Sir Robert, on entering the room along with the squire, found the
_Cooleen Bawn_ at the spinnet. Taking his place at the end of it, so as
that he could, gain a full view of her countenance, he thought he could
observe her complexion considerably heightened in color, and from her
his glance was directed to Reilly. The squire, on the other hand, sat
dull, silent, and unsociable, unless when addressing himself to the
baronet, and immediately his genial manner returned to him.
With his usual impetuosity, however, when laboring under what he
supposed to be a sense of injury, he soon brought matters to a crisis.
“Sir Robert,” said he, “are the Papists quiet now?”
“They are quiet, sir,” replied the other, “because they dare not be
otherwise.”
“By the great Deliverer, that saved us from Pope and Popery, brass money
and wooden shoes, I think the country will never be quiet till they are
banished out of it.”
“Indeed, Mr. Folliard, I agree with you.”
“And so do I, Sir Robert,” said Reilly. “I wish from my soul there was
not a Papist, as you call them, in this unfortunate country! In any
other country beyond the bounds of the British dominions they could
enjoy freedom. But I wish it for another reason, gentlemen; if they were
gone, you would then be taught to your cost the value of your estates
and the source of your incomes. And now, Mr. Folliard, I am not
conscious of having given you any earthly offence, but I cannot
possibly pretend to misunderstand the object of your altered conduct and
language. I am your guest, at your own express invitation. You know I am
a Roman Catholic--Papist, if you will--yet, with the knowledge of this,
you have not only insulted me personally, but also in the creed to which
I belong. As for that gentleman, I can only say that this roof and the
presence of those who are under it constitute his protection. But I envy
not the man who could avail himself of such a position, for the
purpose of insinuating an insult which he dare not offer under other
circumstances. I will not apologize for taking my departure, for I feel
that I have been too long here.”
_Cooleen Bawn_ arose in deep agitation. “Dear papa, what is this?”
she exclaimed. “What can be the cause of it? Why forget the laws of
hospitality? Why, above all things, deliberately insult the man to whom
you and I both owe so much? Oh, I cannot understand it. Some demon,
equally cowardly and malignant, must have poisoned your own naturally
generous mind. Some villain, equally profligate and hypocritical, has,
for some dark purpose, given this unworthy bias to your mind.”
“You know nothing of it, Helen. You're altogether in the dark, girl; but
in a day or two it will all be made clear to you.”
“Do not be discomposed, my dear Miss Folliard,” said Sir Robert,
striding over to her. “Allow me to prevail upon you to suspend your
judgment for a little, and to return to the beautiful air you were
enchanting us with.”
As he spoke he attempted to take her hand. Reilly, in the meantime, was
waiting for an opportunity to bid his love goodnight.
[Illustration: PAGE 35--Touch me not, sir]
“Touch me not, sir,” she replied, her glorious eyes flashing with
indignation. “I charge you as the base cause of drawing down the
disgrace of shame, the sin of ingratitude, on my father's head. But here
that father stands, and there you, sir, stand; and sooner than become
the wife of Sir Robert Whitecraft I would dash myself from the
battlements of this castle. William Reilly, brave and generous young
man, goodnight! It matters not who may forget the debt of gratitude
which this family owe you--I will not. No cowardly slanderer shall
instil his poisonous calumnies against you into my ear. My opinion of
you is unchanged and unchangeable. Farewell! William Relly!”
We shall not attempt to describe the commotions of love, of happiness,
of rapture, which filled Reilly's bosom as he took his departure. As
for _Cooleen Bawn_, she had now passed the Rubicon, and there remained
nothing for her but constancy to the truth of her affection, be the
result what it might. She had, indeed, much of the vehemence of her
father's character in her; much of his unchangeable purpose, when she
felt or thought she was right; but not one of his unfounded whims or
prejudices; for she was too noble-minded and sensible to be influenced
by unbecoming or inadequate motives. With an indignant but beautiful
scorn, that gave grace to resentment, she bowed to the baronet, then
kissed her father affectionately and retired.
The old man, after she had gone, sat for a considerable time silent.
In fact, the superior force of his daughter's character had not only
surprised, but overpowered him for the moment. The baronet attempted to
resume the conversation, but he found not his intended father-in-law in
the mood for it. The light of truth, as it flashed from the spirit of
his daughter, seemed to dispel the darkness of his recent suspicions; he
dwelt upon the possibility of ingratitude with a temporary remorse.
“I cannot speak to you, Sir Robert,” he said; “I am confused, disturbed,
distressed. If I have treated that young man ungratefully, God may
forgive me, but I will never forgive myself.”
“Take care, sir,” said the baronet, “that you are not under the spell of
the Jesuit and your daughter too. Perhaps you will find, when it is too
late, that she is the more spellbound of the two. If I don't mistake,
the spell begins to work already. In the meantime, as Miss Folliard will
have it, I withdraw all claims upon her hand and affections. Good-night,
sir;” and as he spoke he took his departure.
For a long time the old man sat looking into the fire, where he began
gradually to picture to himself strange forms and objects in the glowing
embers, one of whom he thought resembled the Red Rapparee about to shoot
him; another, Willy Reilly making love to his daughter; and behind
all, a high gallows, on which he beheld the said Reilly hanging for his
crime.
In about an hour afterwards Miss Folliard returned to the drawing-room,
where she found her father asleep in his arm-chair. Having awakened him
gently from what appeared a disturbed dream, he looked about him, and,
forgetting for a moment all that had happened, inquired in his usual
eager manner where Reilly and Whitecraft were, and if they had gone. In
a few moments, however, he recollected the circumstances that had
taken place, and after heaving a deep sigh, he opened his arms for his
daughter, and as he embraced her burst into tears.
“Helen,” said he, “I am unhappy; I am distressed; I know not what
to do!--may God forgive me if I have treated this young man with
ingratitude. But, at all events, a few days will clear it all up.”
His daughter was melted by the depth of his sorrow, and the more so as
it was seldom she had seen him shed tears before.
“I would do every thing--anything to make you happy, my dear treasure,”
said he, “if I only knew how.”
“Dear papa,” she replied, “of that I am conscious; and as a proof that
the heart of your daughter is incapable of veiling a single thought that
passes in it from a parent who loves her so well, I will place its most
cherished secret in your own keeping. I shall not be outdone even by
you, dear papa, in generosity, in confidence, in affection. Papa,” she
added, placing her head upon his bosom, whilst the tears flowed fast
down her cheeks, “papa, I love William Reilly--love him with a pure
and disinterested passion!--with a passion which I feel constitutes my
destiny in this life--either for happiness or misery. That passion is
irrevocable. It is useless to ask me to control or suppress it, for I
feel that the task is beyond my power. My love, however, is not base nor
selfish, papa, but founded on virtue and honor. It may seem strange that
I should make such a confession to you, for I know it is un--usual in
young persons like me to do so; but remember, dear papa, that except
yourself I have no friend. If I had a mother, or a sister, or a cousin
of my own sex, to whom I might confide and unburden my feelings, then
indeed it is not probable I would make to you the confession which I
have made; but we are alone, and you are the only being left me on whom
can rest my sorrow--for indeed my heart is full of sorrow.”
“Well, well, I know not what to say. You are a true girl, Helen, and
the very error, if it be one, is diminished by the magnanimity and truth
which prompted you to disclose it to me. I will go to bed, dearest, and
sleep if I can. I trust in God there is no calamity about to overshadow
our house or destroy our happiness.”
He then sought his own chamber; and _Cooleen Bawn_, after attending him
thither, left him to the care of his attendant and retired herself to
her apartment.
On reaching home Reilly found Fergus, one of his own relatives, as we
have said, the same who, warned by his remonstrances, had abandoned the
gang of the Red Rapparee, waiting to see him.
“Well, Fergus,” said he, “I am glad that you have followed my advice.
You have left the lawless employment of that blood-stained man?”
“I have,” replied the other, “and I'm here to tell you that you can now
secure him if you like. I don't look upon sayin' this as treachery to
him, nor would I mention it only that Pavideen, the smith, who shoes and
doctors his horses, tould me something that you ought to know.”
“Well, Fergus, what is it?”
“There's a plot laid, sir, to send you out o' the country, and the Red
Rapparee has a hand in it. He is promised a pardon from government, and
some kind of a place as thief-taker, if he'll engage in it against you.
Now, you know, there's a price upon his head, and, if you like, you can
have it, and get an enemy put out of your way at the same time.”
“No, Fergus,” replied Keilly; “in a moment of indignation I threatened
him in order to save the life of a fellow-creature. But let the laws
deal with him. As for me, you know what he deserves at my hands, but
I shall never become the hound of a government which oppresses me
unjustly. No, no, it is precisely because a price is laid upon the
unfortunate miscreant's head that I would not betray him.”
“He will betray you, then.”
“And let him. I have never violated any law, and even though he should
betray me, Fergus, he cannot make me guilty. To the laws, to God, and
his own conscience, I leave him. No, Fergus, all sympathy between me and
the laws that oppress us is gone. Let them vindicate themselves against
thieves and robbers and murderers, with as much vigilance and energy
as they do against the harmless forms of religion and the rights of
conscience, and the country will soon be free from such licentious pests
as the Red Rapparee and his gang.”
“You speak warmly, Mr. Reilly.”
“Yes,” replied Keilly, “I am warm, I am indignant at my degradation.
Fergus, Fergus, I never felt that degradation and its consequences so
deeply as I do this unhappy night.”'
“Well, will you listen to me?”
“I will strive to do so; but you know not the--you know not--alas! I
have no language to express what I feel. Proceed, however,” he added,
attempting to calm the tumult that agitated his heart; “what about this
plot or plan for putting me out of the country?”
“Well, sir, it's determined on to send you, by the means of the same
laws you speak of, out of the country. The red villain is to come in
with a charge against you and surrender himself to government as
a penitent man, and the person who is to protect him is Sir Robert
Whitecraft.”
“It's all time, Fergus,” said Reilly; “I see it at a glance, and
understand it a great deal better than you do. They may, however, be
disappointed. Fergus, I have a friend--friend--oh, such a friend! and it
will go hard with that friend, or I shall hear of their proceedings. In
the meantime, what do you intend to do?”
“I scarcely know,” replied the other. “I must lie quiet for a while, at
any rate.”
“Do so,” said Reilly; “and listen, Fergus. See Paudeen, the smith, from
time to time, and get whatever he knows out of him. His father was a
tenant of ours, and he ought to remember our kindness to him and his.”
“Ay,” said Fergus, “and he does too.”
“Well, it is clear he does. Get from him all the information you can,
and let me hear it. I would give you shelter in my house, but that now
would be dangerous both to you and me. Do you want money to support
you?”
“Well, indeed, Mr. Reilly, I do and I do not. I can--”
“That's enough,” said Reilly; “you want it. Here, take this. I would
recommend you, as I did before, to leave this unhappy country; but as
circumstances have turned out, you may for some time yet be useful to
me. Good-night, then, Fergus. Serve me in this matter as far as you can,
for I stand in need of it.”
As nothing like an organized police existed in Ireland at the period of
which we speak, an outlaw or Rapparee might have a price laid upon his
head for months--nay, for years--and yet continue his outrages and defy
the executive. Sometimes it happened that the authorities, feeling the
weakness of their resources and the inadequacy of their power, did not
hesitate to propose terms to the leaders of these banditti, and, by
affording them personal protection, succeeded in inducing them to betray
their former associates. Now Reilly was well aware of this, and our
readers need not be surprised that the communication made to him by his
kinsman filled him not only with anxiety but alarm. A very slight charge
indeed brought forward by a man of rank and property--such a charge, for
instance, as the possession of firearms--was quite sufficient to get a
Roman Catholic banished the country.
On the third evening after this our friend Tom Steeple was met by its
proprietor in the avenue leading to Corbo Castle.
“Well, Tom,” said the squire, “are you for the Big House?” for such is
the general term applied to all the ancestral mansions of the country.
Tom stopped and looked at him--for we need scarcely observe here that
with poor Tom there was no respect of persons; he then shook his head
and replied, “Me don't know whether you tall or not. Tom tall--will Tom
go to Big House--get bully dinnel--and Tom sleep under the stairs--eh?
Say aye, an' you be tall too.”
“To be sure, Tom; go into the house, and your cousin Larry Lanigan, the
cook, will give you a bully dinner; and sleep where you like.”
The squire walked up and down the avenue in a thoughtful mood for some
moments until another of our characters met him on his way towards the
entrance gate. This person was no other than Molly Mahon.
“Ha!” said he, “here is another of them--well, poor devils, they must
live. This, though, is the great fortune-teller. I will try her.”
“God save your honor,” said Molly, as she approached him and dropped a
courtesy.
“Ah, Molly,” said he, “you can see into the future, they say. Well,
come now, tell me my fortune; but they say one must cross your palm with
silver before you can manage the fates; here's a shilling for you, and
let us hear what you have to say.”
“No, sir,” replied Molly, putting back his hand, “imposthors may do
that, because they secure themselves first and tell you nothing worth
knowin' afterwards. I take no money till I first tell the fortune.”
“Well, Molly, that's honest at all events; let me hear what you have to
tell me.”
“Show me your hand, sir,” said she, and taking it, she looked into it
with a solemn aspect. “There, sir,” she said, “that will do. I am sorry
I met you this evening.”
“Why so, Molly?”
“Because I read in your hand a great deal of sorrow.”
“Pooh, you foolish woman--nonsense!”
“There's a misfortune likely to happen to one of your family; but I
think it may be prevented.”
“How will it be prevented?”
“By a gentleman that has a title and great wealth, and that loves the
member of your family that the misfortune is likely to happen to.”
The squire paused and looked at the woman, who seemed to speak
seriously, and even with pain.
“I don't believe a word of it, Molly; but granting that it be true, how
do you know it?”
“That's more than I can tell myself, sir,” she replied. “A feelin' comes
over me, and I can't help speakin' the words as they rise to my lips.”
“Well, Molly, here's a shilling for you now; but I want you to see my
daughter's hand till I hear what you have to say for her. Are you a
Papist, Molly?”
“No, your honor, I was one wanst; but the moment we take to this way of
life we mustn't belong to any religion, otherwise we couldn't tell the
future.”
“Sell yourself to the devil, eh?”
“Oh, no, sir; but--”
“But what? Out with it.”
“I can't, sir; if I did, I never could tell a fortune agin.”
“Well--well; come up; I have taken a fancy that you shall tell my
daughter's for all that.”
“Surely there can be nothing but happiness before her, sir; she that is
so good to the poor and distressed; she that has all the world admirin'
her wonderful beauty. Sure, they say, her health was drunk in the Lord
Lieutenant's house in the great Castle of Dublin, as the Lily of the
Plains of Boyle and the Star of Ireland.”
“And so it was, Molly, and so it was; there's another shilling for
you. Come now, come up to the house, and tell her fortune; and mark me,
Molly, no flattery now--nothing but the truth, if you know it.”
“Did I flatter you, sir?”
“Upon my honor, any thing but that, Molly; and all I ask is that you
won't flatter her. Speak the truth, as I said before, if you know it.”
Miss Folliard, on being called down by her father to have her fortune
told, on seeing Molly, drew back and said, “Do not ask me to come in
direct contact with this woman, papa. How can you, for one moment,
imagine that a person of her life and habits could be gifted with that
which has never yet been communicated to mortal (the holy prophets
excepted)--a knowledge of futurity?”
“No matter, my darling, no matter; give her your hand; you will oblige
and gratify me.”
“Here, then, dear papa, to please you--certainly.”
Molly took her lovely hand, and having looked into it, said, turning to
the squire, “It's very odd, sir, but here's nearly the same thing that I
tould to you awhile ago.”
“Well, Molly,” said he, “let us hear it.”
Miss Folliard stood with her snowy hand in that of the fortune-teller,
perfectly indifferent to her art, but not without strong feelings of
disgust at the ordeal to which she submitted.
“Now, Molly,” said the squire, “what have you to say?”
“Here's love,” she replied, “love in the wrong direction--a false step
is made that will end in misery--and--and--and--”
“And what, woman?” asked Miss Folliard, with an indignant glance at the
fortune-teller. “What have you to add?”
“No!” said she, “I needn't speak it, for it won't come to pass. I see a
man of wealth and title who will just come in in time to save you from
shame and destruction, and with him you will be happy.”
“I could prove to you,” replied the _Cooleen Dawn_, her face mantling
with blushes of indignation, “that I am a better prophetess than you
are. Ask her, papa, where she last came from.”
“Where did you come from last, Molly?” he asked.
“Why, then,” she replied, “from Jemmy Hamilton's at the foot of
Cullaniore.”
“False prophetess,” replied the _Cooleen Bawn_, “you have told an
untruth. I know where you came from last.”
“Then where did I come from, Miss Folliard?” said the woman, with
unexpected effrontery.
“From Sir Robert Whitecraft,” replied Miss Folliard, “and the wages of
your dishonesty and his corruption are the sources of your inspiration.
Take the woman away, papa.”
“That will do, Molly--that will do,” exclaimed the squire, “there is
something' additional for you. What you have told us is very odd--very
odd, indeed. Go and get your dinner in the kitchen.”
Miss Folliard then withdrew to her own room.
Between eleven and twelve o'clock that night a carriage drew up at
the grand entrance of Corbo Castle, out of which stepped Sir Robert
Whitecraft and no less a personage than the Red Rapparee. They
approached the hall door, and after giving a single knock, it was opened
to them by the squire himself, who it would seem had been waiting to
receive them privately. They followed him in silence to his study.
Mr. Folliard, though a healthy-looking man, was, in point of fact, by
no means so. Of a nervous and plethoric habit, though brave, and even
intrepid, yet he was easily affected by anything or any person that
was disagreeable to him. On seeing the man whose hand had been raised
against his life, and what was still more atrocious, whose criminal
designs upon the honor of his daughter had been proved by his violent
irruption into her chamber, he felt a suffocating sensation of rage and
horror that nearly overcame him.
“Sir Robert,” he said, “excuse me; the sight of this man has sickened
me. I got your note, and in your society and at your request I have
suffered him to come here; under your protection, too. May God forgive
me for it! The room is too close--I feel unwell--pray open the door.”
“Will there be no risk, sir, in leaving the door open?” said the
baronet.
“None in the world! I have sent the servants all to bed nearly an hour
ago. Indeed, the fact is, they are seldom up so late, unless when I have
company.”
Sir Robert then opened the door--that is to say, he left it a little
more than ajar, and returning again took his seat.
“Don't let the sight of me frighten you, sir,” said the Rapparee. “I
never was your enemy nor intended you harm.”
“Frighten me!” replied the courageous old squire; “no, sir, I am not a
man very easily frightened; but I will confess that the sight of you has
sickened me and filled me with horror.”
“Well, now, Mr. Folliard,” said the baronet, “let this matter, this
misunderstanding, this mistake, or rather this deep and diabolical plot
on the part of the Jesuit, Reilly, be at once cleared up. We wish, that
is to say I wish, to prevent your good nature from being played upon by
a designing villain. Now, O'Donnel, relate, or rather disclose, candidly
and truly, all that took place with respect to this damnable plot
between you and Reilly.”
“Why, the thing, sir,” said the Rapparee, addressing himself to the
squire, “is very plain and simple; but, Sir Robert, it was not a plot
between me and Reilly--the plot was his own. It appears that he saw your
daughter and fell desperately in love with her, and knowin' your strong
feeling against Catholics, he gave up all hopes of being made acquainted
with Miss Folliard, or of getting into her company. Well, sir, aware
that you were often in the habit of goin' to the town of Boyle, he comes
to me and says in the early part of the day, 'Randal, I will give you
fifty goolden guineas if you help me in a plan I have in my head.' Now,
fifty goolden guineas isn't easily earned; so I, not knowing what the
plan was at the time, tould him I could not say nothing till I heard
it. He then tould me that he was over head and ears in love with your
daughter, and that have her he should if it cost him his life. 'Well,'
says I, 'and how can I help you?' 'Why,' said he, 'I'll show you that:
her ould persecuting scoundrel of a father'--excuse me, sir--I'm givin'
his own words--”
“I believe it, Mr. Folliard,” said the baronet, “for these are
the identical terms in which he told me the story before; proceed,
O'Donnel.”
“'The ould scoundrel of a father,' says he, 'on his return from Boyle,
generally comes by the ould road, because it is the shortest cut. Do you
and your men lie in wait in the ruins of the ould chapel, near Loch na
Garran'--it is called so, sir, because they say there's a wild horse in
it that comes out of moonlight nights to feed on the patches of green
that are here and there among the moors--'near Loch na Gaitan,' says
he; 'and when he gets that far turn out upon him, charge him with
transportin' your uncle, and when you are levellin' your gun at him, I
will come, by the way, and save him. You and I must speak angry to one
another, you know; then, of course, I must see him home, and he can't do
less than ask me to dine with him. At all events, thinkin' that I saved
his life, we will become acquainted.'”
The squire paused and mused for some time, and then asked, “Was there no
more than this between you and him?”
“Nothing more, sir.”
“And tell me, did he pay you the money?”
“Here it is,” replied the Rapparee, pulling out a rag in which were the
precise number of guineas mentioned.
“But,” said the squire, “we lost our way in the fog.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Rapparee. “Everything turned out in his favor. That
made very little difference. You would have been attacked in or about
that place, whether or not.”
“Yes, but did you not attack my house that night? Did not you yourself
come down by the skylight, and enter, by violence, into my daughter's
apartment?”
“Well, when I heard of that, sir, I said, 'I give Reilly up for
ingenuity.' No, sir, that was his own trick; but afther all it was a bad
one, and tells aginst itself. Why, sir, neither I nor any of my men have
the power of makin' ourselves invisible. Do you think, sir--I put it to
your own common-sense--that if we had been there no one would have seen
us? Wasn't the whole country for miles round searched and scoured, and I
ask you, sir, was there hilt or hair of me or any one of my men seen
or even heard of? Sir Robert, I must be going now,” he added. “I hope
Squire Folliard understands what kind of a man Reilly is. As for myself,
I have nothing more to say.”
“Don't go yet, O'Donnel,” said Whitecraft; “let us determine what is to
be done with him. You see clearly it is necessary, Mr. Folliard, that
this deep-designing Jesuit should be sent out of the country.”
“I would give half my estate he was fairly out of it,” said the squire.
“He has brought calamity and misery into my family. Created world! how I
and mine have been deceived and imposed upon! Away with him--a thousand
leagues away with him! And that quickly too! Oh, the plausible,
deceitful villain! My child! my child!” and here the old man burst into
tears of the bitterest indignation. “Sir Robert, that cursed villain was
born, I fear, to be the shame and destruction of my house and name.”
“Don't dream of such a thing,” said the baronet. “On the day he dined
here--and you cannot forget my strong disinclination to meet him--but
even on that day you will recollect the treasonable language he used
against the laws of the realm. After my return home I took a note of
them, and I trust that you, sir, will corroborate, with respect to this
fact, the testimony which it is my purpose to give against him. I say
this the rather, Mr. Folliard, because it might seriously compromise
your own character with the Government, and as a magistrate, too, to
hear treasonable and seditious language at your own table, from a Papist
Jesuit, and yet decline to report it to the authorities.”
“The laws, the authorities, and you be hanged, sir!” replied the squire;
“my table is, and has been, and ever shall be, the altar of confidence
to my guests; I shall never violate the laws of hospitality. Treat
the man fairly, I say, concoct no plot against him, bribe no false
witnesses, and if he is justly amenable to the law I will spend ten
thousand pounds to have him sent anywhere out of the country.”
“He keeps arms,” observed Sir Robert, “contrary to the penal
enactments.”
“I think not,” said the squire; “he told me he was on a duck-shooting
expedition that night, and when I asked him where he got his arms, he
said that his neighbor, Bob Gosford, always lent him his gun whenever
he felt disposed to shoot, and, to my own knowledge, so did many other
Protestant magistrates in the neighborhood, for this wily Jesuit is a
favorite with most of them.”
“But I know where he has arms concealed,” said the Rapparee, looking
significantly at the baronet, “and I will be able to find them, too,
when the proper time comes.”
“Ha! indeed, O'Donnel,” said Sir Robert, with well-feigned surprise;
“then there will be no lack of proof against him, you may rest assured,
Mr. Folliard; I charge myself with the management of the whole affair.
I trust, sir, you will leave it to me, and I have only one favor to ask,
and that is the hand of your fair daughter when he is disposed of.”
“She shall be yours, Sir Robert, the moment that this treacherous
villain can be removed by the fair operation of the laws; but I will
never sanction any dishonorable treatment towards him. By the laws of
the land let him stand or fall.”
At this moment a sneeze of tremendous strength and loudness was heard
immediately outside the door; a sneeze which made the hair of the
baronet almost stand on end.
“What the devil is that?” asked the squire. “By the great Boyne, I fear
some one has been listening after all.”
The Rapparee, always apprehensive of the “authorities,” started behind
a screen, and the baronet, although unconscious of any cause for terror,
stood rather undecided. The sneeze, however, was repeated, and this time
it was a double one.
“Curse it, Sir Robert,” said the squire, “have you not the use of your
legs? Go and see whether there has been an eavesdropper”
“Yes, Mr. Folliard,” replied the doughty baronet, “but your house has
the character of being haunted; and I have a terror of ghosts.”
The squire himself got up, and, seizing a candle, went outside the door,
but nothing in human shape was visible.
“Come here, Sir Robert,” said he, “that sneeze came from no ghost, I'll
swear. Who ever heard of a ghost sneezing? Never mind, though; for the
curiosity of the thing I will examine for myself, and return to you in a
few minutes.”
He accordingly left them, and in a short time came back, assuring them
that every one in the house was in a state of the most profound repose,
and that it was his opinion it must have been a cat.
“I might think so myself,” observed the baronet, “were it not for
the double sneeze. I am afraid, Mr. Folliard, that the report is too
true--and that the house is haunted. O'Donnel, you must come home with
me to-night.”
O'Donnel, who entertained no apprehension of ghosts, finding that the
“authorities” were not in question, agreed to go with him, although he
had a small matter on hand which required his presence in another part
of the country.
The baronet, however, had gained his point. The heart of the hasty
and unreflecting squire had been poisoned, and not one shadow of doubt
remained on his mind of Reilly's treachery. And that which convinced him
beyond all arguments or assertions was the fact that on the night of the
premeditated attack on his house not one of the Red Rapparee's gang was
seen, or any trace of them discovered.