.”
“What the devil's that?” said the squire.
“It means,” returned his expected son-in-law, “that she must be well watched, but without feeling that she is so.”
“Would it not be better to lock her up at once?” said her father. “That would be making the matter sure.”
“Not at all,” replied Whitecraft. “So sure as you lock her up, so sure she will break prison.”
“Well, upon my soul,” replied her father. “I can't see that. A strong lock and key are certainly the best surety for the due appearance of any young woman disposed to run away. I think the best way would be to make her feel at once that her father is a magistrate, and commit her to her own room until called upon to appear.”
Whitecraft, whose object was occasionally to puzzle his friend, gave a cold grin, and added:
“I suppose your next step would be to make her put in security. No—no, Mr. Folliard; if you will be advised by me, try the soothing system; antiphlogistic remedies are always the best in a case like hers.”
“Anti—what? Curse me, if I can understand every tenth word you say. However, I give you credit, Whitecraft; for upon my soul I didn't think you knew half so much as you do. That last, however, is a tickler—a nut that I can't crack. I wish I could only get my tongue about it, till I send it among the Grand Jury, and maybe there wouldn't be wigs on the green in making it out.”
“Yes, I fancy it would teach them a little supererogation.”
“A little what? Is it love that has made you so learned, Whitecraft, or so unintelligible, which? Why, man, if your passion increases, in another week there won't be three men out of Trinity College able to understand you. You will become a perfect oracle. But, in the meantime, let us see how the arrangement stands. Imprimus, you are to hang or transport Keilly; and, until then, I am not to annoy my daughter with any allusions to this marriage: but, above all things, not to compare you and Reilly with one another in her presence, lest it might strengthen her prejudices against you.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Folliard. I did not say so; I fear no comparison with the fellow.”
“No matter, Sir Robert, if you did not knock it down you staggered it. Omitting the comparison, however, I suppose that so far I am right.”
“I think so, sir,” replied the other, conscious, “after all, that he had got a touch of 'Roland for his Oliver'.”
Then he proceeded: “I'm to watch her closely, only she's not to know it. Now, I'll tell you what, Sir Robert, I know you carry a long noddle, with more hard words in it than I ever gave you credit for—but with regard to what you expect from me now—”
“I don't mean that you should watch her personally yourself, Mr. Folliard.”
“I suppose you don't; I didn't think you did; but I'll tell you what—place the twelve labors of Hercules before me, and I'll undertake to perform them, if you wish, but to watch a woman, Sir Robert—and that woman keen and sharp upon the cause of such vigilance—without her knowing it in one half hour's time—that is a task that never was, can, or will be accomplished. In the meantime, we must only come as near its accomplishment as we can.”
“Just so, sir; we can do no more. Remember, then, that you perform your part of this arrangement, and, with the blessing of God, I shall leave nothing undone to perform mine.”
Thus closed this rather extraordinary conversation, after which Sir Robert betook himself home, to reflect upon the best means of performing his part of it, with what quickness and dispatch, and with what success, our readers already know.
The old squire was one of those characters who never are so easily persuaded as when they do not fully comprehend the argument used to convince them. Whenever the squire found himself a little at fault, or confounded by either a difficult word or a hard sentence, he always took it for granted that there was something unusually profound and clever in the matter laid before him. Sir Robert knew this, and on that account played him off to a certain extent. He was too cunning, however, to darken any part of the main argument so far as to prevent its drift from being fully understood, and thereby defeating his own purpose.
We have said that Sir Robert Whitecraft was anything but a popular man—and we might have added that, unless among his own clique of bigots and persecutors, he was decidedly unpopular among Protestants in general. In a few days after the events of the night we have described, Reilly, by the advice of Mr. Brown's brother, an able and distinguished lawyer, gave up the possession of his immense farm, dwelling-house, and offices to the landlord. In point of fact, this man had taken the farm for Reilly's father, in his own name, a step which many of the liberal and generous Protestants of that period were in the habit of taking, to protect the property for the Roman Catholics, from such rapacious scoundrels as Whitecraft, and others like him, who had accumulated the greater portion of their wealth and estates by the blackest and most iniquitous political profligacy and oppression. For about a month after the first night of the unsuccessful pursuit after Reilly, the whole country was overrun with military parties, and such miserable inefficient police as then existed. In the meantime, Reilly escaped every toil and snare that had been laid for him. Sir Robert Whitecraft, seeing that hitherto he had set them at defiance, resolved to glut his vengeance on his property, since he could not arrest himself. A description of his person had been, almost from the commencement of the proceedings, published in the Hue-and-Cry, and he had been now outlawed. As even this failed, Sir Robert, as we said, came with a numerous party of his myrmidons, bringing along with them a large number of horses, carts, and cars. The house at this time was in the possession only of a keeper, a poor, feeble man, with a wife and a numerous family of small children, the other servants having fled from the danger in which their connection with Reilly involved them. Sir Robert, however, very deliberately brought up his cars and other vehicles, and having dragged out all the most valuable part of the furniture, piled it up, and had it conveyed to his own outhouses, where it was carefully-stowed. This act, however, excited comparatively little attention, for such outrages were not unfrequently committed by those who had, or at least who thought they had; the law in their own hands. It was now dusk, and the house had been gutted of all that had been most valuable in it—but the most brilliant part of the performance was yet to come. We mean no contemptible pun. The young man's dwelling-house, and office-houses were ignited at this moment by this man's military and other official minions, and in about twenty minutes they were all wrapped in one red, merciless mass of flame. The country people, on observing this fearful conflagration, flocked from all quarters; but a cordon of outposts was stationed at some distance around the premises, to prevent the peasantry from marking the chief actors in this nefarious outrage. Two gentlemen, however, approached, who, having given their names, were at once admitted to the burning premises. These were Mr. Brown, the clergyman, and Mr. Hastings, the actual and legal proprietor of all that had been considered Reilly's property. Both of them observed that Sir Robert was the busiest man among them, and upon making inquiries from the party, they were informed that they acted by his orders, and that, moreover, he was himself the very first individual who had set fire to the premises. The clergyman made his way to Sir Robert, on whose villainous countenance he could read a dark and diabolical triumph.
“Sir Robert Whitecraft,” said Mr. Brown, “how conies such a wanton and unnecessary waste of property?”
“Because, sir,” replied that gentleman, “it is the property of a popish rebel and outlaw, and is confiscated to the State.”
“But do you possess authority for this conduct?—Are you the State?”
“In the spirit of our Protestant Constitution, certainly. I am a loyal Protestant magistrate, and a man of rank, and will hold myself accountable for what I do and have done. Come you, there,” he added, “who have knocked down the pump, take some straw, light it up, and put it with pitchforks upon the lower end of the stable; it has not yet caught the flames.”
This order was accordingly complied with, and in a few minutes the scene, if one could dissociate the mind from the hellish spirit which created it, had something terribly sublime in it.
Mr. Hastings, the gentleman who accompanied the clergyman, the real owner of the property, looked on with apparent indifference, but uttered not a word. Indeed, he seemed rather to enjoy the novelty of the thing than otherwise, and passed with Mr. Brown from place to place, as if to obtain the best points for viewing the fire.
Reilly's residence was a long, large, two-story house, deeply thatched; the kitchen, containing pantry, laundry, scullery, and all the usual appurtenances connected with it, was a continuation of the larger house, but it was a story lower, and also deeply thatched. The out-offices ran in a long line behind the dwelling house, so that both ran parallel with each other, and stood pretty close besides, for the yard was a narrow one. In the meantime, the night, though dry, was dark and stormy. The wind howled through the adjoining trees like thunder, roared along the neighboring hills, and swept down in savage whirlwinds to the bottom of the lowest valleys. The greater portion of the crowd who were standing outside the cordon we have spoken of fled home, as the awful gusts grew stronger and stronger, in order to prevent their own houses from being stripped or unroofed, so that very few remained to witness the rage of the conflagration at its full height. The Irish peasantry entertain a superstition that whenever a strong storm of wind, without rain, arises, it has been occasioned by the necromantic spell of some guilty sorcerer, who, first having sold himself to the devil, afterwards raises him for some wicked purpose; and nothing but the sacrifice of a black dog or a black cock—the one without a white hair, and the other without a white feather—can prevent him from carrying away, body and soul, the individual who called him up, accompanied by such terrors. In fact the night, independently of the terrible accessory of the fire, was indescribably awful. Thatch portions of the ribs and roofs of houses were whirled along through the air; and the sweeping blast, in addition to its own howlings, was burdened with the loud screamings of women and children, and the stronger shoutings of men, as they attempted to make each other audible, amidst the roaring of the tempest.
This was terrible indeed; but on such a night, what must not the conflagration have been, fed by such pabulum—as Sir Robert himself would have said—as that on which it glutted its fiery and consuming appetite. We have said that the offices and dwelling-house ran parallel with each other, and such was the fact. What appeared singular, and not without the possibility of some dark supernatural causes, according to the impressions of the people, was, that the wind, on the night in question, started, as it were, along with the fire; but the truth is, it had been gamboling in its gigantic play before the fire commenced at all. In the meantime, as we said, the whole premises presented one fiery mass of red and waving flames, that shot and drifted up, from time to time, towards the sky, with the rapidity, and more than the terror, of the aurora borealis. As the conflagration proceeded, the high flames that arose from the mansion, and those that leaped up from the offices, several times met across the yard, and mingled, as if to exult in their fearful task of destruction, forming a long and distinct arch of flame, so exact and regular, that it seemed to proceed from the skill and effort of some powerful demon, who had made it, as it were, a fiery arbor for his kind. The whole country was visible to an astonishing distance, and overhead, the evening sky, into which the up-rushing pyramids seemed to pass, looked as if it had caught the conflagration, and was one red mass of glowing and burning copper. Around the house and premises the eye could distinguish a pin; but the strong light was so fearfully red that the deep tinge it communicated to the earth seemed like blood, and made it appear as if it had been sprinkled with it.
It is impossible to look upon a large and extensive conflagration without feeling the mind filled with imagery and comparisons, drawn from moral and actual life. Here, for instance, is a tyrant, in the unrestrained exercise of his power—he now has his enemy in his grip, and hear how he exults; listen to the mirthful and crackling laughter with which the fiendish despot rejoices, as he gains the victory; mark the diabolical gambols with which he sports, and the demon glee with which he performs his capricious but frightful exultations. But the tyrant, after all, will become exhausted—his strength and power will fail him; he will destroy his own subjects; he will become feeble, and when he has nothing further on which to exercise his power, he will, like many another tyrant before him, sink, and be lost in the ruin he has made.
Again: Would you behold Industry? Here have its terrible spirits been appointed their tasks. Observe the energy, the activity, the persevering fury with which they discharge their separate duties. See how that eldest son of Apollyon, with the appetite of hell, licks into his burning maw every thing that comes in contact with his tongue of fire. What quickness of execution, and how rapidly they pass from place to place! how they run about in quest of employment! how diligently and effectually they search every nook and corner, lest anything might escape them! Mark the activity with which that strong fellow leaps across, from beam to beam, seizing upon each as he goes. A different task has been assigned to another: he attacks the rafters of the roof—he fails at first, but, like the constrictor, he first licks over his victim before he destroys it—bravo!—he is at it again—it gives way—he is upon it, and about it; and now his difficulties are over—the red wood glows, splits and crackles, and flies off in angry flakes, in order to become a minister to its active and devouring master. See! observe! What business—what a coil and turmoil of industry! Every flame at work—no idle hand here—no lazy lounger reposing. No, no—the industry of a hive of bees is nothing to this. Running up—running down—running in all directions: now they unite together to accomplish some general task, and again disperse themselves to perform their individual appointments.
But hark! what comes here? Room for another element. 'Tis the windstorm, that comes to partake in the triumph of the victory which his ministers have assisted to gain. But lo! here he comes in person; and now they unite—or how?—Do they oppose each other? Here does the windstorm drive back the god of fire from his victim; again the fiery god attempts to reach it; and again he feels that he has met more than his match. Once, twice, thrice he has failed in getting at it. But is this conflict real—this fierce battle between the elements? Alas, no; they are both tyrants, and what is to be expected?
The wind god, always unsteady, wheels round, comes to the assistance of his opponent, and gives him new courage, new vigor, and new strength. But his inferior ministers must have a share of this dreadful repast. Off go a thousand masses of burning material, whirling along. Off go the; glowing timbers and rafters, on the wind, by which they are borne in thousands of red meteors across the sky. But hark, again! Room for the whirlwind! Here it comes, and addresses itself to yon tall and waving pyramid; they embrace; the pyramid is twisted into the figure of a gigantic corkscrew—round they go, rapid as thought; the thunder of the wind supplies them with the appropriate music, and continues until; this terrible and gigantic waltz of the elements is concluded. But now these fearful ravagers are satisfied, because they have nothing more on which they can glut themselves. They appear, however, to be seated. The wind has become low, and is only able to work up a feeble effort at its former strength. The flames, too, are subsiding—their power is gone; occasional jets of fire I come forth, but they instantly disappear. By degrees, and one after another, they vanish. Nothing now is visible but smoke, and every thing is considered as over—when lo! like a great general, who has achieved a triumphant victory, it is deemed right to; take a last look at the position of the enemy. Up, therefore, starts an unexpected burst of flame—blazes for a while; looks about it, as it were; sees that the victory is complete, and drops down into the darkness from which it came. The conflagration is over; the wind-storm is also appeased. Small hollow gusts, amongst the trees and elsewhere, are now all that are heard. By degrees, even these cease; and the wind is now such as it was in the course of the evening, when the elements were comparatively quiet and still.
Mr. Brown and his friend, Mr. Hastings, having waited until they saw the last rafter of unfortunate Reilly's house and premises sink into a black mass of smoking ruins, turned their steps to the parsonage, which they had no sooner entered than they went immediately to Reilly's room, who was still there under concealment. Mr. Brown, however, went out again and returned with some wine, which he placed upon the table.
“Gentlemen,” said Reilly, “this has become an awful night; the wind has been tremendous, and has done a good deal of damage, I fear, to your house and premises, Mr. Brown. I heard the slates falling about in great numbers; and the inmates of the house were, as far as I could judge, exceedingly alarmed.”
“It was a dreadful night in more senses than one,” replied Mr. Brown.
“By the by,” said Reilly, “was there not a fire somewhere in the neighborhood, I observed through the windows a strong light flickering and vibrating, as it were, over the whole country. What must it have been?”
“My dear Reilly,” replied Mr. Brown, “be calm; your house and premises are, at this moment, one dark heap of smouldering ruins.”
“Oh, yes—I understand,” replied Reilly—“Sir Robert Whitecraft.”
“Sir Robert Whitecraft,” replied Mr. Brown; “it is too true, Reilly—you are now houseless and homeless; and may God forgive him!”
Reilly got up and paced the room several times, then sat down, and filling himself a glass of wine, drank it off; then looking at each of them, said, in a voice rendered hoarse by the indignation and resentment which he felt himself compelled, out of respect for his kind friends, to restrain, “Gentlemen,” he repeated, “what do you call this”
“Malice—persecution—vengeance,” replied Mr. Brown, whose resentment was scarcely less than that of Reilly himself. “In the presence of God, and before all the world. I would pronounce it one of the most diabolical acts ever committed in the history of civil society. But you have one consolation, Reilly; your money and papers are safe.”
“It is not that,” replied Reilly; “I think not of them. It is the vindictive and persecuting spirit of that man—that monster—and the personal motives from which he acts, that torture me, and that plant in my heart a principle of vengeance more fearful than his. But you do not understand me, gentlemen; I could smile at all he has done to myself yet. It is of the serpent-tooth which will destroy the peace of others, that I think. All these motives being considered, what do you think that man deserves at my hand?”
“My dear Reilly,” said the clergyman, “recollect that there is a Providence; and that we cannot assume to ourselves the disposition of His judgments, or the knowledge of His wisdom. Have patience. Your situation is one of great distress and almost unexampled difficulty. At all events, you are, for the present, safe under this roof; and although I grant you have much to suffer, still you have a free conscience, and, I dare say, would not exchange your position for that of your persecutor.”
“No,” said Reilly; “most assuredly not—most assuredly not; no, not for worlds. Yet is it not strange, gentlemen, that that man will sleep sound and happily to-night, whilst I will lie upon a bed of thorns?”
At this moment Mrs. Brown tapped gently at the door, which was cautiously opened by her husband.
“John,” said she, “here is a note which I was desired to give to you without a moment's delay.”
“Thank you, my love; I will read it instantly.”.
He then bolted the door, and coming to the table took up one of the candles and read the letter, which he handed to Mr. Hastings. Now we have already stated that this gentleman, whilst looking on at the destruction of Reilly's property, never once opened his lips. Neither did he, from the moment they entered Reilly's room. He sat like a dumb man, occasionally helping himself to a glass of wine. After having perused the note he merely nodded, but said not a word; he seemed to have lost the faculty of speech. At length Mr. Brown spoke:
“This is really too bad, my dear Reilly; here is a note signed H.F., which informs me that your residence, concealment, or whatever it is, has been discovered by Sir Robert Whitecraft, and that the military are on their way here to arrest you; you must instantly fly.”
Hastings then got up, and taking Reilly's hand, said:
“Yes, Reilly, you must escape—disguise yourself—take all shapes—since you will not leave the country; but there is one fact I wish to impress upon you: meddle not with—injure not—Sir Robert Whitecraft. Leave him to me.”
“Go out by the back way,” said Mr. Brown, “and fly into the fields, lest they should surround the house and render escape impossible. God bless you and preserve you from the violence of your enemies!”
It is unnecessary to relate what subsequently occurred. Mr. Brown's premises, as he had anticipated, were completely surrounded ere the party in search of Reilly had demanded admittance. The whole house was searched from top to bottom, but, as usual, without success. Sir Robert Whitecraft himself was not with them, but the party were all but intoxicated, and, were it not for the calm and unshrinking firmness of Mr. Brown, would have been guilty of a very offensive degree of insolence.
Reilly, in the meantime, did not pass far from the house. On the contrary, he resolved to watch from a safe place the motions of those who were in pursuit of him. In order to do this more securely, he mounted into the branches of a magnificent oak tree that stood in the centre of a field adjoining a kind of back lawn that stretched from the walled garden of the parsonage. The fact is, that the clergyman's house had two hall-doors—one in front, and the other in the rear—and as the rooms commanded a view of the scenery behind the house, which was much finer than that in front, on this account the back hall-door was necessary, as it gave them a free and easy egress to the lawn we have mentioned, from which a magnificent prospect was visible.
It was obvious that the party, though unsuccessful, had been very accurately informed. Finding, however, that the bird had flown, several of them galloped across the lawn—it was a cavalry party, having been sent out for speed and passed into the field where the tree grew in which Reilly was concealed. After a useless search, however, they returned, and pulled up their horses under the oak.
“Well,” said one of them, “it's a dear case that the scoundrel can make himself invisible. We have orders from Sir Eobert to shoot him, and to put the matter upon the principle of resistance against the law, on his side. Sir Robert has been most credibly informed that that disloyal parson has concealed him in his house for nearly the last month. Now who could ever think of looking for a Popish rebel in the house of a Protestant parson? What the deuce is keeping those fellows? I hope they won't go too far into the country.”
“Any man that says Mr. Brown is a disloyal parson is a liar,” said one of them in a stem voice.
“And I say,” said another, with a hiccough, “that, hang me, but I think this same Reilly is as loyal a man as e'er a one amongst us. My name is George Johnston, and I'm not ashamed of it; and the truth is, that only Miss Folliard fell in love with Reilly, and refused to marry Sir Robert, Reilly would have been a loyal man still, and no ill-will against him. But, by —- it was too bad to burn his house and place—and see whether Sir Robert will come off the better of it. I myself am a good Protestant—show me the man that will deny that, and I'll become his schoolmaster only for five minutes. I do say, and I'll tell it to Sir Robert's face, that there's something wrong somewhere. Give me a Papish that breaks the law, let him be priest or layman, and I'm the boy that will take a grip of him if I can get him. But, confound me, if I like to be sent out to hunt innocent, inoffensive Papishes, who commit no crime except that of having property that chaps like Sir Robert have their eye on. Now suppose the Papishes had the upper hand, and that they treated us so, what would you say?”
“All I can say is,” replied another of them, “that I'd wish to get the reward.”
“Curse the reward,” said Johnston, “I like fair play.”
“But how did Sir Robert come to know?” asked another, “that Reilly was with the parson'?”
“Who the deuce here can tell that?” replied several.
“The thing was a hoax,” said Johnston, “and a cursed uncomfortable one for us. But here comes these fellows, just as they went, it seems. Well, boys, no trail of this cunning fox?”
“Trail!” exclaimed the others. “Gad, you might as well hunt for your grandmother's needle in a bottle of straw. The truth is, the man's not in the country, and whoever gave the information as to the parson keeping him was some enemy of the parson's more than of Reilly's, I'll go bail. Come, now, let us go back, and give an account of our luck, and then to our barracks.”
Now at this period it was usual for men who were prominent for rank and loyalty, and whose attachment to the Constitution and Government was indicated by such acts and principles as those which we have hitherto read in the life of Sir Robert. Whitecraft—we say, it was usual for such as him to be allowed a small detachment of military, whose numbers were mostly rated, according to the services he required of them, by the zeal and activity of their employer, as well as for his protection; and, in order to their accommodation, some uninhabited house in the neighborhood was converted into a barrack for the purpose. Such was the case in the instance of Sir Robert Whitecraft, who, independently of his zeal for the public good, was supposed to have an eye in this disposition of things, to his own personal Safety. He consequently, had his little barrack so closely adjoining his house that a notice of five minutes could at any time have its inmates at his premises, or in his presence.
After these men went away, Reilly, having waited a few minutes, until he was satisfied that they had actually, one and all of them, disappeared, came down from the tree, and once more betook himself to the road. Whither to go he knew not. In consequence of having received his education abroad, his personal knowledge of the inhabitants belonging to the neighborhood was very limited. Go somewhere, however, he must. Accordingly, he resolved to advance, at all events, as far as he might be able to travel before bed-time, and then resign himself to chance for a night's shelter. One might imagine, indeed, that his position as a wealthy Roman Catholic gentleman, suffering persecution from the tool and scourge of a hostile government, might have calculated upon shelter and secrecy from those belonging to his own creed. And so, indeed, in nineteen cases out of twenty he might; but in what predicament should he find himself if the twentieth proved treacherous? And against this he had no guarantee. That age was peculiarly marked by the foulest personal perfidy, precipitated into action by rapacity, ingratitude, and the blackest ambition. The son of a Roman Catholic gentleman, for instance, had nothing more to do than change his creed, attach himself to the government, become a spy and informer on his family, and he ousted his own father at once out of his hereditary property—an ungrateful and heinous proceeding, that was too common in the time of which we write. Then, as to the people themselves, they were, in general, steeped in poverty and ignorance, and this is certainly not surprising when we consider that no man durst educate them. The government rewards, therefore, assailed them with a double temptation. In the first, the amount of it—taking their poverty into consideration—was calculated to grapple with and overcome their scruples; and in the next, they were certain by their treachery to secure the protection of government for themselves.
Such, exactly, was the state of the country on the night when Reilly found himself a solitary traveller on the road, ignorant of his destiny, and uncertain where or in what quarter he might seek shelter until morning.
He had not gone far when he overtook another traveller, with whom he entered into conversation.
“God save you, my friend.”
“God save you kindly, sir,” replied the other; “was not this an awful night?”
“If you may say so,” returned Reilly unconsciously, and for the moment forgetting himself, “well may I, my friend.”
Indeed it is probable that Reilly was thrown somewhat off his guard by the accent of his companion, from which he at once inferred that he was a Catholic.
“Why, sir,” replied the man, “how could it be more awful to you than to any other man?”
“Suppose my house was blown down,” said Reilly, “and that yours was not, would not that be cause sufficient?”
“My house!” exclaimed the man with a deep sigh; “but sure you ought to know, sir, that it's not every man has a house.”
“And perhaps I do know it.”
“Wasn't that a terrible act, sir—the burning of Mr. Reilly's house and place?”
“Who is Mr. Reilly?” asked the other.
“A Catholic gintleman, sir, that the soldiers are afther,” replied the man.
“And perhaps it is right that they should be after him. What did he do? The Catholics are too much in the habit of violating the law, especially their priests, who persist in marrying Protestants and Papists together, although they know it is a hanging matter. If they deliberately put their necks into the noose, who can pity them?”
“It seems they do, then,” replied the man in a subdued voice; “and what is still more strange, it very often happens that persons of their own creed are somewhat too ready to come down wid a harsh word upon 'em.”
“Well, my friend,” responded Reilly, “let them not deserve it; let them obey the law.”
“And are you, of opinion, sir,” asked the man with a significant emphasis upon the personal pronoun which we have put in italics; “are you of opinion, sir, that obedience to the law is always a security to either person or property?”
The direct force of the question could not be easily parried, at least by Reilly, to whose circumstances it applied so powerfully, and he consequently paused for a little to shape his thoughts into the language he wished to adopt; the man, however, proceeded:
“I wonder what Mr. Reilly would say if such a question was put to him?”
“I suppose,” replied Reilly, “he would say much as I say—that neither innocence nor obedience is always a security under any law or any constitution either.”
His companion made no reply, and they walked on for some time in silence. Such indeed was the precarious state of the country then that, although the stranger, from the opening words of their conversation, suspected his companion to be no other than Willy Reilly himself, yet he hesitated to avow the suspicions he entertained of his identity, although he felt anxious to repose the fullest confidence in him; and Reilly, on the other hand, though perfectly aware of the true character of his companion, was influenced in their conversation by a similar feeling. Distrust it could not be termed on either side, but simply the operation of that general caution which was generated by the state of the times, when it was extremely difficult to know the individual on whom you could place dependence. Reilly's generous nature, however, could bear this miserable manoeuvring no longer.
“Come, my friend,” said he, “we have been beating about the bush with each other to no purpose; although I know not your name, yet I think I do your profession.”
“And I would hold a wager,” replied other, “that Mr. Reilly, whose house was burned down by a villain this night, is not a thousand miles from me.”
“And suppose you are right?”
“Then, upon my veracity, you're safe, if I am. It would ill become my cloth and character to act dishonorably or contrary to the spirit of my religion.