--The Mountain Mass
Reilly and the bishop traversed a wild and remote part of the country,
in which there was nothing to be seen but long barren wastes, over which
were studded, here and there, a few solitary huts; upon its extremity,
however, there were some houses of a more comfortable description, the
habitations of middling farmers, who possessed small farms at a
moderate rent. As they went along, the prelate addressed Reilly in the
following-terms:
“Mr. Reilly,” said he, “I would advise you to get out of this unhappy
country as soon as you can.”
“My lord,” replied Reilly, who was all candor and truth, and never could
conceal his sentiments, at whatever risk, “I cannot think of leaving the
country, let the consequences be what they may. I will not trouble
your lordship with my motives, because they are at variance with your
character and religious feelings; but they are not at variance with
religion or morality. It is enough to say that I wish to prevent a
beautiful and innocent girl from being sacrificed. My lord, you know too
well that persecution is abroad; and when I tell you that, through the
influence which this admirable creature has over her father--who, by the
way, has himself the character of a persecutor--many Catholics have been
protected by him, I am sure you will not blame me for the interest
which I feel in her fate. In addition to this, my lord, she has been a
ministering angel to the Catholic poor in general, and has contributed
vast sums, privately, to the relief of such of our priesthood as have
been brought to distress by the persecution of the times. Nay, she has
so far influenced her father that proscribed priests have found refuge
and protection in his house.”
The bishop, on hearing this, stood, and taking off his hat, raised his
right hand, and said: “May the blessing of the Almighty God rest upon
her, and guard her from the snares of those who would make her unhappy!
But, Reilly, as you say you are determined, if possible, to rescue her
from ruin, you know that if you go at large in your usual dress you will
unquestionably be taken. I advise you, then, to disguise yourself in
such a way as that you will not, if possible, be known.”
“Such, my lord, is my intention--but who is this? what--eh--yes, 'tis
Fergus O'Reilly, a distant and humble relation of mine who is also in
disguise. Well, Fergus, where have you been for some time past?”
“It would be difficult to tell that, God knows; I have been
everywhere--but,” he added in a whisper, “may I speak freely?”
“As free as the wind that blows, Fergus.”
“Well, then, I tell you that Sir Robert Whitecraft has engaged me to be
on the lookout for you, and said that I would be handsomely rewarded if
I could succeed in enabling the scoundrel to apprehend you.”
“But how did that come about, Fergus?”
“Faith, he met me one day--you see I have got a bag at my back--and
taking me for a beggarman, stopped me on the road. 'I say, you, poor
man,' says he, 'what's your name?' 'Paddy M'Fud,' says I--'I belong to
the M'Fuds of Ballymackknockem.' 'You're a beggar,' says he, 'and travel
from place to place about the country.' 'It's true enough, your honor,'
I replied, 'I travel about a good deal, of coorse, and it's only that
way that I get my bit and sup.' 'Do you know the notorious villain
called Willy Reilly'?' 'Not by sight, your honor, but I have often heard
of him. Wasn't he in love with the beautiful _Cooleen Bawn_, Squire
Folliard's daughter?' 'That's not the question between us,' he said,
'but if you enable me to catch Reilly, I will give you twenty pounds.'
'Well, your honor,' says I, 'lave the thing to myself; if he is to be
had it'll go hard but I'll find him.' 'Well, then,' says he, 'if you can
tell me where he is I will give you twenty pounds, as I said.' 'Well,
sir,' says I, 'I expect to hear from you; I am not sure he's in the
country--indeed they say he is not--but if he is, I think I'll find him
for you;' and so we parted.”
“Fergus,” said Reilly, “I feel that a disguise is necessary. Here is
money to enable you to purchase one. I do not know where you may be able
to find me; but go and buy me a suit of frieze, rather worn, a dingy
caubeen hat, coarse Connemara stockings, and a pair of clouted brogues;
some course linen, too; because the fineness of my shirts, should
I happen to be apprehended, might betray me. Leave them with widow
Buckley, and I can find them there.”
It was so arranged. Fergus went on his way, as did Reilly and the
bishop. The latter conducted him to the house of a middling farmer,
whose son the bishop had sent, at his own expense, to a continental
college. They were both received with the warmest affection, and, so
far as the bishop was concerned, with every expression of the deepest
gratitude. The situation was remote, and the tumult of pursuit did not,
reach them. Reilly privately forced upon the farmer compensation for
their support, under a solemn injunction that he should not communicate
that circumstance to the bishop, and neither did he. They were here,
then, comparatively safe, but still Reilly dreaded the active vigilance
of his deadly enemy, Sir Robert Whitecraft. He felt that a disguise was
absolutely necessary, and that, without it, he might fall a sacrifice to
the diabolical vengeance of his powerful enemy. In the course of about
ten days after he had commissioned Fergus to procure him the disguise,
he resolved to visit widow Buckley, in order to make the necessary
exchange in his apparel. He accordingly set out--very foolishly we must
admit--in open day, to go to the widow's house. The distance was some
miles. No appearance of danger, or pursuit, was evident, until he
came to the sharp angle of the road, where he was met by four powerful
constables, who, on looking at him, immediately surrounded him and made
him prisoner. Resistance was impossible; they were well armed, and he
was without any weapon with which he could defend himself.
“We have a warrant for your apprehension, sir,” said one of them.
“Upon what grounds?” replied Reilly. “I am conscious of no offence
against the laws of the land. Do you know who I am? and is my name in
your warrant?”
“No, but your appearance answers completely to the description given in
the _Hue and Cry_. Your dress is the same as that of the robber, and you
must come with us to the sheriff whom you have robbed. His house is only
a quarter of a mile from this.”
They accordingly proceeded to the sheriff's house, whom they found at
home. On being informed that they had captured the man “who had robbed
him, he came downstairs with great alacrity, and in a spirit replete
with vengeance against the robber. The sheriff, however, was really
a good-natured and conscientious man, and would not lend himself to a
dishonorable act, nor had he ever been known to do so. When he appeared,
Reilly addressed him:
“I am here, sir,” said he, “under a charge of having robbed you. The
charge against me is ridiculous. I am a gentleman, and never was under
the necessity of having recourse to such unlawful means of raising
money.”
“Well,” replied the sheriff, “your dress is precisely the same as the
fellow wore when he robbed me. But I feel confident that you are not the
man. Your hair is black, his was red, and he had large red whiskers.
In the excitement and agitation of the moment I forgot to mark the
villain's features distinctly; but I have since thought over the matter,
and I say that I would now know him if I saw him again. This, however,”
he added, turning--to the constables, “is not the person who robbed
and beat me down from my horse.”
“But he may be Willy Reilly, sir, for all that; and you know the reward
that is offered for his apprehension.”
“I know Willy Reilly,” replied the sheriff, “and I can assure you that
this gentleman is not Willy Reilly. Go, now, continue your pursuit. The
robber lurks somewhere in the neighborhood. You know the reward; catch
him, and you shall have it.” The constables departed; and after they had
gone the sheriff said, “Mr. Reilly, I know you well; but I would scorn
to avail myself of the circumstance which has thus occurred. I am aware
of the motive which urges Sir Robert Whitecraft against you--so is the
whole country. That penurious and unprincipled villain is thirsting for
your blood. Mr. Hastings, however, has a rod in pickle for him, and
he will be made to feel it in the course of time. The present
administration is certainly an anti-Catholic one; but I understand it is
tottering, and that a more liberal one will come in. This Whitecraft
has succeeded in getting some young profligate Catholics to become
Protestants, who have, consequently, ousted their fathers out of their
estates and property; younger sons, who, by this act of treachery, will
get the estates into their own possession. The thing is monstrous
and unnatural. But let that pass; Whitecraft is on our trail in all
directions; beware of him, I say; and I think, with great respect to
you, Mr. Reilly, it is extremely foolish to go abroad in your usual
apparel, and without disguise.”
“Sir,” replied Reilly, “I cannot express, as I would wish, my deep
gratitude to you for your kindness and forbearance. That Sir Robert
Whitecraft is thirsting for my blood I know. The cause of that vengeance
is now notorious.”
“You know Mr. Hastings, Mr. Reilly?”
“Intimately, sir.”
“He took your property in his own name?”
“He did, sir; he purchased it in his own name. The property was
hereditary property, and when my title to it, in point of law, as a
Catholic, was questioned, and when one of my family, as a Protestant,
put in his claim for it, Mr. Hastings came in as the purchaser, and
ousted him. The money was supplied by me. The moment, however, that I
found Whitecraft was after me, I immediately surrendered the whole of
it back to him; so that Sir Robert, in burning what he considered my
property, in fact burned Mr. Hastings.”
“And I have reason to know, Mr. Reilly, that it will be the blackest
act of his guilty life. This, however, I mention to you in the strictest
confidence. Keep the secret, for if it transpired the scoundrel might
escape from the consequences of his own cruelty and oppression. In the
meantime, do you take care of yourself--keep out of his way, and, as I
said, above all things, procure a disguise. Let the consequences be what
they may, I don't think the beautiful _Cooleen Baum_ will ever marry
him.”
“But,” replied Reilly, “is there no risk of compulsion by her father?”
“Why, I must confess there is,” replied the sheriff; “he is obstinate
and headstrong, especially if opposed, and she will find it necessary
to oppose him--and she will oppose him. I myself have had a conversation
with her on the subject, and she is firm as fate against such a union;
and I will tell you more, Reilly--it was she who principally engaged me
to protect you as far as I could, and so I shall, you may rest assured
of it. I had only to name you a few minutes ago, and your fate was
sealed. But, even if she had never spoken to me on the subject, I
could not fend myself to the cruel plots of that villain. God knows, in
consequence of my official situation, I am put upon tasks that are very
painful to me; levying fines from men who are harmless and inoffensive,
who are peaceable members of society, who teach the people to be moral,
well-conducted, and obedient to the laws, and who do not themselves
violate them. Now,” he added, “be advised by me, and disguise yourself.”
“Sir,” said Reilly, “your sentiments do you honor; I am this moment on
my way to put on a disguise, which has been procured for me. I agree
with you and other friends that it would be impossible for me to remain
in the country in my own natural aspect and dress. Allow me, before I
go, to express my sense of your kindness, and believe me I shall never
forget it.”
“The disguise, above all things,” said the sheriff, smiling and holding
out his hand. Reilly seized it with a warm pressure; they bid each other
farewell, and so they parted.
Reilly then wound his way to the cottage of Mrs. Buckle, but not by
the public road. He took across the fields, and, in due time, reached
her humble habitation. Here he found the disguise, which his friend
Fergus had provided-a half-worn frieze coat, a half-worn caubeen, and
a half-worn pair of corduroy breeches, clouted brogues, and Connemara
stockings, also the worse for the wear, with two or three coarse shirts,
in perfect keeping with, the other portion of the disguise.
“Well, Mrs. Buckley,” said he, “how have you been since I saw you last?”
“Oh, then, Mr. Reilly,” said she, “it's a miracle from God that you did
not think of stopping here! I had several visits from the sogers who
came out to look for you.”
“Well, I suppose so, Mrs. Buckley; but it was one comfort that they did
not find me.”
“God be praised for that!” replied the poor woman, with tears in her
eyes; “it would a' broken my heart if you had been catched in my little
place.”
“But, Mrs. Buckley,” said Reilly, “were there any plain clothes left for
me here?”
“Oh, indeed there was, sir,” she replied, “and I have them safe for
you; but, in the meantime, I'll go outside, and have an eye about the
country, for somehow they have taken it into their heads that this would
be a very likely place to find you.”
While she was out, Reilly changed his dress, and in a few minutes
underwent such a metamorphosis that poor Mrs. Buckley, on reentering the
house, felt quite alarmed.
“Heavenly Father! my good man, where did you come from? I thought I left
Mr. --” here she stopped, afraid to mention Reilly's name.
“Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Buckley,” said Reilly; “I am only changed in
outward appearance; I am your true friend still; and now accept this for
your kindness,” placing money in her hand.
“I can't, Mr. Reilly; you are under the persecutions, and will want all
the money you have to support yourself. Didn't the thieves of the devil
burn you out and rob you, and how can you get through this wicked world
without money--keep it yourself, for I don't want it.”
“Come, come, Mrs. Buckley, I have money enough; you must take this;
I only ask you to conceal these clothes in some place where the
hell-hounds of the law can't find them. And now, good-by, Mrs. Buckley;
I shall take care that, whatever may happen me, you shall not be
disturbed out of your little cabin and your garden.”
The tears ran down the poor old woman's cheeks, and Reilly left her
sobbing and crying behind him. This indeed was an eventful day to him,
Strong in the confidence of his disguise, he took the public road, and
had not gone far when he met a party of Sir Robert Whitecraft's. To fly
would have been instant ruin; he accordingly commenced an old Irish song
at the very top of his lungs. Sir Robert Whitecraft was not himself of
the party, but scarcely any individual was met by them whom they did not
cross-examine.
“Hallo, my good fellow,” said the leader of the party, “what is that
you're singin'?”
Reilly stared at him like a man who was sorely puzzled; “_Ha neil bearla
agum;_” that is, “I have no English.”
“Here, Connor, you can speak Irish; sift this able-bodied tyke.”
A conversation in that language then took place between them which
reflected everlasting honor upon Connor, who, by the way, was one of
Reilly's tenants, but himself and his progenitors were Protestants for
three generations. He was a sharp, keen man, but generous and honorable,
and after two or three glances at our hero, at once recognized him.
This he could only intimate by a wink, for he knew that there were other
persons there who spoke Irish as well as either of them. The dialogue,
however, was not long, neither was it kind-hearted Connor's wish that
it should be so. He was asked, however, if he knew any thing about Willy
Reilly, to which he replied that he did not, only by all accounts he had
left the country. This, indeed, was the general opinion.
“This blockhead,” said Connor, “knows nothing about him, only what
he has heard; he's a pig dealer, and is now on his way to the fair of
Sligo; come on.”
They passed onwards, and Reilly resumed his journey and his song.
On reaching the farmer's house where he and the bishop lodged, the
unhappy prelate felt rather annoyed, at the appearance of a stranger,
and was about to reprove their host for his carelessness in admitting
such persons.
“What do you want here, my good man?” inquired the farmer.
“Do you wish to say anything to me?” asked the bishop.
“A few words,” replied Reilly; but, on consideration, he changed his
purpose of playing off a good-humored joke on his lordship and the
farmer. For the melancholy prelate he felt the deepest compassion and
respect, and apprehended that any tampering with his feelings might be
attended with dangerous consequences to his intellect. He consequently
changed his purpose, and added, “My lord, don't you know me?”
The bishop looked at him, and it was not without considerable scrutiny
that he recognized him.
In the meantime the farmer, who had left the room previous to this
explanation, and who looked upon Reilly as an impostor or a spy,
returned with a stout oaken cudgel, exclaiming, “Now, you damned
desaver, I will give you a jacketful of sore bones for comin' to pry
about here. This gintleman is a doctor; three of my family are lying ill
of faver, and that you may catch it I pray gorra this day! but if you
won't catch that, you'll catch this,” and he whirled the cudgel about
his head, and most unquestionably it would have descended on Reilly s
cranium were it not for the bishop, who interposed and prevented the
meditated violence.
“Be quiet, Kelly,” said he, “be quiet, sir; this is Mr. Reilly
disguised.”
“Troth, I must look closely at him first,” replied Kelly; “who knows but
he's imposin' upon you, Dr. Wilson?”
Kelly then looked closely into his face, still holding a firm grip of
the cudgel.
“Why, Kelly,” said Reilly, “what the deuce are you at? Don't you know my
voice at least?”
“Well,” replied Kelly, “bad luck to the like o' that ever I see. Holy
Moses, Mr. Reilly, but you had a narrow escape, Devil a man in the
barony can handle a cudgel as I can, and it was a miracle, and you
may thank his lordship here for it that you hadn't a shirtful of sore
bones.”
“Well, my dear friend,” said Reilly, “put up your cudgel; I really don't
covet a shirtful of sore bones; but, after all, perhaps you would have
found my fist a match for your cudgel.”
“Nonsense!” replied Kelly; “but God be praised that you escaped the
welting anyhow; I would never forgive myself, and you the friend of his
lordship.”
He then left the room, his terrific cudgel under his arm, and Reilly,
after his absence, related to the bishop the events of the day,
involving, as they did, the two narrow escapes which he had had. The
bishop thanked God, and told Reilly to be of good courage, for that he
thought the hand of Providence was protecting him.
The life they led here was, at all events, quiet and peaceable. The
bishop was a man of singular, indeed of apostolic, piety. He spent most
of the day in meditation and prayer; fasting beyond the powers of his
enfeebled constitution: and indeed it was fortunate that Reilly had
accompanied him, for so ascetic were his habits that were it not for his
entreaties, and the influence which he had gained over him, it is not
at all unlikely that his unfortunate malady might have returned. The
neighborhood in which they resided was, as wo have said, remote, and
exclusively Catholic; and upon Sundays the bishop celebrated mass upon
a little grassy platform--or rather in a little cave, into which it
led. This cave was small, barely large enough to contain a table, which
served as a temporary altar, the poor shivering congregation kneeling
on the platform outside. At this period of our story all the Catholic
chapels and places of worship were, as we have said, closed by
proclamation, and the poor people were deprived of the means of meeting
to worship God. It had soon, however, become known to them that an
opportunity of public worship was to be had every Sunday, at the place
we have described.
Messengers had been sent among them with information to that effect; and
the consequence was that they not only kept the secret, but flocked
in considerable numbers to attend mass. On the Sunday following the
adoption of Reilly's disguise, the bishop and he proceeded to the little
cave, or rather cleft, where a table had been placed, together with
the vestments necessary for the ceremony. They found about two or three
hundred persons assembled--most of them of the humblest class. The day
was stormy in the extreme. It was a hard frost, and the snow, besides,
falling heavily, the wind strong, and raging in hollow gusts about the
place. The position of the table-altar, however, saved the bishop and
the chalice, and the other matters necessary for the performance of
worship, from the direct fury of the blast, but not altogether; for
occasionally a whirlwind would come up, and toss over the leaves of the
missal in such a way, and with such violence, that the bishop, who was
now trembling from the cold, was obliged to lose some time in finding
out the proper passages. It was a solemn sight to see two or three
hundred persons kneeling, and bent in prostrate and heartfelt adoration,
in the pious worship of that God who sends and withholds the storm;
bareheaded, too, under the piercing drift of the thick-falling granular
snow, and thinking of nothing but their own sins, and that gladsome
opportunity of approaching the forbidden altar of God, now doubly dear
to them that it ivas forbidden. As the ceremony was proceeding the
bishop was getting on to that portion of the sacred rites where the
consecration and elevation of the Host are necessary, and it was
observed by all that an extraordinary and sudden lull took place, and
that the rage of the storm had altogether ceased. He proceeded, and had
consecrated the Host--hoc est corpus meum--when cry of terror arose from
the affrighted congregation.
“Mylord, fly, and save yourself! Captain Smellpriest and his gang are
upon us.”
The bishop never once turned round, nor seemed to hear them; but Reilly
did, and saw that the whole congregation had fled, and that there only
remained the bishop and himself.
“Our day of doom,” said he to himself, “is come. Nothing now can save
us.”
Still the bishop proceeded undisturbed in the worship of the Almighty;
when, lo! the military party, headed and led on by the notorious Captain
Smellpriest, came thundering up, the captain exclaiming:
“You idolatrous Papist, stop that mummery--or you shall have twelve
bullets in your heart before half a minute's time.”
The bishop had consecrated the Host, as we have said, but had not yet
had time to receive it.
“Men,” said Smellpriest, “you are all primed and loaded. Present.”
They accordingly did so; every musket was levelled at him. The bishop
now turned round, and, with the calmness of a martyr--a calmness and
conduct that were sublime--he said:
“Sir, I am engaged in the worship of the Eternal God, and if you wish
to shed my blood I should rather it were here and now than in any other
place. Give me but a few minutes--I do not ask more.”
“Oh,” said Smellpriest, “we will give you ten, if you wish it, and the
more so because we are sure of you.”
When the bishop turned round again, after having received the Host,
his pale face had altogether changed its complexion--it burned with
an expression which it is difficult to describe. A lofty sense of
the sacrifice he was about to make was visible in his kindling and
enthusiastic eye; his feeble frame, that had been, dining the ceremony
of mass, shivering under the effects of the terrible storm that howled
around them, now became firm, and not the slightest mark of fear or
terror was visible in his bearing; calmly and undauntedly he turned
round, and with a voice full and steady he said:
“I am willing to die for my religion, but I say to you that the
slaughter of an inoffensive man at the foot of God's altar will not
smooth the pillow of your deathbed, nor of those who shoot down
a minister of God while in the act of worshipping his Creator, My
congregation, poor timid creatures, have fled, but as for me, I will
not! I dare not! Here, now, I spread out my arms--fire!”
[Illustration: PAGE 91--Here, now, I spread out my arms--fire!]
“I also,” said Reilly, “will partake of whatever fate may befall the
venerable clergyman who is before you,” and he stood up side by side
with the bishop.
The guns were still levelled, the fingers of the men on the triggers,
when Smellpriest shouted out, “Ground arms! By ---,” says he, “here is
a new case; this fellow has spunk and courage, and curse me, although I
give the priests a chase wherever I can, still I am a soldier, and a man
of courage, and to shoot down a priest in the worship of God would be
cowardly. No, I can't do it--nor I won't; I like pluck, and this priest
has shown it. Had he taken to his heels, by ---, he would have had half
a dozen bullets in his rear; but, as I said, I like pluck, and on that
account we shall pass him by this time. To the right about. As to the
clerk, by ---, he has shown pluck too, but be hanged to him, what do we
care about him?”
We must say a word or two here about Smellpriest. He was, in the true
sense of the word, a priest-hunter; but yet, with all his bigotry, he
was a brave man, and could appreciate courage wherever he found it.
The reader already knows that his range of persecution was by no means
either so wide or so comprehensive as that of the coward Whitecraft.
He was a dashing, outspoken fellow, with an equal portion of boisterous
folly and mischief; whereas Whitecraft was a perfect snake--treacherous,
cruel, persevering in his enmity, and unrelenting in his vengeance. Such
was the difference in the character of these two worthies.
After Smellpriest had drawn off his men, the bishop concluded the
ceremony of the mass; but when he turned round to announce its
conclusion in the words, _ite, missa est_, there was not a soul before
him, the terrified congregation, as we have said, having all betaken
themselves to flight. Reilly then assisted him to unrobe, and placed
the vestments, the chalice, pix, and every thing connected with the
ceremony, in a pair of saddle-bags, which belonged to the parish priest,
whose altar was then closed, as we said, by proclamation.
Reilly and the bishop then proceeded to the farmer's house, Reilly
carrying the saddlebags, and as they went along the following
conversation took place between them:
“My lord,” said his companion, “if I might presume to advise you, I
think it would be more prudent for you to retire to the Continent for a
time. This ferocious captain, who, subdued by the sublime tenor of
your conduct, spared you on this occasion, may not under other and less
impressive circumstances, exercise a similar forbearance.”
“But, my dear Reilly,” replied the bishop, in a tone of deep melancholy,
“I am not in circumstances to go to the Continent; I am poor; most of my
available money I have distributed among the unhappy people, until I am
now nearly as poor as themselves; but, independently of that, I do not
think it would be right to abandon the charge which God has entrusted to
my keeping. The shepherd should not desert his flock, especially in the
moment of danger, when the wolves ire abroad.”
“But, my lord,” replied Reilly, “under the present circumstances of the
country your residence here can be of no service to them. The chapels
are all closed, and public worship forbidden by law. This cannot, and, I
hope, will not, last long; but in the meantime, think if it be not wiser
in you to go for a time into what I may call a voluntary exile, than be
forced into banishment by a cruel edict of the law, as you will be if
you should be discovered.”
“There is great truth in what you say, my dear Reilly, and on thinking
over the circumstances of the country, I am indeed of opinion that your
advice is good; but, unfortunately, my present poverty prevents me from
acting on it.”
“But that shall not be, my lord; I have the means--amply, too--of
enabling your lordship to withdraw to the Continent, where you can
remain quite safe until better times return, as I hope in God they will
soon.”
“And yourself, Reilly? why not accompany me? You, it is said, are
outlawed; why then remain in a country where your danger is still
greater than mine?”
“My lord,” replied Reilly, “do not press me on that subject.”
“I do not wish to do so, Reilly; but here are the circumstances: you and
the beautiful daughter of that old squire are attached--in other words,
you love each other passionately. Now, you know, marriage is impossible,
unless you should abandon the creed of your fathers.”
“I think, my lord,” replied Reilly, in a very serious and somewhat
offended tone, “that my conduct this day, and within the last half hour,
was not that of a man likely to abandon the creed of his fathers.”
“Certainly not--most certainly not,” replied the bishop. “I would have
died this day for my religion, and so would you.”
“And so would I certainly, my lord, any day, sooner than renounce it for
the love of woman. So far let your lordship's mind be at rest. But in
the meantime, let me impress upon your lordship's consideration the
absolute necessity of retiring to the Continent for a time. Your
lordship's charity has made you poor; but, thank God, I am not poor--but
in a position to place £200 in your hands to enable you to bear the
expenses of your voyage, and to maintain your ecclesiastical rank and
position for a time, when you get there.”
“Oh,” replied the bishop, “if I were once there, very little money
would be necessary; I could almost immediately get a professorship
of divinity, especially in the College of Louvain, where I held a
professorship for several years.”
It was arranged that the bishop should go, at least until the times
should change, and in the course of a week, Reilly having furnished
him with the necessary funds, he departed and reached the Continent in
safety.
Their separation was extremely affecting. The bishop wept bitterly, not
only in consequence of his parting with Reilly, but still more because
he was forced to separate himself from his flock. Reilly was deeply
affected, nor could he restrain his tears. The bishop put his hand on
his head and blessed him. “I feel,” said he, “as if it were a prophetic
impulse, that God will bring you out of the tribulations that encompass
you. Forget not his word nor his law; love and adhere to your religion;
be guided by its precepts, let them sink deeply into your heart. Take
care, also, that the love of woman shall not seduce you from your
allegiance to our Church. And now, may the Almighty God bless and
protect you, and rescue you from the hands and the snares of your
enemies!” And so they parted.
No stronger proof could exist, so far as the _Cooleen Bawn_ was
concerned, than her extraordinary power of conciliating love and
attachment from all who approached her, or were engaged in attending
upon her person. The singular softness of her sweet and mellow voice
was in itself an exponent of the remarkable suavity and benignity of her
disposition. In fact, she carried a charm about her--an atmosphere
of kindness and benevolence that no human being who came within its
influence could resist. Her smile was a perfect fascination, which, in
addition to her elegance of form--her grace and harmony of motion--her
extensive charity--her noble liberality of sentiment--and, above all,
her dazzling beauty, constituted a character which encircled her with
admiration and something almost bordering on worship.
At this time a scheme came into the fertile brain of Whitecraft, worthy
of being concocted only in the infernal pit itself. This was to prevail
on the squire to remove her faithful, attached, and confidential
maid, Ellen Connor, from about her person, under the plea that as,
unfortunately, Miss Folliard had been seduced into an affection for
Reilly, it was not only probable that her attendant had originated and
encouraged her passion, but that it was also likely that, as Reilly was
a Catholic, Connor, the confidant, being herself of that persuasion,
might so work upon the feelings and principles of his daughter as
to induce her, for the sake of the more easily bringing about their
marriage, to abandon her own religion, and embrace that of her lover.
The old man became instantly alarmed, and, with his usual fiery
impetuosity, lost not a moment in dismissing her altogether from his
family.
When this faithful girl found that she was about to be separated from
her fair and affectionate young mistress, no language could depict
the violence of her grief, nor could that mistress herself refuse the
tribute of her tears to her sense of the loss which she knew she must
sustain by her absence at a crisis when she stood so much in need of her
friendship and attachment.
“Oh! it is not for myself, my dear mistress, that I feel this grief,”
exclaimed Connor, weeping bitterly as she spoke, “but for you. Here
you will be alone,” she proceeded, “without one being on whom you can
depend, or to whom you can open your heart--for many a time you eased
that poor heart by telling me of your love for him, and by dwellin' upon
his accomplishments and beauty--and, indeed, it's no wonder you should,
for where, oh! where is his aiquil to be found? Like yourself, every
one that comes near him must love him; and, like you, again, isn't he
charity itself to the poor, no matter what their creed may be--oh, no!
it's he that is neither the bigot nor the oppressor, although God
he knows what he himself is sufferin' from both. God's curse on that
blasted Sir Robert Whitecraft! I declare to mercy, I think, if I was a
man, that I'd shoot him, like a mad dog, and free the country of him at
wanst.”
The Cooleen was herself in tears, occasioned by such a glowing picture
of her lover, as well as by the loss of this faithful and devoted girl.
Yet she could not repress a smile at the indignation expressed by
Ellen against the man whom she looked upon with such detestation and
abhorrence,
“My dear Ellen,” said she, drying her tears, “we must only have
patience. Every thing is in the hands of God, and in him let us trust.
Do not weep so. It is true that, without your society, I shall feel
as if I were in a desert, or rather, I should say, in a dungeon; for,
indeed, I fear that I am about to become a prisoner in my father's
house, and entangled more and more every day in the meshes of that
detestable villain. In the meantime, we must, as I said, have courage
and patience, and trust to a change of circumstances for better times.”
“May the Lord in heaven grant them soon and sudden, for both your
sakes,” ejaculated Ellen. “I pray the Saviour that he may!”
“But, Ellen,” said the Cooleen, “didn't you hint to me, once or twice,
that you yourself have, or had, a lover named Reilly!”
“I did,” she replied, “not that I have, but that I had--and, what is
more, an humble and distant relation of him.”
“You say you had. What do you mean by that, Ellen? Have you, too,
experienced your crosses and calamities?”
“Indeed, ma'am, I have had my share; and I know too well what it is to
have the heart within as full of sorrow, and all but broken.”
“Why, my poor girl, and have you too experienced disappointment and
affliction?”
“God, ma'am, has given me my share; but, in my case, the affliction was
greater than the disappointment, although that too came soon enough upon
me.”
“Why, did not the affliction, in your case, proceed from the
disappointment?”
“Not exactly, miss, but indeed partly it did. It's but a short story,
my dear mistress, and I'll tell it to you. Fergus is his name--Fergus
O'Reilly. His father, for doin' something or other contrary to the
laws--harborin' some outlaw, I believe, that was a relation of his own,
and who was found by the army in his house--well, his father, a very
ould man, was taken prisoner, and put into jail, where he died before
they could try him; and well it was he did so, for, by all accounts,
they'd have transported or hanged the poor ould man, who was then past
seventy. Now, over and above that, they'd have done the same thing with
his son Fergus, but that he disappeared and but few knows what became of
him.”
“Why, did he go without having had an interview with you?” asked the
Cooleen.
“Indeed he did, miss, and small blame to him; for the truth is, he had
little time for leave-takin'--it was as much as he could do to make his
escape, which, thank God, he did. But, indeed, I oughtn't to thank God
for it, I doubt, because it would have been better, and ten times
more creditable to himself, if he had been transported, or hanged
himself--for that, ma'am, is many a good man's case, as every one
knows.”
“I agree with you, Ellen. There is, indeed, a most essential difference
between flagitious crimes, such as theft, robbery, murder, and other
dreadful outrages of that character, and those which may be termed
offences arising from political opinions, which are often honestly
entertained by individuals who, in all the relations of life,
are sometimes the most exemplary members of society. But proceed,
Ellen--what was the result?”
Poor Ellen's eyes filled with tears, and she could scarcely summon
composure enough to reply:
“Worse than transportation or even death, my dear mistress; oh! far
worse--guilt and crime. Yes: he that had gained my affections, and gave
me his, joined the Red Rapparee and his gang, and became--a robber.
I was goin' to say an outlaw, but he was that before he joined them,
because he wouldn't submit to the laws--that is, wouldn't submit to be
transported, or maybe hanged--or you know, ma'am, how little a thing it
is that will either hang or transport any one of our unfortunate creed
now.”
“Alas! my dear Ellen, you forget that I am a living witness of it, and
an afflicted one; but proceed. Have you ever seen your lover since?”
“I did, ma'am, but at that time he mentioned nothing about his havin'
joined the Rapparees. He came, he said, to bid me farewell, and to tell
me that he wasn't worthy of me. 'The stain that's upon me,' said he,
'draws a gulf between you and me that neither of us can ever pass.'
He could scarcely speak, but he dashed away the tears that came to his
eyes--and--and--so he took his departure. Now, my dear young mistress,
you see how well I can understand your case, and the good reason I have
to feel for you, as I do, and ever will, until God in his mercy may set
you both free from what you're sufferin'.”
“But, are you certain, Ellen, that he actually has joined the
Rapparees?”
“Too sure, ma'am--too sure; my father had it in private from his own
lips, for, as the poor boy said, he hadn't the courage himsell to tell
me.”
“But, Ellen,” asked Miss Folliard, “where had you an opportunity of
seeing and becoming acquainted with this young man? You surely could
not have known him, or conceived an attachment for him, previous to your
coming to reside with us?”
“Oh, no, ma'am,” replied Ellen; “it was at my father's I became
acquainted with him, principally whenever I got lave to spend a Sunday
at home. And now, my dear mistress,” she proceeded, sobbing, “I must
go--your poor, faithful Ellen will never let you, nor the thought of
your sorrows, out of her heart. All she can do now is to give you her
prayers and her tears. Farewell! my darlin' mistress--may the blessing
of God guard and prosper you both, and bring you to the happiness you
deserve.” She wept bitterly as she concluded.
“Ellen,” replied her mistress, and she paused--“Ellen,” said she
again--she would, indeed, have spoken, but, after a silent struggle, she
covered her eyes with her handkerchief, and was fairly carried away
by her emotions--“Ellen,” said she, taking her hand, and recovering
herself, “be of courage; let neither of us despair--a brighter light
may shine on our path yet. Perhaps I may have it in my power to befriend
you, hereafter. Farewell, Ellen; and if I can prevail on my father to
bring you back, I will.” And so they parted.
Connor's father was a tenant of the squire's, and held rather a
comfortable farm of about eighteen or twenty acres. Ellen herself had,
when very young, been, by some accident or other, brought within the
notice of Mrs. Folliard, who, having been struck by her vivacity,
neatness of figure, and good looks, begged permission from her parents
to take the little girl under her care, and train her up to wait upon
her daughter. She had now been eight years in the squire's family--that
is, since her fourteenth--and was only two years older than the _Cooleen
Baum_, who was now, and had been for the last three years, her only
mistress. She had consequently grown, is it were, into all her habits,
and we may justly say that there was not an individual in existence who
had a better opportunity of knowing and appreciating her good qualities
and virtues; and, what was much to her honor, she never for a moment
obtruded her own private sorrows upon the ear or heart of her mistress,
who, she saw, had a sufficient number of her own to bear.
It was late in the evening when she took farewell of her mistress, and
twilight had come on ere she had got within half mile of her father's
house. On crossing a stile which led, by a pathway, to the little
hamlet in which her father lived, she was both surprised and startled by
perceiving Fergus Reilly approach her. He was then out of his disguise,
and dressed in his own clothes, for he could not prevail upon himself to
approach her father's house, or appear before any of the family, in the
tattered garb of a mendicant. On this occasion he came to tell them
that he had abandoned the gang of the Red Rapparee, and come to the
resolution of seeking his pardon from the Government, having been
informed that it offered protection to all who would come in and submit
to the laws, provided they had not been guilty of shedding human blood.
This intelligence, however, was communicated to the family, as a means
of preparing them for still more important information upon the subject
of his own liberty--a matter with which the reader will soon become
acquainted, as he will with the fact of his having left off his disguise
only for a brief period. In the meantime, he felt perfectly conscious of
the risk he ran of a failure in the accomplishment of his own project,
by throwing off his disguise, and was then hastening on his way to the
cottage of widow Buckley, where he had left his mendicant apparel for
the time being.
When Ellen saw him she felt a tumult in her bosom which almost overcame
her. Her heart palpitated almost audibly, and her knees became feeble
under her. There was something so terrible associated with the idea of a
Rapparee that she took it for granted that some frightful transformation
of person and character must have taken place in him, and that she would
now meet a man thoroughly imbued with all the frightful and savage vices
which were so frequently, and too often so generally, attributed to that
fierce and formidable class. Still, the recollection of their former
affection, and her knowledge of the oppression which had come upon
himself and his family, induced her to hope that the principles of
humanity could not have been altogether effaced from his heart. Full of
doubt and anxiety, therefore, she paused at the stile, against which she
felt it necessary to lean for support, not without a touch of interest
and somewhat of curiosity, to control the vague apprehensions which
she could not help feeling. We need scarcely inform the reader that the
meeting on both sides was accidental and unexpected.
“Heavenly Father!” exclaimed Ellen, in a voice trembling with agitation,
“is this Fergus O'Reilly that I see before me? Fergus, ruined and
undone!” She then looked cautiously about her, and added, “Fergus, the
Rapparee!”
“God bless me!” he exclaimed in return, “and may I ask, is this Ellen
Connor on my path?”
“Well, I think I may say so, in one sense. Sure enough, I am Ellen
Connor; but, unfortunately, not the Ellen Connor that you wanst knew;
neither, unfortunately again, are you the Fergus O'Reilly that I wanst
knew. We are both changed, Fergus--I into sorrow, and you into crime.”
“Ellen,” said he, nearly as much agitated as herself, “I stand before
you simply as Fergus O'Seilly, but not Fergus the Rapparee.”
“You will not deny your own words to my father,” she replied.
“No, Ellen, I will not--they were true then, but, thank God, they are
not true now.”
“How is that, Fergus?”
“Simply because I was a Rapparee when I spoke to your father; but I have
left them, once and for ever.”
“How long have you left them?”
“Ever since that night. If it were not for Reilly and those that were
out with him duck-shooting, the red villain would have murdered the
squire and Andy Cummiskey, as sure as there is life in my body. After
all, it is owin' to Mr. Reilly that I left him and his cursed crew. And
now, Ellen, that I have met you, let me spake to you about ould times.
In the first place, I am heart sorry for the step I took; but you know
it was oppression and persecution that drove me to it.”
“Fergus,” she replied, “that's no excuse. Persecution may come upon us,
but that's no reason why we should allow it to drive us into evil
and crime. Don't you know that it's such conduct that justifies the
persecutors in their own eyes and in the eyes of the world. What will
become of you now? If you're caught, you must die a shameful death.”
“Devil a fear of it, my darlin' Ellen. I could tell you something, if
I thought myself at liberty to do so--something _mavourneen_, that 'ud
give you a light heart.”
“Indeed, Fergus, I don't wish to hear any of your secrets. It's my
opinion they would not be fit for me to hear. But in the mane time,” she
added--prompted by the undying principle of female curiosity, and, let
us add, a better and more generous feeling--“in the mane time, Fergus,
if it's any thing about yourself, and that it would give me a light
heart, as you say it would, and that there is nothing wrong and
dishonorable in it, I would, for your sake, be glad to hear it.”
“Well then, Ellen, I will tell it; but it must, for reasons that there's
no use in mentionin' to you, be a secret between us, for some time--not
a long time, I hope. I am, thank God, free as the air of heaven, and
may walk abroad, openly, in the face of day, if I like, without any one
darin' to ask me a question.”
“But, Fergus,” said Ellen, “I don't undherstand this. You were a
robber--a Rapparee--and now you are a free man. But what did you do to
deserve this at the hands of the Government?”
“Don't be alarmed, my darlin' Ellen--nothing imbecomin' an honest man.”
“I hope,” she proceeded--her cheeks mantling with indignation and
scorn--“I hope, Fergus, you wouldn't think of stoopin' to treachery
against the unfortunate, ay, or even against the guilty. I hope you
wouldn't sell yourself to the Government, and got your liberty, affcher
all, only as a bribe for villany, instead of a free gift.”
“See, now,” he returned, “what I have brought on myself by tellin' you
any thing at all about it--a regular ould house on my shouldhers. No,
darlin',” he proceeded, “you ought to know me better.”
“Oh, Fergus,” she replied quickly, “I thought I knew you wanst.”
“Is that generous, Ellen?” he said, in a tone of deep and melancholy
feeling, “afther statin' my sorrow for that step?”
“Well,” she replied, moved by what she saw he suffered in consequence of
her words, “if I have given you pain, Fergus, forgive me--you know it's
not in my nature to give pain to any one, but, above all persons in the
world, to you.”
“Well, darlin',” said he, “you will know all in time; but there is a
good deal to be done yet. All I can say, and all I will say, is, that
if God spares me life, I will take away one of the blackest enemies that
Willy Reilly and the _Cooleen Bawn_ has in existence. He would do any
thing that the villain of perdition he's a slave to would bid him.
Now, I'll say no more; and I'm sure, as the friend of your beautiful
mistress, the fair _Cooleen Bawn_, you'll thank me for what I have
promised to do against the Red Bapparee.”
“I will pry no further into your affairs or intentions, Fergus; but, if
you can take danger out of the way of the _Cooleen Bawn_ or Reilly, I
will forgive you a great deal--every thing, indeed, but treachery or
dishonor. But, Fergus, I have something to mention, that will take a,
start out of you. I have been discharged by the squire from his family,
and--_mavrone_, oh!--I can now be of no service to the _Cooleen Bawn_.”
“Discharged!” replied Fergus with astonishment; “why, how did that come?
But I suppose I needn't ask--some of the mad old Squire's tantrums, I
suppose? And what did the _Cooleen Bawn_ herself say?”
“Why, she cried bitterly when I was lavin' her; indeed if I had been her
sister she couldn't feel more; and, as might be expected from her, she
promised to befriend me as long as she had it in her power; but, poor
thing, if matters go against her, as I'm afeared they will--if she's
forced to marry that villain, it is little for any thing that's either
good or generous ever she'll have in her power; but marry him she never
will I heard her say more than wanst that she'd take her own life first;
and indeed I'm sartain she will, too, if she is forced to it. Either
that, or she'll lose her senses; for, indeed, Fergus, the darlin' girl
was near losin' them wanst or twist as it is--may God pity and relieve
her.”
“Amen,” replied Fergus. “And you're now on your way home, I suppose?”
“I am,” said Ellen, “and every thing belongin' to me is to be sent to my
father's; but indeed, Fergus, I don't much care now what becomes of me.
My happiness in this world is bound up in hers; and if she's to be sunk
in grief and sorrow, I can never be otherwise--we'll have the one
fate, Fergus, and God grant it may be a happy one, although I see no
likelihood of it.”
“Come, come, Ellen,” replied Fergus, “you think too much of it. The
one fate!--No, you won't, unless it is a happy one. I am now free, as I
said; and at present I see nothing to stand between your happiness and
mine. We loved one another every bit as well as Reilly and she does--ay,
and do still, I hope; and, if they can't be happy, that's no raison why
you and I shouldn't. Happy! There's nothing to prevent us from bein' so.
I am free, as I said; and all we have to do is to lave this unfortunate
country and go to some other, where there's neither oppression nor
persecution. If you consent to this, Ellen, I can get the means of
bringing us away, and of settlin' comfortably in America.”
“And I to leave the _Cooleen Bawn_ in the uncertain state she's in? No,
never, Fergus--never.”
“Why? of what use can you be to her now, and you separated from her--ay,
and without the power of doin' any thing to sarve her?”
“Fergus,” said she, resolutely, “it's useless at the present time to
speak to me on this subject. I'm glad you've got yourself from among
these cruel and unconscionable Rapparees--I'm glad you're free; but
I tell you that if you had the wealth of Squire Folliard--ay, or of
Whitecraft himself, which they say is still greater, I wouldn't become
your wife so long as she's in the state she's in.”
“That's strong language, Ellen, and I am sorry to hear it from you. My
God! can you think of nobody's happiness but the _Cooleen Bawn_'s? As
for me, it's my opinion I like Reilly as well every bit as you do her;
but, for all that, not even the state he's in, nor the danger that
surrounds him, would prevent me from marryin' a wife--from bindin' your
heart and mine together for life, my darlin' Ellen.”
“Ah! Fergus, you're a man--not a woman--and can't undherstand what true
attachment is. You men never can. You're a selfish set--at least the
most of you are--with some exceptions, I grant.”
“And, upon my soul, Ellen,” replied Fergus, with a good-humored
smile, “I'm one of the choicest and natest of the exceptions. I prefer
everybody's happiness to my own--poor Sir Robert Whitecraft's, for
instance. Now, don't you call that generosity?”
She gave a mournful smile, and replied, “Fergus, I can't join in your
mirth now as I used to do. Many a pleasant conversation we've had; but
then our hearts were light, and free from care. No, Fergus, you must
lave all thoughts of me aside, for I will have nothing of either love or
courtship till I know her fate. Who can say but I may be brought back?
She said she'd try what she could do with her father to effect it. You
know how whimsical the old Squire is; and who knows whether she may not
stand in need of me again? But, Fergus, there's one thing strikes me
as odd, and, indeed, that doesn't rise you much in my good opinion. But
first, let me ask you, what friend it is who'd give you the means of
going to another country?”
“Why, who else but Reilly?” he replied.
“And could you,” she returned, with something like contempt stamped upon
her pretty features--“could you be mane and ungrateful enough to leave
him now in the trouble and sorrow that he's in, and think only of
yourself?”
“No, indeed, my dear Ellen; but I was only layin' the plan whenever
we might be able to put it in practice. I'm not exactly a boy of that
kidney--to desart my friend in the day of his trouble--devil a bit of
it, my darlin'.”
“Well, I am glad to hear you speak as you do,” she said, with a smile;
“and now, to reward your constancy to him, I tell you that whenever
they're settled, or, at all events, out of their troubles, if you think
me worth your while, I won't have any objection to become your wife;
and--there--what are you about, Fergus? See this, now--you've almost
broken the tortoise-shell crooked-comb that she made me a present of.”
“Why, blood alive, Ellen, sure it was only sealin' the bargain I was.”
“But remember it is a bargain, and one I'll stick to. Now leave me; it's
gettin' quite dark; or, if you like, you may see me across the fields.”
Such, in fact, was the indomitable attachment of this faithful girl
to her lovely and affectionate mistress that, with a generosity as
unselfish as it was rare, and almost heroic, she never for a moment
thought of putting her own happiness or prospects in life in competition
with those of the _Cooleen Bawn_. The latter, it is true, was conscious
of this unparalleled attachment, and appreciated it at its true value.
How nobly this admirable girl fulfilled her generous purpose of abiding
by the fate and fortunes of her unhappy mistress will be seen as the
narrative goes along.
Ellen's appearance in her father's house surprised the family not
a little. The expression of sorrow which shaded her very handsome
features, and a paleness which was unusual to her, alarmed them
considerably--not so much from any feeling connected with herself, as
from an apprehension that some new-distress or calamity had befallen the
_Cooleen Bawn_, to whom they all felt almost as deeply attached as she
did herself. After the first affectionate salutations were over, she
said, with a languid smile:
“I suppose you all wonder to see me here at this hour; or, indeed, to
see me here at all.”
“I hope, Ellen,” said-her father, “that nothing unpleasant has happened
to her.”
“May the Lord forbid,” said her mother, “and may the Lord take the
darlin' creature out of all her troubles. But has there, Ellen--has
anything happened to her?”
“Nothing more than usual,” replied their daughter, “barring that I have
been sent away from her--I am no longer her own maid now.”
“_Chierna_!” exclaimed her mother; “and what is that for, _alanna_?”
“Well, indeed, mother, I can't exactly say,” replied Ellen, “but I
suppose it is because they knew I loved her too much to be a spy upon
her. I have raison, however, to suspect that the villain is at the
bottom of it, and that the girl who came in my place will act more like
a jailer than a maid to her. Of course they're all afraid that she'll
run away with Reilly.”
“And do you think she will, Ellen?” asked her father.
“Don't ask me any such questions,” she replied. “It's no matter what I
think--and, besides, it's not my business to mention my thoughts to any
one--but one thing I know, it'll go hard if she ever leaves her father,
who, I really think, would break his heart if she did.”
“Oh!” observed the father, with a smile, “divil a one o' you girls,
Ellen, ever thinks much of father or mother when you have made up your
minds to run away wid your _buchaleens_--sorra a taste.”
“_Arra_, Brian, will you have sinse,” said his wife; “why wouldn't they
think o' them?”
“Did you do it?” he asked, winking at the rest, “when you took a brave
start wid myself across Crockaniska, one summer Sunday night, long ago.
Be me sowl, you proved youself as supple as a two-year-old--cleared,
drain and ditch like a bird--and had me, when we reached my uncle's,
that the ayes wor startin' out o' my head.”
“Bad scran to him, the ould slingpoker! Do you hear him,” she exclaimed,
laughing--“never mind him, children!--troth, he went at sich a snail's
pace that one 'ud think it was to confession he was goin', and that he
did nothing but think of his sins as he went along.”
“That was bekaise I knew that I had the penance before me,” he replied,
laughing also.
“Any how,” replied his wife, “our case was not like their's. We were
both Catholics, and knew that we'd have the consent of our friends,
besides; we only made a runaway because it was the custom of the
counthry, glory be to God!”
“Ay, ay,” rejoined her husband; “but, faith, it was you that proved
yourself the active girl that night, at any rate. However, I hope the
Lord will grant her grace to go, wid him, at all events, for, upon my
sowl, it would be a great boast for the Catholics--bekaise we know there
is one thing sure, and that is, that the divil a long she'd be wid
him till he'd have left her fit to face Europe as a Christian and a
Catholic, bekaise every wife ought to go wid her husband, barrin' he's a
Prodestant.”
Poor Ellen paid little attention to this conversation. She felt deeply
depressed, and, after many severe struggles to restrain herself, at last
burst into tears.
“Come, darlin',” said her father, “don't let this affair cast you
down so much; all will yet turn out for the betther, I hope. Cheer up,
_avillish_; maybe that, down-hearted as you are, I have good news for
you. Your ould sweetheart was here this evenin', and hopes soon to have
his pardon--he's a dacent boy, and has good blood in his veins; and as
for his joinin' O'Donnel, it wasn't a a bad heart set him to do it, but
the oppression that druv him, as it did many others, to take the steps
he took--oppression on the one side, and bitterness of heart on the
other.”
“I saw him awhile ago,” she replied, “and he tould me a good deal about
himself. But, indeed, father, it's not of him I'm thinkin', but on the
darlin' girl that's on the brink of destruction, and what I know she's
sufferin'.”
“I wondher where Reilly is,” said her mother. “My goodness! sure he
ought to make a push, and take her off at wanst. I dunna is he in the
country at all? What do you think, Ellen?”
“Indeed, mother,” she replied, “very few, I believe, knows any thing
about him. All I'm afraid of is, that, wherever he may be, he'll hardly
escape discovery.”
“Well,” said her father, “I'll tell you what we'll do. Let us kneel
down and offer up ten pathers, ten aves, and a creed, that the Lord may
protect them both from their enemies, and grant them a happy marriage,
in spite of laws, parliaments, magistrates, spies, persecutors and
priest-hunters, and, as our hands are in, let us offer up a few that
God may confound that villain, Whitecraft, and bring him snugly to the
gallows.”
This was immediately complied with, in a spirit of earnestness
surpassing probably what they might have felt had they been praying
for their own salvation. The prayers having been concluded, and supper
prepared, in due time the family retired to rest for the night.
When Fergus Reilly took his leave of Ellen, he directed his steps to the
cottage of Mrs. Buckley, where, for certain purpose connected with his
designs on the Red Rapparee, he had been in the habit of meeting: the
sagacious fool, Tom Steeple. It was there, besides, that he had left his
disguise, which the unaccomplished progress of his projects rendered it
necessary that he should once more resume. This, in fact, was the place
of their rendezvous, where they generally met at night. These meetings,
however, were not always very regular; for poor Tom, notwithstanding his
singular and anomalous: cunning, was sometimes led away by his gastric
appetite to hunt for a bully dinner, or a bully supper, or a mug of
strong beer, as the case might be, and after a gorge he was frequently
so completely overtaken by laziness and a consequent tendency to sleep,
that he retired to the barn, or some other outhouse, where he stretched
his limbs on a shake-down of hay or straw, and lapped himself into a
state of luxury which many an epicure of rank and wealth might envy.
On reaching the widow's cottage, Fergus felt somewhat disappointed that
Tom was not there, nor had he been seen that day in any part of the
neighborhood. Fergus, however, whilst the widow was keeping watch
outside, contrived to get on his old disguise once more, after which
he proceeded in the direction of his place of refuge for the night. On
crossing the fields, however, towards the wild and lonely road, which
was at no great distance from the cottage, he met Tom approaching it, at
his usual sling-trot pace.
“Is that Tom?” said he--“tall Tom?”
“Hicco, hicco!” replied Tom, quite gratified with the compliment. “You
be tall, too--not as tall as Tom dough. Tom got bully dinner to-day, and
bully sleep in de barn, and bully supper, but wasn't sleepy den--hicco,
hicco.”
“Well, Tom, what news about what you know?”
“In toder house,” replied Tom; “him sleeps in Peg Finigan's sometimes,
and sometimes in toder again--dat is, Mary Mahon's. Him's afeared o'
something--hard him say so, sure, to ould Peg.”
“Well, Tom, if you will keep your eye on him, so as that you can let us
know where to find him, we engage to give you a bully dinner every day,
and, a bully supper every night of your life, and a swig of stout ale to
wash it down, with plenty of straw to sleep on, and a winnow-cloth and
lots of sacks to keep you as warm and cosey as a winter hob. You know
where to find me every evenin' after dusk, Tom, and when you come with
good news, you'll be a made man; and, listen, Tom, it'll make you a foot
taller, and who knows, man alive, but we may show you for a giant, now.”
“Hicco, hicco!” said Tom; “dat great--never mind; me catch him for you.
A giant!--oh, gorramarcy!--a giant!--hicco!--gorramarcy!” and with these
words he darted off in some different direction, whilst Fergus went to
his usual place of rest for the night.
It would seem by the Red Rapparee s movements at this time as if he
entertained some vague suspicions of awakened justice, notwithstanding
the assurances of safety previously communicated to him by Sir Robert
Whitecraft. Indeed, it is not impossible that even the other individuals
who had distinguished themselves under that zealous baronet might, in
their conversations with each other, have enabled the Rapparee to get
occasional glimpses of the new state of things which had just taken
place, and that, in consequence, he shifted about a good deal, taking
care never to sleep two nights in succession under the same roof. Be
this as it may, the eye of Tom Steeple was on him, without the least
possible suspicion on his part that he was under his surveillance.