“As a Christian minister,” replied Mr. Brown, “and an enemy to persecution in every sense, but especially to that which would punish any man for the great principle which we ourselves claim—the rights of conscience—I decline to drink the toast;” and he turned down his glass.
“And I,” said Mr. Hastings, “as a Protestant and a Christian, refuse it on the same principles;” and he also turned down his glass.
“But you forget, gentlemen,” proceeded the squire, “that I addressed myself principally to the ladies.”
“But you know, sir,” replied Mrs. Brown, with a smile, “that it is quite unusual and out of character for ladies to drink toasts at all, especially those which involve religious or political opinions. These, I am sure, you know too well, Mr. Folliard, are matters with which ladies have, and ought to have, nothing to do. I also, therefore, on behalf of our sex, decline to drink the toast; and I trust that every lady who respects herself will turn down her glass as I do.”
Mrs. Hastings and Helen immediately followed her example, whilst at the same time poor Helen's cheeks and neck were scarlet.
“You see, sir,” said Mr. Brown, good-humoredly, “that the sex—at least one-half of them—are against you.”
“That's because they're Papists at heart,” replied the squire, laughing.
Helen felt eased at seeing her father's good humor, for she now knew that the proposal of the toast was but a jest, and did not aim at any thing calculated to distress her feelings.
“But, in the meantime,” proceeded the squire, “I am not without support. Here is Lady Joram and Mrs. Smellpriest and Mrs. Oxley—and they are a host in themselves—each of them willing and ready to support me.”
“I don't see,” said Lady Joram, “why a lady, any more than a gentleman, should refuse to drink a proper toast as this is; Sir Jenkins has not turned down his glass, and neither shall I. Come, then, Mr. Folliard, please to fill mine; I shall drink it in a bumper.”
“And I,” said Mrs. Oxley, “always drinks my 'usband's principles. In Lunnon, where true 'igh life is, ladies don't refuse to drink toasts. I know that feyther, both before and after his removal to Lunnon, used to make us all drink the ''Ard ware of Old Hingland'—by witch,” she proceeded, correcting herself by a reproving glance from the sheriff—“by witch he meant what he called the glorious sinews of the country at large, lestwise in the manufacturing districts. But upon a subject like this”—and she looked with something like disdain at those who had turned down their glasses—“every lady as is a lady ought to 'ave no objection to hexplain her principles by drinking the toast; but p'raps it ain't fair to press it upon some of 'em.”
“Well, then,” proceeded the squire, with a laugh that seemed to have more than mirth in it, “are all the loyal subjects of the crown ready? Lord Deilmacare, your glass is not filled; won't you drink it?”
“To be sure,” replied his lordship; “I have no hatred against Papists; I get my rent by their labor; but I never wish to spoil sport—get along—I'll do anything.”
With the exceptions already mentioned, the toast was drank immediately, after which the ladies retired to the drawing-room.
“Now, gentlemen,” said the squire, “fill your glasses, and let us enjoy ourselves. You have a right to be proud of your wife, Mr. Sheriff, and you too, Sir Jenkins—for,—upon my soul, if it had been his Majesty's health, her ladyship couldn't have honored it with a fuller bumper. And, Smellpriest, your wife did the thing handsomely as well as the rest. Upon my soul, you ought to be happy men, with three women so deeply imbued with the true spirit of our glorious Constitution.”
“Ah, Mr. Folliard,” said Smellpriest, “you don't know the value of that woman. When I return, for instance, after a hunt, the first question she puts to me is—Well, my love, how many priests did you catch to-day? And out comes Mr. Strong with the same question. Strong, however, between ourselves, is a goose; he will believe any thing, and often sends me upon a cold trail. Now, I pledge you my honor, gentlemen, that this man, who is all zeal, has sent me out dozens of times, with the strictest instructions as to where I'd catch my priest; but, hang me, if ever I caught a single priest upon his instructions yet! still, although unfortunate in this kind of sport, his heart is in the right place. Whitecraft, my worthy brother sportsman, how does it happen that Reilly continues to escape you?”
“Why does he continue to escape yourself, captain?” replied the baronet.
“Why,” said the other, “because I am more in the ecclesiastical line, and, besides, he is considered to be, in an especial manner, your game.”
“I will have him yet, though,” said Whitecraft, “if he should assume as many shapes as Proteus.”
“By the way, Whitecraft,” observed Folliard, “they tell me you burned the unfor—you burned the scoundrel's house and offices.”
“I wish you had been present at the bonfire, sir,” replied his intended son-in-law; “it would have done your heart good.”
“I daresay,” said the squire; “but still, what harm did his house and place do you? I know the fellow is a Jesuit, a rebel, and an outlaw—at least you tell me so; and you must know. But upon what authority did you burn the rascal out?”
“As to that,” returned the baronet, “the present laws against Popery and the general condition of the times are a sufficient justification; and I do not think that I am likely to be brought over the coals for it; on the contrary, I look upon myself as a man who, in burning the villain out, have rendered a very important service to Government.”
“I regret, Sir Robert,” observed Mr. Brown, “that you should have disgraced yourself by such an oppressive act. I know that throughout the country your conduct to this young man is attributed to personal malice rather than to loyalty.”
“The country may put what construction on my conduct it pleases,” he replied, “but I know I shall never cease till I hang him.”
Mr. Hastings was a man of very few words; but he had an eye the expression of which could not be mistaken—keen, manly, and firm. He sat sipping his wine in silence, but turned from time to time a glance upon the baronet, which was not only a searching one, but seemed to have something of triumph in it.
“What do you say, Hastings?” asked Whitecraft; “can you not praise a loyal subject, man?”
“I say nothing, Sir Robert,” he replied; “but I think occasionally.”
“Well, and what do you think occasionally?”
“Why, that the times may change.”
“Whitecraft,” said Smellpriest, “I work upon higher principles than they say you do. I hunt priests, no doubt of it; but then I have no personal malice against them; I proceed upon the broad and general principle of hatred to Popery: but, at the same time, observe it is not the man but the priest I pursue.”
“And when you hang or transport the priest, what becomes of the man?” asked the baronet, with a diabolical sneer. “As for me, Smellpriest, I make no such distinctions; they are unworthy of you, and I'm sorry to hear you express them. I say, the man.”
“And I say, the priest,” replied the other.
“What do you say, my lord?” asked Mr. Folliard of the peer.
“I don't much care which,” replied his lordship; “man or priest, be it as you can determine; only I say that when you hang the priest, I agree with Whitecraft there, that it is all up with the man, and when you hang the man, it is all up with the priest. By the way, Whitecraft,” he proceeded, “how would you like to swing yourself?”
“I am sure, my lord,” replied the baronet, “you wouldn't wish to see me hanged.”
“Well, I don't know—perhaps I might, and perhaps I might not; but I know you would make a long corpse, and I think you would dangle handsomely enough; you have long limbs, a long body, and half a mile of neck; upon my soul, one would think you were made for it. Yes, I dare say I should like to see you hanged—I am rather inclined to think I would—it's a subject, however, on which I am perfectly indifferent; but if ever you should be hanged, Sir Robert, I shall certainly make it a point to see you thrown off if it were only as a mark of respect for your humane and excellent character.”
“He would be a severe loss to the country,” observed Sir Jenkins; “the want of his hospitality would be deeply felt by the gentry of the neighborhood; for which reason,” he observed sarcastically, “I hope he will be spared to us as long as his hospitality lasts.”
“In the meantime, gentlemen,” observed the sheriff, “I wish that, with such keen noses for priests and rebels and criminals, you could come upon the trail of the scoundrel who robbed me of three hundred and fifty pounds.”
“Would you know him again, Mr. Sheriff?” asked Sir Robert, “and could you describe his appearance?”
“I have been turning the matter over,” replied the sheriff, “and I feel satisfied that I would know him if I saw him. He was dressed in a broadcloth brown coat, light-colored breeches, and had silver buckles in his shoes. The fellow was no common robber. Stuart—one of your dragoons, Sir Robert, who came to my relief when it was too late—insists, from my description of the dress, that it was Reilly.”
“Are you sure he was not dressed in black?” asked Smellpriest. “Did you observe a beads or crucifix about him?”
“I have described the dress accurately,” replied the sheriff; “but I am certain that it was not Reilly. On bringing the matter to my recollection, after I had got rid of the pain and agitation, I was able to remember that the ruffian had a coarse face and red whiskers. Now Reilly's hair and whiskers are black.”
“It was a reverend Papist,” said Smellpriest; “one of those from whom you had levied the fines that day, and who thought it no harm to transfer them back again to holy Church. You know not how those rascals can disguise themselves.”
“And you blame them, Smellpriest,” said the squire, “for disguising themselves? Now, suppose the tables were turned upon us, that Popery got the ascendant, and that Papists started upon the same principles against us that we put in practice against them; suppose that Popish soldiers were halloed on against our parsons, and all other Protestants conspicuous for an attachment to their religion, and anxious to put down the persecution under which we suffered; why, hang it, could you blame the parsons, when hunted to the death, for disguising themselves? And if you could not, how can you blame the priests? Would you have the poor devils walk into your hands and say, 'Come, gentlemen, be good enough to hang or transport us?' I am anxious, to secure Reilly, and either to hang or transport him. I would say the latter, though.”
“And I the former,” observed Sir Robert.
“Well, Bob, that is as may happen; but in the meantime, I say he never robbed the sheriff here; and if he were going to the gallows to-morrow, I would maintain it.”
Neither the clergyman nor Mr. Hastings took much part in the conversation; but the eye of the latter was, during the greater portion of the evening, fixed upon the baronet, like that of a basilisk, accompanied by a hidden meaning, which it was impossible to penetrate, but which, nevertheless, had such an effect upon Whitecraft that he could not help observing it.
“It would seem, Mr. Hastings,” said he, “as if you had never seen me before. Your eye has scarcely been off me during the whole evening. It is not pleasant, sir, nor scarcely gentlemanly.”
“You should feel proud of it, Sir Robert,” replied Hastings; “I only admire you.”
“Well, then, I wish you would express your admiration in some other manner than by staring at me.”
“Gadzooks, Sir Robert,” said the squire, “don't you know that a cat may look at a king? Hastings must be a man of devilish good taste, Bob, and you ought to thank him.”
Mr. Brown and Mr. Hastings soon afterwards went upstairs, and left the other gentlemen to their liquor, which they now began to enjoy with a more convivial spirit. The old squire's loyalty rose to a very high pitch, as indeed did that of his companions, all of whom entertained the same principles, with the exception of Lord Deilmacare, whose opinions never could be got at, for thee very sufficient reason that he did not know them himself.
“Come, Whitecraft,” said the squire, “help yourself, and push the bottle; now that those two half-Papists are gone, we can breathe and speak a little more freely. Here's our glorious Constitution, in Church and State, and curse all priests and Papists—barring a few, that I know to be honest.”
“I drink it, but I omit the exception,” said Sir Robert, “and I wonder, sir, you would make any exception to such a toast.”
“I drink it,” said Smellpriest, “including the rascal priest.”
“And I drink it,” said the sheriff, “as it has been proposed.”
“What was it?” said Lord Deilmacare; “come, I drink it—it doesn't matter. I suppose, coming from our excellent host, it must be right and proper.”
They caroused deeply, and in proportion as the liquor affected their brains, so did their determination to rid the squire of the rebel Reilly form itself into an express resolution to that effect.
“Hang Reilly—hang the villain—the gallows for him—hurra!” and in this charitable sentiment their voices all joined in a fierce and drunken exclamation, uttered with their hands all clasped in each other with a strong and firm grip. From one mouth alone, however, proceeded, amidst a succession of hiccups, the word “transportation,” which, when Lord Deilmacare heard, he changed his principle, and joined the old squire in the same mitigation of feeling.
“I say, Deilmacare,” shouted Sir Robert, “we must hang him high and dry.”
“Very well,” replied his lordship, “with all my heart, Sir Robert; we must hang you high and dry.”
“But, Deilmacare,” said the squire, “we should only transport him.”
“Very good,” exclaimed his lordship, emptying a bumper; “we shall only transport you, Sir Robert.”
“Hang him, Deilmacare!”
“Very well, hang him!”
“Transport him, I say, Deilmacare,” from the squire.
“Good again,” said his lordship; “transport him, say I.”
And on went the drunken revel, until they scarcely knew what they said.
The clergyman and Mr. Hastings, on reaching the drawing-room, found Helen in a state of inexpressible distress. A dispute upon the prevailing morals of all modern young Lidies had been got up by Lady Joram and Mrs. Oxley, for the express purpose of venting their petty malice against the girl, because they had taken it into their heads that she paid more attention to Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings than she did to them. This dispute was tantamount to what, in the prize ring, is called cross, when the fight is only a mock one, and terminates by the voluntary defeat of one of the parties, upon a preconcerted arrangement.
“I don't agree with you, my lady; nor can I think that the morals of young ladies in 'igh life, by witch I mean the daughters and heiresses of wealthy squires—”
“But, my dear Mrs. Oxley,” said her ladyship, interrupting her, and placing her hand gently upon her arm, as if to solicit her consent to the observation she was about to make, “you know, my dear Mrs. Oxley, that the daughter of a mere country squire can have no pretensions to come under the definition of high life.”
“Wy not?” replied Mrs. Oxley; “the squires are often wealthier than the haris-tocracy; and I don't at all see,” she added, “wy the daughter of such a man should not be considered as moving in 'igh life—always, of course, provided that she forms no disgraceful attachments to Papists and rebels and low persons of that 'ere class. No, my lady, I don't at all agree with you in your view of 'igh life.”
“You don't appear, madam, to entertain a sufficiently accurate estimate of high life.
“I beg pardon, ma'am, but I think I can understand 'igh life as well as those that don't know it better nor myself. I've seen a great deal of 'igh life. Feyther 'ad a willar at I'gate, and I'gate is known to be the 'igh-est place about the metropolis of Lunnon—it and St. Paul's are upon a bevel.”
“Level, perhaps, you mean, ma'am?”
“Level or bevel,'it doesn't much diversify—but I prefer the bevel to the level on all occasions. All I knows is,” she proceeded, “that it is a shame for any young lady, as is a young lady, to take a liking to a Papist, because we know the Papists are all rebel; and would cut our throats, only for the protection of our generous and merciful laws.”
“I don't know what you mean by merciful laws,” observed Mrs. Brown. “They surely cannot be such laws as oppress and persecute a portion of the people, and give an unjust license to one class to persecute another, and to prevent them from exercising the duties which their religion imposes upon them.”
“Well,” said Lady Joram, “all I wish is, that the Papists were exterminated; we should then have no apprehensions that our daughters would disgrace themselves, by falling in love with them.”
This conversation was absolutely cruel, and the amiable Mrs. Brown, from compassion to Helen, withdrew her into a corner of the room, and entered into conversation with her upon a different topic, assuring her previously that she would detail their offensive and ungenerous remarks to her father, who, she trusted, would never see them under his roof again, nor give them an opportunity of indulging in their vulgar malignity a second time. Helen thanked her, and said their hints and observations, though rude and ungenerous, gave her but little pain. The form of language in which they were expressed, she added, and the indefensible violation of all the laws of hospitality, blunted the severity of what they said.
“I am not ashamed,” she said, “of my attachment to the brave and generous young man who saved my father's life. He is of no vulgar birth, but a highly educated and a highly accomplished gentleman—a man, in fact, my dear Mrs. Brown, whom no woman, be her rank in life ever so high or exalted, might blush to love. I do not blush to make the avowal that I love him; but, unfortunately, in consequence of the existing laws of the country, my love for him, which I will never conceal, must be a hopeless one.”
“I regret the state of those laws, my dear Miss Folliard, as much as you do; but still their existence puts a breach between you and Reilly, and under those circumstances my advice to you is to overcome your affection for him if you can. Marriage is out of the question.”
“It is not marriage I think of—for that is out of the question—but Reilly's life and safety. If he were safe, I should feel comparatively happy; happiness, in its full extent, I never can hope to enjoy; but if he were only safe—if he were only safe, my dear Mrs. Brown! I know that he is hunted like a beast of prey, and under such circumstances as disturb and distract the country, how can he escape?”
The kind-hearted lady consoled her as well as she could; but, in fact, her grounds for consolation were so slender that her arguments only amounted to those general observations which, commonplace as they are, we are in the habit of hearing from day to day. Helen was too high-minded to shed tears, but Mrs. Brown could plainly perceive the depth of her emotion, and feel the extent of wrhat she suffered.
We shall not detail at further length the conversation of the other ladies—if ladies they can be called; nor that of the gentlemen, after they entered the drawing-room. Sir Robert Whitecraft attempted to enter into conversation with Helen, but found himself firmly and decidedly repulsed. In point of fact, some of the gentlemen were not in a state to grace a drawing-room, and in a short time they took their leave and retired.
“'Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all,” said Shakespeare, with that wonderful wisdom which enlightens his glorious pages; and, in fact, Sir Robert Whitecraft, in his own person, fully corroborated the truth of the poet's apophthegm. The man, besides, was naturally a coward; and when to this we add the consciousness of his persecutions and cruelties, and his apprehensions from the revenge of Reilly—the destruction of whose property, without any authority from Government for the act, he felt himself guilty of—the reader may understand the nature and extent of his terrors on his way home. The distance between his own house and that of his intended father-in-law was about three miles, and there lay a long space of level road, hedged in, as was then the custom, on both sides, from behind which hedges an excellent aim could be taken. As Sir Robert proceeded along this lonely path, his horse stumbled against some stones that were in his way, or perhaps that had been purposely placed there. Be that as it may, the baronet fell, and a small man, of compact size and vigorous frame, was found aiding him to rise. Having helped him into the saddle, the baronet asked him, with an infirm and alarmed voice, who he was.
“Why, Sir Robert,” he replied, “you must know I am not a Papist, or I wouldn't be apt to render you any assistance; I am somewhat of your own kidney—a bit of a priest-hunter, on a small scale. I used to get them for Captain Smellpriest, but he paid me badly, and as there was great risk among the bloody Papists, I made up my mind to withdraw out of his service; but you are a gentleman, Sir Robert, what Captain Smellpriest is not, and if you want an active and useful enemy to Popery, I am your man.”
“I want such a person, certainly,” replied the baronet, who, in consequence of the badness of the road and the darkness of the night, was obliged to walk his horse with caution. “By the way,” said he, “did you not hear a noise behind the hedge?”
“I did,” replied the other, “but it was the noise of cattle.”
“I am not aware,” replied Sir Robert, “what the devil cattle can have to do immediately behind the hedge. I rather think they are some of our own species;” and as he ceased speaking the tremendous braying of a jackass came upon their ears.
“You were right, Sir Robert,” replied his companion; “I beg pardon, I mean that was right; you know now it was cattle.”
“What is your name?” asked Sir Robert.
“Rowland Drum, Sir Robert; and, if you will permit me, I should like to see you safe home. I need not say that you are hated by the Papists; and as the road is lonesome and dangerous, as a priest-hunter myself I think it an act of duty not to leave you.”
“Thank you,” said Sir Robert, “you are a civil person, and I will accept your escort.”
“Whatever danger you may run, Sir Robert, I will stand by your side and partake of it.”
“Thank you, friend,” replied Sir Robert; “there is a lonely place before us, where a ghost is said to be seen—the ghost of a priest whom I hunted for a long time; Smellpriest, it is said, shot him at the place I allude to. He was disguised as a drummer, and is said to haunt the locality where he was shot.”
“Well, I shall see you safe over the place, Sir Robert, and go home with you afterwards, provided you will promise to give me a bed and my supper; to-morrow we can talk on matters of business.”
“I shall certainly do so,” replied Sir Robert, “not only in consequence of your attention to me, but of our common purpose.”
They then proceeded onwards—passed the haunted spot—without either hearing or seeing the spectral drummer. On arriving at home, Sir Robert, who drank privately, ordered wine for himself, and sent Rowland Drum to the kitchen, where he was rather meagerly entertained, and was afterwards lodged for the night in the garret.
The next morning, after breakfast, Sir Robert sent for Mr. Drum, who, on entering the breakfast parlor, was thus addressed by his new patron:
“What's this you say your name is?”
“Rowland Drum, sir.”
“Rowland Drum! Well, now, Rowland Drum, are you well acquainted with the priests of this diocese?”
“No man better,” replied the redoubtable Rowland. “I know most of them by person, and have got private descriptions of them all from Captain Smellpriest, which will be invaluable to you, Sir Robert. The fact is—and this I mention in the strictest confidence—that Smellpriest is suspicious of your attachment to our glorious Constitution.”
“The confounded rascal,” replied the baronet. “Did he ever burn as many Popish houses as I have done? He has no appetite for any thing but the pursuit and capture of priests; but I have a far more general and unsparing practice, for I not only capture the priests, where I can, but every lay Papist that we suspect in the country. Here, for instance. Do you see those papers? They are blank warrants for the apprehension of the guilty and suspected, and also protections, transmitted to me from the Secretary of State, that I may be enabled, by his authority, to protect such Papists as will give useful information to the Government. Here they are, signed by the Secretary, but the blanks are left for myself to fill up.”
“I wish we could get Reilly to come over,” said Mr. Drum.
“Oh! the infernal villain,” said the baronet, “all the protections that ever were or could be issued from the Secretary's office would not nor could not save him. Old Folliard and I will hang him, if there was not another man to be hanged in the three kingdoms.”
At this moment a servant came in and said, “Sir Robert, there is a woman her who wishes to have some private conversation with you.”
“What kind of a woman is she?” asked the baronet.
“Faith, your honor, a sturdy and strapping wench, somewhat rough, in the face, but of great proportions.”
Now it so happened that Mr. Drum had been sitting at the window during this brief conversation, and at once recognized, under the disguise of a woman, the celebrated informer, the Rev. Mr. Hennessy, a wretch whose criminal course of life, as we said before, was so gross and reprobate that his pious bishop deemed it his duty to suspend him from all clerical functions.
“Sir Robert,” said Drum, “I must go up to my room and shave. My presence, I apprehend, won't be necessary where there is a lady in question.”
“Very well,” replied the baronet; “I know not what her business may be; but I shall be glad to speak with you after she shall have gone.”
It was very well that Hennessy did not see Drum, whom he would at once have recognized; but, at all events, the interview between the reprobate priest and the baronet lasted for at least an hour.
After the Rev. Miss Hennessy had taken her departure, Mr. Drum was sent for by the baronet, whom he still found in the breakfast parlor.
“Drum,” said he, “you have now an opportunity of essentially serving not only me, but the Government of the country. This lady turns out to be a Popish priest in disguise, and I have taken him into my confidence as a guide and auxiliary. Now you have given me proofs of personal attachment, which is certainly more than he has done as yet. I have heard of his character as an immoral priest; and the man who could be false to his own creed is not a man to be relied upon. He has described to me the position of a cavern, in which are now hiding a set of proscribed priests; but I cannot have confidence in his information, and I wish you to go to the ravine or cavern, or whatever the devil it is, and return to me with correct intelligence. It may be a lure to draw me into danger, or perhaps to deprive me of my life; but, on second thought, I think I shall get a military force, and go myself.”
“And perhaps never return, unless with your heels foremost, Sir Robert. I tell you that this Hennessy is the most treacherous scoundrel on the face of the earth. You do not know what he's at, but I will tell you, for I have it from his own cousin. His object is to have you assassinated, in order to restore himself to the good graces of the bishop and the Catholic party, who, I must say, however, would not countenance such a murderous act; still, Sir Robert, if you were taken off, the man who took you off would have his name honored and exalted throughout the country.”
“Yes, I believe you are right, Drum; they are thirsting for my blood, but not more than I am thirsting for theirs.”
“Well, then,” said Drum, “don't trust yourself to the counsels of this Hennessy, who, in my opinion, only wants to make a scapegoat of you. Allow me to go to the place he mentions, for I know the ravine well, but I never knew nor do I believe that there is a cavern at all in it, and that is what makes me suspect the scoundrel's motives. He can have hundreds of outlaws secretly armed, who would never suffer you to escape with your life. The thing is an ambuscade; take my word for it, it is nothing less. Of course you can go, yourself and your party, if you wish. You will prevent me from running a great risk; but I am only anxious for your safety.”
“Well, then,” said Sir Robert, “you shall go upon this mission. It may not be safe for me to do so. Try if you can make out this cavern, if there be a cavern.”
“I will try, Sir Robert; and I will venture to say, that if it can be made out, I will make 't out.” Rowland Drum accordingly set out upon his mission, and having arrived at the cavern, with which he was so well acquainted, he entered it with the usual risk. His voice, however, was recognized, and he got instant admittance.
“My dear friends,” said he, after he had entered the inner part of it, “you must disperse immediately. Hennessy has betrayed you, and if you remain here twenty-four hours longer, Sir Kobert Whitecraft and a party of military, guided, probably, by the treacherous scoundrel himself, will be upon you. The villain had a long interview with him, and gave a full detail of the cavern and its inmates.”
“But how did you become acquainted with Sir Kobert Whitecraft?” asked the bishop.
“In order, my lord, to ascertain his intentions and future proceedings,” replied Mr. Drum, “that we might guard against his treachery and persecution. On his way home from a dinner at Squire Folliard's I met him in a lonely part of the road, where he was thrown from his horse; I helped him into his saddle, told him I was myself a priest-hunter, and thus got into his confidence so far as to be able to frustrate Hennessy's treachery, and to counteract his own designs.”
“Sir,” said the bishop sternly, “you have acted a part unworthy of a Christian clergyman. We should not do evil that good may follow; and you have done evil in associating yourself, in any sense and for any purpose, with this bloodthirsty tiger and persecutor of the faithful.”
“My lord,” replied the priest, “this is not a time to enter into a discussion on such a subject. Hennessy has betrayed us; and if you do not disperse to other places of safety, he will himself, as I said, lead Sir Robert Whitecraft and a military party to this very cavern, and then may God have mercy on you all.”
“Brethren,” said the bishop, “this is, after all, possible that our brother has, by the mercy and providence of God, through his casual meeting with this remorseless man, been made the instrument of our safety. As for myself, I am willing to embrace the crown of martyrdom, and to lay down my life, if necessary, for the faith that is in me. You all know what I have already suffered, and you know that persecution drives a wise man mad. My children,” he added, “it is possible, and I fear too probable, that some of us may never see each other in this life again; but at the same time, let it be our hope and consolation that we shall meet in a better. And for this purpose, and in order to secure futurity of happiness, let us lead spotless and irreproachable lives, such as will enable ur to meet the hour of death, whether it comes by the hand of God or the persecution of man. Be faithful to the principles of our holy religion—be faithful to truth—to moral virtue—be faithful to God, before whose awful tribunal we must all appear, and render an account of our lives. It would be mere wantonness to throw yourselves into the hands of our persecutors. Reserve yourselves; for the continuance and the sustainment of our blessed religion; but if you should happen to fall, by the snares and devices of the enemy, into the power of those who are striving to work our extermination, and if they should press you to renounce your faith, upon the alternative of banishment or death, then, I say, banishment, or death itself, sooner than become apostates to your religion. I shall retire to a neighborhood only a few miles distant from this, where the poor Catholic population are without spiritual aid or consolation. I have been there before, and I know their wants, and were it not that I was hunted and pursued with a view to my death—to my murder, I should rather say—I would have remained with them still. But that I considered it a duty to that portion of the Church over which God called upon me to preside and watch, I would not have avoided those inhuman traffickers in the blood of God's people. Yet I am bound to say that, from the clergymen of the Established Church, and from many Protestant magistrates, we have received kindness, sympathy, and shelter. Their doors, their hearths, and their hearts have been open to us, and that, too, in a truly Christian spirit. Let us, then, render them good for good; let us pray for their conversion, and that they may return to the right path.”
“They have acted generously and nobly,” added Reilly, “and in a truly Christian spirit. Were it not for the shelter and protection which I myself received from one of them, my mangled body would probably be huddled down into some obscure grave, as a felon, and my property—which is mine only by a necessary fiction and evasion of the law—have passed into the hands of Sir Robert Whitecraft. I am wrong, however, in saying that it could. Mr. Hastings, a generous and liberal Protestant, took it in his own name for my father, but gave me a deed of assignment, placing it as securely in my hands, and in my power, as if I were Sir Robert Whitecraft himself; and I must add—which I do with pleasure—that the deed in question is now in the possession of the Rev. Mr. Brown, the amiable rector of the parish.”
“But he is a heretic,” said a red-faced little man, dressed in leather breeches, top boots, and a huntsman's cap; vade retro sathanas, It is a damnable crime to have any intercourse with them, or to receive any protection from them: vade retro, sathanas.”
“If I don't mistake,” said the cook—an archdeacon, by the way—“you yourself received protection from them, and were glad to receive it.”
“If I did receive protection from one of their heretic parsons, it was for Christian purposes. My object was not so much to seek protection from him as to work out his salvation by withdrawing him from his heresy. But then the fellow was as obstinate as sathanas himself, and had Greek and Hebrew at his fingers' ends. I made several passes at him—tried Irish, and told him it was Italian. 'Well,' said he, smiling, 'I understand Italian too;' and to my astonishment he addressed me in the best Irish I ever heard spoken. 'Now,' said he, still smiling, 'you perceive that I understand Italian nearly—I will not say so well—as you do.' Now, as I am a sinner, that, I say, was ungenerous treatment. He was perfectly irreclaimable.”
This man was, like Mr. Maguire, what has been termed a hedge-priest—a character which, as we have already said, the poverty of the Catholic people, during the existence of the penal laws, and the consequent want of spiritual instruction, rendered necessary. There were no Catholic colleges in the country, and the result was that the number of foreign priests—by which I mean Irish priests educated in foreign colleges—was utterly inadequate to meet the spiritual necessities of the Irish population. Under those circumstances, men of good and virtuous character, who understood something of the Latin tongue, were ordained by their respective bishops, for the purpose which we have already mentioned. But what a difference was there between those half-educated men and the class of educated clergymen who now adorn, not only their Church, but the literature of the country!
“Well, my dear friend,” said the bishop, “let us be thankful for the protection which, we have received at the hands of the Protestant clergy and of many of the Protestant laity also. We now separate, and I for one am sensible how much this cruel persecution has strengthened the bonds of Christian love among us, and excited our sympathy for our poor persecuted flocks, so many of whom are now without a shepherd. I leave you with tears—but they are tears of affection, and not of despair. I shall endeavor to be useful wherever I may abide. Let each of you do all the spiritual good you can—all the earthly good—all good in its most enlarged and purest sense. But we must separate—probably, some of us, forever; and now may the blessing of the Almighty God—of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, rest upon you all, and be with you and abide in your hearts, now and forever! Amen!”
Having pronounced these words, he covered his face with his two hands and wept bitterly. There were indeed few dry eyes around him; they knelt before him, kissed his ring, and prepared to take their departure out of the cavern.
“My lord,” said Reilly, who still entertained apprehensions of the return of his malady, “if you will permit me I shall share your fate, whatever it may be. The poor people you allude to are not in a condition to attend to your wants. Allow me, then, to attend and accompany you in your retreat.”
“My dear friend,” said the bishop, clasping his hand, “you are heaping coals of fire upon my head. I trust you will forgive me, for I knew not what I did. I shall be glad of your companionship. I fear I still stand in need of such a friend. Be it so, then,” he proceeded—“be it so, my dear friend; only that I should not wish you to involve yourself in unnecessary danger on my account.”
“Danger, my lord!” replied Reilly; “there is not an individual here against whom personal malignity has directed the vengeance of the law with such a bloodthirsty and vindictive spirit as against myself. Why else am I here? No, I will accompany your lordship, and share your fate.”
It was so determined, and they left the cavern, each to procure some place of safety for himself.
In the meantime, Sir Robert Whitecraft, having had another interview with Hennessy, was prevailed upon to get a military party together, and the cunning reprobate, in order to excite the baronet's vengeance to a still higher pitch, mentioned a circumstance which he had before forgotten, to wit, that Reilly, his arch-enemy, was also in the cave.
“But,” said Sir Robert, who, as we have already said, was a poltroon and a coward, “what guarantee can you give me that you are not leading me into an ambuscade? You know that I am unpopular, and the Papists would be delighted to have my blood; what guarantee, then, can you give me that you, are acting by me in good faith?”
“The guarantee of my own life,” replied the other. “Let me be placed between two of your men, and if you see any thing like an ambuscade, let them shoot me dead on the spot.”
“Why,” replied the baronet, “that is fair; but the truth is, I have been put on my guard against you by a person who escorted me home last night. He rendered me some assistance when I fell from my horse, and he slept here.”
“What is his name?” asked Hennessy.
“He told me,” replied the baronet, “that his name was Drum.”
“Could you give me a description, Sir Robert, of his person?”
Sir Robert did so.
“I declare to God, Sir Robert, you have had a narrow escape from that man. He is one of the most bigoted priests in the kingdom. He used to disguise himself as a drummer—for his father was in the army, and he himself was a drummer in his boyhood; and his object in preventing you from bringing a military party to the cavern was merely that he might have an opportunity of giving them notice of your intentions. I now say that if you lose an hour's time they will be gone.”
Sir Robert did not lose an hour's time. The local barracks were within a few hundred yards of his house. A party of military were immediately called out, and in a short time they arrived, under the guidance of Hennessy, to the very mouth of the cavern, which he disclosed to them. It is unnecessary to detail the particulars of the search. The soldiers entered it one by one, but found that the birds had flown. The very fires were burning, but not a living soul in the cave; it was completely deserted, and nothing remained but some miserable relics of cold provisions, with which, by the aid of fir splices, that served as torches, they regaled themselves as far as they went.
Sir Robert Whitecraft now felt full confidence in Hennessy; but would have given a trifle to renew his acquaintance with Mr. Rowland Drum, by whose ingenuity he was so completely outwitted. As it was, they scoured the country in search of the inmates of the cave, but above all things in search of Reilly, for whose capture Whitecraft would have forgiven every man in the cavern. The search, however, was unsuccessful; not a man of them was caught that day, and gallant Sir Robert and his myrmidons were obliged to return wearied and disappointed men.