Reilly led a melancholy life after the departure of the pious bishop. A
week, however, had elapsed, and he felt as if it had been half a year.
His anxiety, however, either to see or hear from his _Cooleen Bawn_
completely overcame him, and he resolved, at all events, to write to
her; in the meantime, how was he to do this? There was no letter-paper
in the farmer's house, nor any to be procured within miles, and, under
these circumstances, he resolved to pay a visit to Mr. Brown. After some
trouble he was admitted to the presence of that gentleman, who could
scarcely satisfy himself of his identity; but, at length, he felt
assured, and asked him into the study.
“My dear Reilly,” said he, “I think you are infatuated. I thought you
had been out of the country long before this. Why, in heaven's name, do
you remain in Ireland, when you know the difficulty of escape? I
have had, since I saw you last, two or three domiciliary visits from
Whitecraft and his men, who searched my whole house and premises in a
spirit of insolence that was, most indelicate and offensive. Hastings
and I have sent a memorial to the Lord Lieutenant, signed by some of the
most respectable Protestant gentry in the, country, in which we
stated his wanton tyranny as well as his oppression of his Majesty's
subjects--harmless and loyal men, and whom he pursues with unsatiable
vengeance, merely because they are Roman Catholics. I certainly do not
expect that our memorial will be attended to by this Administration.
There is a report, however, that the present Ministry will soon go out,
and be succeeded by one more liberal.”
“Well,” replied Reilly, “since I saw you last I have had some narrow
escapes; but I think it would be difficult to know me in my present
disguise.”
“I grant that,” said Mr. Brown, “but then is there nothing to be
apprehended from treachery?”
“I think not,” replied the other. “There is only the farmer and his
family, with whom the bishop and I harbored, who are aware of my
disguise, and to that number I must now add yourself.”
“Well,” replied Mr. Brown, smiling, “I do not think you have much to
apprehend from me.”
“No,” said Reilly, “you have given me too many substantial proofs of
your confidence for that. But I wish to write a letter; and I have
neither pen, ink, nor paper; will you be good enough to lend me the use
of your study for a few minutes, and your writing materials?”
The excellent clergyman immediately conducted him to the study, and
placed the materials before him with his own hands, after which he left
the room. Reilly then sat down, and penned the following letter to his
dear _Cooleen Bawn_:
“I am now thoroughly disguised, indeed so effectually that my nearest
and dearest friends could not know me; nay, I question whether even you
yourself would, except by the keen intuition of affection, which is said
to penetrate all disguises, unless those of falsehood and hypocrisy.
These, however, are disguises I have never worn, nor ever shall
wear--either to you or any human being. I had intended to go to the
Continent until this storm of persecution might blow over; but on
reflection I changed my purpose, for I could not leave you to run the
risk of being ensnared in the subtle and treacherous policy of that
villain. It is my intention to visit your father's house and to see
you if I can. You need not, for the sake of my safety, object to this,
because no one can know me. The description of my dress, though somewhat
undignified, I must give you. In the first place, then, I am, to all
outward appearance, as rude-looking a country lout as ever you looked
upon. My disguise consists, first, of a pair of brogues embroidered with
clouts, or what is vulgarly denominated patches, out of the point of one
of which--that of the right foot--nearly half my toe visibly projects.
The stockings are coarse Connemaras, with sufficient air-holes, both in
feet and legs, to admit the pure atmosphere, and strengthen the muscular
system. My small-clothes are corduroys, bought from a hard-working
laborer, with a large patch upon each knee. A tailor, however, has
promised to get some buttons for them and sew them on. The waistcoat is
altogether indescribable; because, as its materials seem to have been
rescued, that is, stolen, from all the scarecrows in the country, I am'
unable to come at the first fabric. The coat itself is also beautifully
variegated, its patches consisting of all the colors of the rainbow,
with two or three dozen that never appeared in that beautiful
phenomenon. But what shall I say of the pendiment, or caubeen, which is
a perfect gem of its kind? The villain who wore it, I have been told by
the person who acted as factor for me in its purchase, was one of the
most quarrelsome rascals in Ireland, and seldom went without a black eye
or a broken pate. This, I suppose, accounts for the droop in the leaf,
which covers the left eye so completely, as well as for the ventilator,
which so admirably refreshes the head, and allows the rain to come in so
abundantly to cool it. I cannot help reflecting, however, on the fate of
those who have nothing better to wear, and of the hard condition which
dooms them to it. And now, my beloved _Cooleen Bawn_, whilst I have
thus endeavored to make you smile, I assure you I have exaggerated
very little. This dress, you know, is precisely that of a wretched
Connaught-man looking for employment. The woman, who will, through our
confidant, Lanigan, deliver this to you, is a poor faithful creature,
a pensioner of mine, who may be trusted. Appoint through her a day and
hour when, as a man seeking for labor, I will stand at the hall-door. I
am quite satisfied that neither your father, nor the villain, will know
me from Adam. The woman who is to bring this will call on the second day
after its delivery, and I shall be guided by whatever message you may
send me. On one thing, however, I am determined, which is that if it
should cost me my life, I will prevent the meditated marriage between
you and him. Sooner than such an event should take place, I would put
a pistol to his head and blow his guilty soul into that perdition which
awaits it. Don't write; let your message be verbal, and destroy this.”
On going to widow Buckley's, he learned--after some trouble in
identifying himself--that she had several visits from Sir Robert and his
men, at all hours, both by night and day. He therefore hastily gave her
the necessary instructions how to act, and, above all things, to ask to
see Lanigan, and, if possible, to bring some eggs or chickens for sale,
which fact, he said, would give a color to her appearance there, and
prevent the possibility of any suspicion. Having placed the letter in
her keeping, together with some silver to enable her to purchase either
the eggs or the chickens, in case she had them not herself, he then
returned to the farmer's, where he remained quietly and without
disturbance of any kind until the third day, when widow Buckley made
her appearance. He brought her out to the garden, because in discussing
matters connected with his _Cooleen Bawn_ he did not wish that even the
farmer's family should be auditors--although we may say here that not
only were the loves of Willy Reilly and _Cooleen Bawn_ known to the
farmer and his family, but also to the whole country, and, indeed,
through the medium of ballads, to the greater portion of the kingdom.
“Well, Mrs. Buckley,” said he, “did you see her?”
“Oh, bad scran to you, Mr. Reilly! you're the very sarra among the
girls when you could persuade that lovely creature to fall in love with
you--and you a Catholic, an' her a Protestant! May I never, if I think
there's her angil out o' heaven! Devil an angel I think in it could
hould a candle to her for beauty and figure. She only wants the wings,
sir--for they say that all the angels have wings; and upon my conscience
if she had them I know the man she'd fly to.”
“But what happened, Mrs. Buckley?”
“Why, I sould some chickens and eggs to the cook, who at wanst knew me,
because I had often sould him chickens and eggs before. He came up to
the hall-door, and--'Well, Mrs. Buckley,' says he, 'what's the news?'
'_Be dhe husth_,' says I, 'before I sell you the chickens, let me ax
is the _Cooleen Bawn_ at home?' 'She is,' says he, lookin' me sharp and
straight in the face; 'do you want her?' 'I would like to see her,' says
I, 'for a minute or two.' 'Ay,' says he, back agin to me, 'you have a
message--and you know besides that she never buys chickens; that's my
business.' 'But,' says I, back agin, 'I was tould by him that you were
faithful, and could be depinded on.' 'Ay,' says he; 'but I thought he
had left the counthry.' 'Troth, then,' says I, 'he's to the fore still,
and won't lave the counthry till he sees her wanst more, at all events.'
'Have you a letther?' 'Betherahin,' says I, 'could you let me see her;
for he tould me to say to her that she is not, to indite letthers to
him, for fraid of discovery.' 'Well,' says he, 'as the master's at home,
I'll have some difficulty in spakin' to her. Devil a move she gives but
he watches; and we got a new servant the other day, and devil a thing
she is but a spy from Sir Robert Whitecraft, and some people say that
her master and she forgot the Gospel between them. Indeed I believe
that's pretty well known; and isn't he a horrid villain to send such a
vagabone to attend and be about the very woman that he expects to be his
own wife?'”
“Don't be so particular in your descriptions, Mrs. Buckley,” said
Reilly. “Did you see the _Cooleen Bawn_?”
“Look at that,” she replied, opening her hand, and showing him a golden
guinea--“don't you know by that that I seen her? but you must let me go
on my own way. 'Well,' says Lanigan, the cook, 'I must go and see what
I can do.' He then went upstairs, and contrived to give her a hint, and
that was enough. 'The Lord bless us, Mr. Reilly, what won't love do?
This girl--as Lanigan tould me--that the villain Whitecraft had sent as
a spy upon her actions, was desired to go to her wardrobe, to pick out
from among her beautiful dresses one that she had promised her as a
present some days before. The cook had this from the girl herself, who
was the sarra for dress; but, anyhow, while the the spy was tumbling
about _Cooleen Bawn_'s dresses, the darlin' herself whipped downstairs,
and coming to me says, 'The cook tells me you have a message for
me.' Jist at this moment, and after she had slipped the letter into
her bosom, her father turns a corner round the garden, and seeing his
daughter, which was a very unusual thing, in conversation with a person
like myself, he took the alarm at once. 'How, Helen? who is this you
are speaking to'? No go-between, I hope? Who are you, you blasted old
she-whelp?' 'I am no more a she-whelp than you are.' 'Then maybe you are
a he one in disguise. What brought you here?' 'Here! I came to sell
my eggs and my chickens, as I done for years.' 'Your eggs and your
chickens! curse you, you old Jezebel, did you ever lay the eggs or hatch
the chickens? And if you did, why not produce the old cock himself, in
proof of the truth of what you say? I'll have you searched, though, in
spite of your eggs and chickens. Here,' he said to one of the footmen,
who was passing through the hall--'here, Jones, send up Lanigan, till we
see whether he knows this old faggot, who has the assurance to tell me
that she lays eggs and hatches chickens.' When Lanigan came up again,
he looked at me as at an old acquaintance, which, in point of fact, we
were. 'Why, your honor,' said he, 'this is a poor, honest creature that
has been selling us eggs and chickens for many years.' 'She wouldn't be
a go-between, Lanigan--eh? What's your name, you old faggot--eh?'
'My name | is Scrahag, your honor,' says I, 'one of the Scrahags of
Ballycumpiatee--an honest and dacint family, sir; but if your honor
would buy the eggs, at any rate, and hatch them yourself,' says I to him
(for she had a large stock of Irish humor), 'you know, sir, you could
have the chickens at first cost.' 'Ha, ha, ha,' and the squire laughed
till he nearly split his sides; 'by --- I'm hit'--God pardon me for
repeatin' his oaths. 'Here, Lanigan, bring her down to the kitchen, and
give her a fog meal.' 'I understand you, sir,' said Lanigan, smiling at
him. 'Yes, Lanigan, give her a cargo of the best in the pantry. She's
a shrewd and comical old blade,' said he; 'give her a kegful of beef
or mutton, or both, and a good swill of ale or porter, or whatever she
prefers. Curse me, but I give the old whelp credit for the hit she gave
me. Pay her, besides, whatever she asks for her eggs and chickens. Here,
you bitter old randle-tree, there are three thirteens for you; and
if you will go down to the kitchen with the cook, he will give you a
regular skinful.' The cook, knowing that the _Cooleen Bawn_ wished to
send some message back to you, sir, brought me down, and gave me not
only plenty to ait and drink, but stuffed the praskeen that I had
carried the eggs and chickens in with as much cold meat and bread as it
could contain.”
“Well, but did you not see her afterwards? and did she send no message?”
“Only two or three words; the day afther to-morrow, at two o'clock, come
to look for labor, and she will contrive to see you.”
This was enough, and Reilly did not allow his ambassadress to leave him
without substantial marks of his bounty also.
When the old squire went to his study, he desired the gardener to be
sent for, and when that individual entered, he found his master in a
towering passion.
“What is the reason, Malcomson,” said he, “that the garden is in such a
shameful state? I declare to God it is scandalous.”
“Ou, your honor,” replied Malcomson, who was a Scotchman, “e'en because
you will not allow me an under gerdener. No one man could manage
your gerden, and it canna be managed without some clever chiel, what
understands the sceence.”
“The what?”
“The sceence, your honor.”
“Why, confound you, sir, what science is necessary in gardening?”
“I tell your honor that the management of a gerden requires baith skeel
and knowledge, and feelosophy.”
“Why, confound you, sir, again, what kind of doctrine is this?”
“It's vera true doctrine, sir. You have large and spacious green-hooses,
and I wad want some one to assist me wha understands buttany.”
“Buttony--Buttony--why, confound you, sirra, send for a tailor, then,
for he understands buttony.”
“I see your honor is detarmined to indulge in a jocular spirit the day.
The truth is, your honor, I hae no men to assist me but common laborers,
who are athegether ignorant of gerdening; now, if I had a man who could
direct the operations--”
“Operations! curse your Scotch impudence, do you think yourself a
general?”
“Na, na, sir; but a better man; and I tell ye that I winna remain in
your service unless I get an assistant; and I say that, if it
were-na for the aid of Miss Folliard, I wouldna been able to keep the
green-hoose e'en in its present state. She has trailed the passionflower
wi' her ain hands until it is nourishing. Then she has a beautiful
little plot of forget-me-nots; but, above a', it wad do your honor's
heart gude to see the beautiful bed she has of sweet-william and
love-lies-bleeding.”
“Ay, ay! love-lies-bleeding; no doubt but she'll take care of that.
Well, go and get an under-gardener wherever you can, and let my garden
be, at all events, such as a stranger can walk through, and such as
becomes my name and property. Engage such a person, give him whatever
you consider fair wages, and the house-steward will pay him weekly.
These are matters I can't trouble myself with now-I have other things to
think of.”
On the day mentioned in _Cooleen Bawn's_ message, Reilly hazarded a
visit to the squire's house, and after giving a single knock, begged to
see the cook. The porter having looked at him with the usual contempt
which menials of his class bestow upon poor persons, went down to the
kitchen with a good deal of reluctance, and told the cook, with a grin,
that one of his relations wanted to see him.
“Well,” replied Lanigan, who had been made aware of the intended visit,
“it's wonderful, in these hard times, the number of respectable but
reduced families that's goin' about. What kind of a gentleman is he,
John? because I am very busy now. To be sure there is a great deal of
cold vittles left, that would be lost and destroyed if we didn't give
them to the poor; and you know the masther, who is a charitable man,
desired us to do so. I'll go up and see what the poor devil wants.”
He accordingly went up to the hall-door, and found Reilly there. It was
to no purpose that he had been already apprised of his disguise--it was
so complete that he did not know him--his beard was half an inch long;
and, besides, Reilly, knowing the risk he ran in this daring adventure,
had discolored his complexion with some wash that gave it the tinge of a
mulatto. The cook was thunderstruck.
“Well, my good fellow,” said he, not in the slightest degree recognizing
him, “what do you want with me?”
“Lanigan,” replied Reilly, “don't you know me?”
“Know you! how the devil should I know you?--I never saw you before.
What do you want with me?”
“Lanigan,” whispered the other, “did you never hear of Willy Reilly?”
“Yes, I did; have you any message from him?”
“I am the man myself,” said Reilly, “but you don't know me, I am so
completely disguised. Don't you know my voice?”
“Merciful Father!” said the cook, “I'm in a doldrum; can I be sure that
you don't come from Sir Robert Whitecraft, the notorious blackguard?”
“Lanigan, I am Willy Reilly: my voice ought to tell you so; but I wish
to see and speak with my dear _Cooleen Bawn_.”
“Oh, my God, sir!” replied Lanigan, “but this love makes strange
transmigrations. She won't know you, sir.”
“Make your mind easy on that point,” replied Reilly; “only let her know
that I am here.”
“Come down to the kitchen then, sir, and I shall put you into the
servants' hall, which branches off it. It is entered, besides, by a
different door from that of the kitchen, and while you stay there--and
you can pass into it without going through the kitchen--I will try to
let her know where you are. She has at present a maid who was sent by
Sir Robert Whitecraft, and she is nothing else than a spy; but it'll go
hard, or I'll baffle her.”
He accordingly placed Reilly in the servants' hall, and on his way to
the drawing-room met Miss Folliard going to her own apartment, which
commanded a view of the front of the house. He instantly communicated
to her the fact of Reilly's presence in the servants' hall; “but,”
added Lanigan, “you won't know him--his own mother, if she was livin',
wouldn't know a bone in his body.”
“Oh!” she replied, whilst her eyes flashed fearfully, in fact, in a
manner that startled the cook--“oh! if he is there I shall soon know
him. He has a voice, I think--he has a voice! Has he not, Lanigan?”
“Yes, ma'am,” replied Lanigan, “he has a voice, and a heart too.”
“Oh! yes, yes,” she said, “I must go to him; they want to marry me to
that monster--to that bigot and persecutor, on this very day month; but,
Lanigan, it shall never be--death a thousand times sooner than such
a union. If they attempt to bind us, death shall cut the link
asunder--that I promise you, Lanigan. But I must go to him--I must go to
him.”
She ran down the stairs as she spoke, and Lanigan, having looked after
her, seemed deeply concerned.
“My God!” he exclaimed, “what will become of that sweet girl if she is
forced to marry that wealthy scoundrel? I declare to my God I hardly
think she is this moment in her proper senses. There's a fire in her
eyes; and something in her manner, that I never observed before. At
all events, I have locked the door that opens from the kitchen into the
servants' hall, so that they cannot be interrupted from that quarter.”
When the _Cooleen Bawn_ entered, she shrank back instinctively.
The disguise was so complete that she could not impose even on her
imagination or her senses. The complexion was different, in fact, quite
sallow; the beard long, and the costume such as we have described it.
There was, in fact, something extremely ludicrous in the meeting. Here
was an elegant and beautiful young woman of fashion, almost ready, as it
were, to throw herself in the arms of a common pauper, with a beard upon
him better than half an inch long. As it was, she stopped suddenly and
retreated a step or two, saying, as she did so:
“This must be some mistake. Who are you?”
“Helen!”
“Reilly! oh, that voice has set all right. But, my God, who could know
you--in this disguise?”
They approached, and Reilly, seizing her hand, said, “I will shake hands
with you; but until this disguise is off I would consider it sacrilege
to approach nearer to your person.”
“No disguise can ever shut you out from my heart, dear Reilly; but what
is to be done? I have discovered, by one of my maids, who overheard
my father say, in a short soliloquy--'Well, thank God, she'll be Sir
Robert's wife within a month, and then my mind will be easy at last.'
Oh! I'm glad you did not leave this country. But, as I said, what is to
be done? What will become of us?”
“Under our peculiar circumstances,” replied Reilly, “the question
cannot, for the present at least, be answered. As for leaving the
country, I might easily have done it, but I could not think of leaving
you to the snares and windings of that villain. I declare solemnly, I
would rather die than witness a union between you and him.”
“But what, think you, should I feel? You would be only a spectator of
the sacrifice, whereas I should be the victim.”
“Do not be cast down, my love; whilst I have life, and a strong arm, it
snail never be. Before I go I shall make arrangements with Lanigan when
and where to see you again.”
“It will be a matter of some difficulty,” she replied, “for I am
now under the strictest surveillance. I am told, and I feel it, that
Whitecraft has placed a spy upon all my motions.”
“How is that?” inquired Reilly. “Are you not under the protection
of your father, who, when occasion is necessary, has both pride and
spirit?”
“But my poor credulous father is, notwithstanding, easily imposed on. I
know not exactly the particulars,” replied the lovely girl, “but I can
easily suspect them. My father it was, certainly, who discharged my last
maid, Ellen Connor, because, he said, he did not like her, and because,
he added, he would put a better and a more trustworthy one in her place.
I cannot move that she is not either with me or after me; nay, I cannot
write a note that she does not immediately acquaint papa, who is certain
to stroll into my apartment and ask to see the contents of it, adding,
'Helen, when a young lady of rank and property forms a clandestine
and disgraceful attachment it is time that her father should be on the
lookout; so I will just take the liberty of throwing my eye over this
little billet-doux.' I told him often that he was at liberty to inspect
every line I should write, but that I thought that very few parents
would express such want of confidence in their daughters, if, like me,
the latter had deserved such confidence at their hands as I did at his.”
“What is the name of your present maid?” asked Reilly, musing.
“Oh,” replied Miss Folliard, “I have three maids altogether, but she has
been installed as own maid. Her name is Eliza Herbert.”
“A native of England, is she not? Eliza Herbert!” he exclaimed; “in the
lowermost depths of perdition there is not such a villain. This Eliza
Herbert is neither more nor less than one of his--but I will not pain
your pure and delicate mind by mentioning at further length what she is
and was to him. The clergyman of the parish, Mr. Brown, knows the whole
circumstances. See him at church, and get him to communicate them to
your father. The fact is, this villain, who is at once cunning and
parsimonious, had a double motive, each equally base and diabolical, in
sending her here. In the first place, he wished, by getting her a
good place, to make your father the unconscious means of rewarding her
profligacy; and in the second of keeping her as a spy upon you.”
A blush, resulting from her natural sense of delicacy, as well as from
the deepest indignation at a man who did not scruple to place the woman
whom he looked upon as almost immediately to become his wife, in the
society of such a wretch--such a blush, we say, overspread her whole
neck and face, and for about two minutes she shed bitter tears. But she
felt the necessity of terminating their interview, from an apprehension
that Miss Herbert, as she was called, on not finding her in the room,
might institute a search, and in this she was not mistaken.
She had scarcely concluded when the shrill voice of Miss Herbert was
heard, as she rushed rapidly down the stairs, screaming, “Oh, la! oh,
dear me! oh, my goodness! Where, where--oh, bless me, did any one see
Miss Folliard?”
Lanigan, however, had prepared for any thing like a surprise. He planted
himself, as a sentinel, at the foot of the stairs, and the moment he
heard the alarm of Miss Herbert on her way down, he met her half way up,
after having given a loud significant cough.
“Oh, cook, have you seen Miss Folliard? I can't find her in the house!”
“Is her father in his study, Miss Herbert? because I want to see him;
I'm afeared there's a screw loose. I did see Miss Folliard; she went out
a few minutes ago--indeed she rather stole out towards the garden, and,
I tell you the truth, she had a--condemned look of her own. Try the
garden, and if you don't find her there, go to the back gate, which
you'll be apt to find open.”
“Oh, I will, I will; thank you, cook. I'm certain it's an elopement.”
“Indeed, I wouldn't be surprised to find,” replied Lanigan, “that she is
with Reilly this moment; any way you haven't a minute to lose.”
She started towards the garden, which she ran over and over; and there
we shall leave her, executing the fool's errand upon which Lanigan had
sent her. “Now,” said he, going in, “the coast's clear; I have sent that
impertinent jade out to the garden, and as the back gate is open--the
gardener's men are wheeling out the rubbish--and they are now at
dinner--I say, as the back gate is open, it's ten to one but she'll
scour the country. Now, Miss Folliard, go immediately to your room; as
for this poor man, I will take care of him.”
“Most sincerely do I thank you, Lanigan; he will arrange with you when
and where to see me again. Farewell, Reilly--farewell; rely upon my
constancy;” and so they parted, Reilly to the kitchen, and the _Cooleen
Bawn_ to her own room.
“Come into the pantry, poor man,” said good-natured Lanigan, addressing
our hero, “till I give you' something to eat and drink.”
“Many thanks to you, sir,” replied he; “troth and whaix, I didn't taste
a morshel for the last fwhour--hugh--hugh-and twenty hours; and sure,
sir, it's this cough that's killin' me by inches.”
A thought struck Lanigan, who had been also spoken to by the gardener,
about half an hour before, to know if he could tell him where he might
have any chance of finding an assistant. At all events they went into
the pantry, when Lanigan, after having pulled to the door, to prevent
their conversation from being overheard, disclosed a project, which had
just entered his head, of procuring Reilly employment in the garden.
Here it was arranged between them that the latter, who was both a
good botanist and florist, should be recommended to the gardener as
an assistant. To be sure, his dress and appearance were both decidedly
against him; but still they relied upon the knowledge which Reilly
confidently assured the cook that he possessed. After leaving the pantry
with Lanigan, whom our hero thanked in a thorough brogue, the former
called after him, as he was going away:
“Come here again, my good man.”
“What is it, shir? may God bless you anyhow, for your charity to
the--hugh--hugh--hugh--to the poor man. Oh, then, but it's no wondher
for you all to be fat and rosy upon sich beautiful vittles as you gave
to me, shir. What is it, achora? and may the Lord mark you with grace!”
“Would you take employment from the master, his honor Mr. Folliard, if
you got it?”
“Arrah now, shir, you gave me my skinful of what was gud; but don't be
luakin' fwhun o' me after. Would I take employment, achora?--ay, but
where would I get it?”
“Could you work in a garden? Do you know any thing about plants or
flowers?”
“Oh thin, that I may never sup sarra (sorrow), but that's just what I'm
fwhit fwhor.”
“I'm afeared this scoundrel is but an imposthor afther all,” whispered
Lanigan to the other servants; “but in ordher to make sure, we'll try
him. I say--what's this your name is?”
“Solvesther M'Bethershin, shir.”
“Well, now, would you have any objection to come with me to the garden
and see I the gardener? But hould, here he is. Mr. Malcomson,” continued
Lanigan, “here is a poor man, who says he understands plants and
flowers, and weeds of that kind.”
“Speak wi' reverence, Mr. Lanigan, o' the art o' gerdening. Dinna ye ken
that the founder o' the hail human race was a gerdener?-Hout awa, moil;
speak o' it wi' speck.”
“Upon my conscience,” replied Lanigan, “whether he was a good gardener
or not is more than I know; but one thing I do know, that he didn't
hould his situation long, and mismanaged his orchard disgracefully; and,
indeed, like many more of his tribe, he got his walkin' papers in double
quick--was dismissed without a characther--ay, and his wife, like many
another gardener's wife, got a habit of stalin' the apples. However, I
wish Mr. Malcomson, that you, who do undherstand gardenin', would thry
this fellow, because I want to know whether he's an imposthor or not.”
“Weel,” replied Malcomson, “I dinna care if I do. We'll soon find that
out. Come wi' me and Maisther Lanigan here, and we'll see what you ken
about the sceentific profession.”
They accordingly went to the garden, and it is unnecessary to say that
Reilly not only bore the examination well, but proved himself by far the
better botanist of the two. He tempered his answers, however, in such a
way as not to allow the gardener's vanity to be hurt, in which case he
feared that he might have little chance of being engaged.