--And a Curious Conversation
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.