--Fergus Reilly begins to Contravene the Red Rapparee
After Malcomson quitted him, the squire, with his golden-headed cane,
went to saunter about his beautiful grounds and his noble demesne,
proud, certainly, of his property, nor insensible to the beautiful
scenery which it presented from so many points of observation. He
had not been long here when a poor-looking peasant, dressed in shabby
frieze, approached him at as fast a pace as he could accomplish; and the
squire, after looking at him, exclaimed, in an angry tone:
“Well, you rascal, what the devil brings you here?”
The man stood for a little, and seemed so much exhausted and out of
breath that he could not speak.
“I say, you unfortunate old vagrant,” repeated the squire, “what brought
you here?”
“It is a case of either life or death, sir,” replied the poor peasant.
“Why,” said the squire, “what crime did you commit? Or, perhaps, you
broke prison, and are flying from the officers of justice; eh! is that
it? And you come to ask a magistrate to protect you!”
“I am flying from the agents of persecution, sir, and know not where to
hide my head in order to avoid them.”
The hard-pressed but amiable priest--for such he was--adopted this
language of truth, because he knew the squire's character, and felt that
it would serve him more effectually than if he had attempted to conceal
his profession. “I am a Catholic priest, sir, and felt from bitter
experience that this disguise was necessary to the preservation of my
life. I throw myself upon your honor and generosity, for although hasty,
sir, you are reported to have a good and kind heart.”
“You are disposed to place confidence in me, then?”
“I am, sir; my being before you now, and putting myself in your power,
is a proof of it.”
“Who are pursuing you? Sir Robert Whitecraft--eh?”
“No, sir, Captain Smellpriest and his gang.”
“Ay, out of the frying pan into the fire; although I don't know that,
either. They say Smellpriest can do a generous thing sometimes--but the
other, when priest-hunting, never. What's your name?”
“I'll tell you, without hesitation, sir--Macguire; I'm of the Macguires
of Fermanagh.”
“Ay! ay! why, then, you have good blood in your veins. But what offence
were you guilty of that you--but I need not ask; it is enough, in
the present state of the laws, that you are a Catholic priest. In the
meantime, are you aware that I myself transported a Catholic priest, and
that he would have swung only for my daughter, who went to the viceroy,
and, with much difficulty, got his sentence commuted to transportation
for life? I myself had already tried it, and failed; but she succeeded,
God bless her!”
“Yes, God bless her!” replied the priest, “she succeeded, and her fame
has gone far and near, in consequence; yes, may God of his mercy bless
and guard her from all evil!” and as the poor hunted priest spoke, the
tears came to his eyes. This symptom of respect and affection, prompted
by the generous and heroic conduct of the far-famed Cooleen Bawn,
touched her father, and saved the priest.
“Well,” said he, after musing for a while, “so you say Smellpriest is
after you?”
“He is, sir; they saw me at a distance, across the country, scrambling
over the park wall, and indeed I was near falling into their hands by
the difficulty I had in getting over it.”
“Well, come,” replied the squire, “since you have had the courage
to place confidence in me, I won't abuse it; come along, I will both
conceal and protect you. I presume there is little time to be lost,
for those priest hounds will be apt to ride round to the entrance gate,
which I will desire the porter to close and lock, and then leave the
lodge.”
On their way home he did so, and ordered the porter up to the house. The
magnificent avenue was a serpentine one, and our friends had barely time
to get out of sight of the lodge, by a turn in it, when they heard the
voices of the pursuers, hallooing for the porter, and thundering at the
gate.
“Ay, thunder away, only don't injure my gate, Smellpriest, or I'll make
you replace it; bawl yourselves hoarse--you are on the wrong side for
once!”
When they were approaching the hall-door, which generally lay open--
“Confound me,” said the squire, “if I know what to do with you; I
trust in God I won't get into odium by this. At all events, let us steal
upstairs as quietly as we can, and, if possible, without any one seeing
us.”
To the necessity of this the priest assented, and they had reached the
first landing of the staircase when out popped right in their teeth two
housemaids each with brush in hand. Now it instantly occurred to the
squire that in this unlucky crisis bribery was the safest resource. He
accordingly addressed them:
“Come here, you jades, don't say a word about this man's presence
here--don't breathe it; here's five shillings apiece for you, and let
one of you go and bring me up, secretly, the key of the green-room in
the garret; it has not been opened for some time. Be quick now; or stay,
desire Lanigan to fetch it, and refreshment also; there's cold venison
and roast beef, and a bottle of wine; tell Lanigan I'm going to lunch,
and to lay the table in my study. Lanigan can be depended on,” he added,
after the chambermaid had gone, “for when I concealed another priest
here once, he was entrusted with the secret, and was faithful.”
Now it so happened that one of those maids, who was a bitter Protestant,
at once recognized Father Maguire, notwithstanding his disguise. She had
been a servant for four or five years in the house of a wealthy farmer
who lived adjoining him, and with whom he had been in the habit
of frequently dining when no danger was to be apprehended from the
operation of the laws. Indeed, she and Malcomson, the gardener, were
the only two individuals in the squire's establishment who were not
Catholics. Malcomson was a manoeuvrer, and, as is pretty usual with
individuals of his class and country, he looked upon “Papistry” as
an abomination that ought to be removed from the land. Still, he was
cautious and shrewd, and seldom or never permitted those opinions to
interfere with or obstruct his own interests. Be this is it may, the
secret was not long kept. Esther Wilson impeached her master's loyalty,
and she herself was indignantly assailed for her treachery by Molly
Finigan, who hoped in her soul that her master and young mistress would
both die in the true Church yet.
The whole kitchen was in a buzz; in fact, a regular scene ensued. Every
one spoke, except Lanigan, who, from former experience, understood
the case perfectly; but, as for Malcomson, whose zeal on this occasion
certainly got the better of his discretion, he seemed thunderstruck.
“Eh, sirs! did ony one ever hear the like o' this?--to hide a rebel
priest frae the offended laws! But it canna be that this puir man is
athegether right in his head. Lord ha'e a care o' us! the man surely
must be demented, or he wouldna venture to bring such a person into his
ain house--into the vara house. I think, Maisther Lanigan, it wad be
just a precious bit o' service to religion and our laws to gang and tell
the next magistrate. Gude guide us! what an example he is settin' to
his loyal neighbors, and his hail connections! That ever we should see the
like o' this waefu' backsliding at his years! Lord ha'e a care o' us, I
say aince mair.”
“Oh, but there's more to come,” said one of them, for, in the turmoil
produced by this shocking intelligence, they had forgotten to deliver
the message to Lanigan.
“Mr. Lanigan,” said Esther, and her breath was checked by a hysteric
hiccup, “Mr. Lanigan, you are to bring up the key of the green-room, and
plenty of venison, roast beef, and a bottle of wine! There!”
“Baal, Maisther Lanigan, I winna stay langer under this roof; it's nae
cannie; I'll e'en gang out, and ha'e some nonsense clavers wi' yon queer
auld carl i' the gerden. The Lord ha'e a eare o' us!--what will the
warld come to next!”
He accordingly repaired to the garden, where the first thing he did
was to give a fearful account to Reilly of their master's political
profligacy. The latter felt surprised, but not at all at Malcomson's
narrative. The fact was, he knew the exact circumstances of the case,
because he knew the squire's character, which was sometimes good, and
sometimes the reverse--just according to the humor he might be in: and
in reply observed to Malcomson, that--
“As his honor done a great dale o' good! to the poor o' the counthry,
I think it wouldn't be daicent in us, Misther Malcomson, to go for to
publish this generous act to the poor priesht; if he is wrong, let us
lave him to Gad, shir.”
“Ou ay, weel I dinna but you're richt; the mair that we won't hae to
answer for his transgressions; sae e'en let every herring hang by its
ain tail.”
In the meantime, Lanigan, who understood the affair well enough,
addressed the audience in the kitchen to the following effect:
“Now,” said he, “what a devil of a hubbub you all make about nothing!
Pray, young lady,” addressing Esther Wilson, who alone had divulged the
circumstance, “did his honor desire you to keep what you seen saicret?”
“He did, cook, he did,” replied Esther; “and gave us money not to speak
about it, which is a proof of his guilt.”
“And the first thing you did was to blaze it to the whole kitchen! I'll
tell you what it is now--if he ever hears that you breathed a syllable
of it to mortal man, you won't be under his roof two hours.”
“Oh, but, surely, cook--”
“Oh, but, surely, madam,” replied Lanigan, “you talk of what you don't
understand; his honor knows very well what he's about, mid has authority
for it.”
This sobered her to some purpose; and Lanigan proceeded to execute his
master's orders.
It is true Miss Esther and Malcomson were now silent, for their own
sakes; but it did not remove their indignation; so far from that,
Lanigan himself came in for a share of it, and was secretly looked upon
in the light of the squire's confidant in the transaction.
Whilst matters were in this position, the Red Rapparee began gradually
to lose the confidence of his unscrupulous employer. He had promised
that worthy gentleman to betray his former gang, and deliver them up to
justice, in requital for the protection which he received from him. This
he would certainly have done, were it not for Fergus, who, happening to
meet one of them a day or two after the Rapparee had taken service with
Whitecraft upon the aforesaid condition,--informed the robber of that
fact, and advised him, if he wished to provide for his own safety and
that of his companions, to desire them forthwith to leave the country,
and, if possible, the kingdom. They accordingly took the hint; some of
them retired to distant and remote places, and others went beyond seas
for their security. The promise, therefore, which the Rapparee had made
to the baronet as a proof of gratitude for his protection, he now found
himself incapable of fulfilling, in consequence of the dispersion and
disappearance of his band. When he stated this fact to Sir Robert, he
gained little credit from him; and the consequence was that his patron
felt disposed to think that he was not a man to be depended on. Still,
what he had advanced in his own defence might be true; and although his
confidence in him was shaken, he resolved to maintain him yet in his
service, and that for two reasons--one of which was, that by having him
under his eye, and within his grasp, he could pounce upon him at any
moment; the other was, that, as he knew, from the previous shifts and
necessities of his own lawless life, all those dens and recesses and
caverns to which the Catholic priesthood, and a good number of the
people, were obliged to fly and conceal themselves, he must necessarily
be a useful guide to him as a priest-hunter. It is true he assured him
that he had procured his pardon from Government, principally, he said,
in consequence of his own influence, and because, in all his robberies,
it had not been known that he ever took away human life. In general,
however, this was the policy of the Rapparees, unless when they
identified themselves with political contests and outrages, and on those
occasions they were savage and cruel as fiends. In simple robbery on the
king's highway, or in burglaries in houses, they seldom, almost never,
committed murder, unless when resisted, and in defence of their lives.
On the contrary, they were quite gallant to females, whom they treated
with a kind of rude courtesy, not unfrequently returning the lady of the
house her gold watch--but this only on occasions when they had secured
a large booty of plate and money. The Threshers of 1805-6 and '7, so far
as cruelty goes, were a thousand times worse; for they spared neither
man nor woman in their infamous and nocturnal visits; and it is enough
to say, besides, that their cowardice was equal to their cruelty. It has
been proved, at special commissions held about those periods, that four
or five men, with red coats on them, have made between two or three
hundred of the miscreants run for their lives, and they tolerably
well-armed. Whether Sir Robert's account of the Rapparee's pardon was
true or false will appear in due time; for the truth is, that Whitecraft
was one of those men who, in consequence of his staunch loyalty
and burning zeal in carrying out the inhuman measures of the then
Government, was permitted with impunity to run into a licentiousness
of action, as a useful public man, which no modern government would, or
dare, permit. At the period of which we write, there was no press, so to
speak, in Ireland, and consequently no opportunity of at once bringing
the acts of the Irish Government, or of public men, to the test
of public opinion. Such men, therefore, as Whitecraft, looked upon
themselves as invested with irresponsible power; and almost in every
instance their conduct was approved of, recognized, and, in general,
rewarded by the Government of the day. The Beresford family enjoyed
something like this unenviable privilege, during the rebellion of
'98, and for some time afterwards. We have alluded to Mrs. Oxley, the
sheriffs, fat wife; whether fortunately or unfortunately for the poor
sheriff, who had some generous touches of character about him, it so
happened, at this period of our narrative she popped off one day, in a
fit of apoplexy, and he found himself a widower. Now, our acquaintance,
Fergus Reilly, who was as deeply disguised as our hero, had made his
mind up, if possible, to bring the Rapparee into trouble. This man had
led his patron to several places where it was likely that the persecuted
priests might be found; and, for this reason, Fergus knew that he was
serious in his object to betray them. This unnatural treachery of the
robber envenomed his heart against him, and he resolved to run a risk in
watching his motions. He had no earthly doubt that it was he who robbed
the sheriff. He knew, from furtive observations, as well as from general
report, that a discreditable intimacy existed between him and Mary
Mahon. This woman's little house was very convenient to that of
Whitecraft, to whom she was very useful in a certain capacity. She
had now given up her trade of fortune-telling--a trade which, at that
period, in consequence of the ignorance of the people, was very general
in Ireland. She was now more beneficially employed. Fergus, therefore,
confident in his disguise, resolved upon a bold and hazardous stroke.
He began to apprehend that if ever Tom Steeple, fool though he was,
kept too much about the haunts and resorts of the Rapparee, that cunning
scoundrel, who was an adept in all the various schemes and forms of
detection, might take the alarm, and, aided probably by Whitecraft, make
his escape out of the country. At best, the fool could only assure him
of his whereabouts; but he felt it necessary, in addition to this, to
procure, if the matter were possible, such evidence of his guilt as
might render his conviction of the robbery of the sheriff complete and
certain. One evening a wretched-looking old man, repeating his prayers,
with beads in hand, entered her cottage, which consisted of two rooms
and a kitchen; and after having presented himself, and put on his
hat--for we need scarcely say that no Catholic ever prays covered--he
asked lodging in Irish, for the night, and at this time it was dusk.
“Well, good man,” she replied, “you can have lodgings here for this
night. God forbid I'd put a poor wandherer out, an' it nearly dark.”
Fergus stared at her as if he did not understand what she said; she,
however, could speak Irish right well, and asked him in that language if
he could speak no English--“_Wuil Bearlha agud?_” (Have you English?)
“_Ha neil foccal vaun Bearlha agum_.” (I haven't one word of English.)
“Well,” said she, proceeding with the following short conversation in
Irish, “you can sleep here, and I will bring you in a wap o' straw from
the garden, when I have it to feed my cow, which his honor, Sir Robert,
gives me grass for; he would be a very kind man if he was a little more
generous--ha! ha! ha!”
“Ay, but doesn't he hunt an' hang, an' transport our priests?”
“Why, indeed, I believe he doesn't like a bone in a priest's body;
but then he's of a different religion--and it isn't for you or me to
construe him after our own way.”
“Well, well,” said Fergus, “it isn't him I'm thinking of; but if I had a
mouthful or two of something to ait I'd go to sleep--for dear knows I'm
tired and hungry.”
“Why, then, of coorse you'll have something to ait, poor man, and
while you're eatin' it I'll fetch in a good bunch of straw, and make a
comfortable shake-down for you.”
“God mark you to grace, avourneen!”
She then furnished him with plenty of oaten bread and mixed milk, and
while he was helping himself she brought in a large launch of straw,
which she shook out and settled for him.
“I see,” said she, “that you have your own blankets.”
“I have, acushla. Cheerna, but this is darlin' bread! Arra was this
baked upon a griddle or against the _muddhia arran?_“*.
* The muddhia arran was a forked branch, cut from a tree,
and shaped exactly like a letter A--with a small stick
behind to support it. A piece of hoop iron was nailed to
it at the bottom, on which the cake rested--not
horizontally, but opposite the fire. When one side was done
the other was turned, and thus it was baked.
“A griddle! Why, then, is it the likes o' me would have a griddle? that
indeed! No; but, any how, sure a griddle only scalds the bread; but
you'll find that this is not too much done; bekaise you know the ould
proverb, 'a raw dad makes a fat lad.'”
“Troth,” replied Fergus, “it's good bread, and fills the _boast_** of a
man's body; but now that I've made a good supper, I'll throw myself on
the straw, for I feel as if my eyelids had a millstone apiece upon them.
I never shtrip at night, but just throws my blanket over me, an' sleeps
like a top. Glory be to God! Oh, then, there's nothing like the health
ma'am: may God spare it to us! Amin, this night!”
** Boast--a figurative term, taken from a braggadocio or
boaster; it applies to any thing that is hollow or
deceitful: for instance, when some potatoes that grow
unusually large are cut in two, an empty space is found in
the centra, and that potato is termed boast, or empty.
He accordingly threw himself on the shakedown, and in a short time, as
was evident by his snoring, fell into a profound sleep.
This was an experiment, though a hazardous one, as we have said; but so
far it was successful. In the course of half an hour the Red Rapparee
came in, dressed in his uniform. On looking about him he exclaimed, with
an oath,
“Who the hell is here?”
“Why,” replied Mary Mahon, “a poor ould man that axed for charity an'
lodgin' for the night.”
“And why did you give it to him?”
“Bekaise my charity to him may take away some of my sins.”
“Some of your devils!” replied the savage, “and I think you have enough
of them about you. Didn't you know I was to come here to-night, as I do
almost every night, for an hour or two?”
“You was drinkin',” she replied, “and you're drunk.”
“I am drunk, and I will be drunk as often as I can. It's a good man's
case. Why did you give a lodgin' to this ould vagabone?”
“I tould you the raison,” she replied; “but you needn't care about him,
for there's not a word of English in his cheek.”
“Faith, but he may have something in his purse, for all that. Is he
ould?”
“A poor ould man.”
“So much the betther; be the livin' I'll try whether he has any ould
coins about him. Many a time--no, I don't say many a time--but twic't
I did it, and found it well worth my while, too. Some of these ould
scamers lie wid a purse o' goolden guineas under their head, and won't
confess it till the last moment. Who knows what this ould lad may have
about him? I'll thry anyhow,” said the drunken ruffian; “It's not aisy
to give up an ould custom, Molly--the sheriff, my darlin', for that. I
aised him of his fines, and was near strikin' a double blow--I secured
his pocket-book, and made a good attempt to hang Willy Reilly for the
robbery into the bargain. Now, hang it, Molly, didn't I look a gentleman
in his' clothes, shoes, silver buckles, and all; wasn't it well we
secured them before the house was burned? Here,” he added, “take a
sneeshin of this,” pulling at the same time a pint bottle of whiskey
out of his pocket; “it'll rise your spirits, an' I'll see what cash this
ould codger has about him; an', by the way, how the devil do we
know that he doesn't understand every word we say. Suppose,
now--(hiccup)--that he heard me say I robbed the sheriff, wouldn't I be
in a nice pickle? But, tell me, can you get no trace of Reilly?”
“Devil a trace; they say he has left the country.”
“If I had what that scoundrel has promised me for findin' him out or
securin' him--here's--here's--here's to you--I say, if I had, you and I
would”--Here he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, as much as to
say they would try another climate.
“And now,” he proceeded, “for a search on the shake-down. Who knows but
the ould fellow has the yellow boys (guineas) about him? “--and he was
proceeding to search Fergus, when Mary flew at him like a tigress.
“Stop, you cowardly robber!” she exclaimed; “would you bring down the
curse and the vengeance of God upon both of us. We have enough and too
much to answer for, let alone to rob the ould an' the poor.”
“Be aisy now,” said he, “I'll make the search; sure I'm undher the
scoundrel Whitecraft's protection.”
“Yes, you are, and you're undher my protection too; and I tell you, if
you lay a hand upon him it'll be worse for you.”
“What--what do you mane?”
“It's no matther what I mane; find it out.”
“How do I know but he has heard us?”
We must now observe that Fergus's style of sleeping was admirably
adapted for his purpose. It was not accompanied by a loud and unbroken
snore; on the contrary, after it had risen to the highest and
most disagreeable intonations, it stopped short, with a loud and
indescribable backsnort in his nose, and then, after a lull of some
length, during which he groaned and muttered to himself, he again
resumed his sternutations in a manner so natural as would have imposed
upon Satan himself, if he had been present, as there is little doubt he
was, though not exactly visible to the eyes of his two precious agents.
“Listen to that,” replied the woman; “do you think, now, he's not
asleep? and even if he was sitting at the fire beside us, devil a
syllable we said he could understand. I spoke to him in English when he
came in, but he didn't know a word I said.”
“Well, then, let the ould fellow sleep away; I won't touch him.”
“Why, now, that's a good boy; go home to your barracks, and take a good
sleep yourself.”
“Ay, yes, certainly; but have you Reilly's clothes safe--shoes, silver
buckles, and all?”
“Ay, as safe as the head on your shoulders; and, upon my soul, a great
dale safer, if you rob any more sheriffs.”
“Where are they, then?”
“Why, they're in my flat box, behind the bed, where nobody could see
them.”
“Very well, Molly, that will do; I may want them wanst more,” he
replied, pointing again with his thumb over his shoulder towards
Whitecraft's residence; “so goodnight; be a good girl, and take care of
yourself.”
“No,” she replied, “but do you be a good boy, and take care of
yourself.” And so they parted for the night.
The next day Fergus, possessed of very important evidence against the
Rapparee, was travelling along the public road, not more than half a
mile from the residence of Sir Robert Whitecraft, when whom should he
meet but the identical sheriff, on horseback, that the Rapparee had
robbed. He put his hand to his hat, and asked him for charity.
“Help a poor ould man, for the love and honor of God.”
“Why don't you go to work--why don't you go to work?” replied the
sheriff.
“I am not able, sir,” returned Fergus; “it wouldn't be good for my
health, your honor.”
“Well, pass on and don't trouble me; I have nothing for you.”
“Ah! thin, sir, if you'd give me a trifle, maybe I'd make it worth your
while.”
“What do you mean?” asked the sheriff, who knew that persons like him
had opportunities of hearing and knowing more about local circumstances,
in consequence of their vagrant life, than any other class of persons in
society.
“What do you mean by what you have just said?”
“Aren't you the sheriff, sir, that was robbed some time ago?”
“I am.”
“Ah, sir, I see you are dressed in black; and I heard of the death of
the misthress, sir.”
“Well, but what has that to do with what you have just now said--that
you would make it worth my while if I gave you alms?”
“I said so, sir; and I can, if you will be guided by me.”
“Speak out; I don't understand you.”
“Would you like to see the man that robbed you, sir, and would you know
him if you did see him?”
“Unquestionably I would know him. They say it was Reilly, but I have
seen Reilly since; and although the dress was the same which Reilly
usually wears, yet the faces were different.”
“Is your honor going far?” asked Fergus.
“No, I am going over to that farm-house, Tom Brady's; two or three of
his family are ill of fever, and I wish to do something for him; I am
about to make him my land bailiff.”
“What stay will you make there, your honor?”
“A very short one--not more than ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Would it be inconvenient for your honor to remain there, or somewhere
about the house, for an hour, or may be a little longer?”
“For what purpose? You are a mysterious old fellow.”
“Bekaise, if you'd wish to see the man that robbed you, I'll undhertake
to show him to you, face to face, within that time. Will your honor
promise this?”
The sheriff paused upon this proposal, coming as it did from such an
equivocal authority. What, thought he, if it should be a plot for my
life, in consequence of the fines which I have been forced to levy upon
the Catholic priests and bishops in my official capacity. God knows I
feel it to be a painful duty.
“What is your religion?” he asked, “and why should a gentleman in my
condition of life place any confidence upon the word of a common vagrant
like you, who must necessarily be imbued with all the prejudices of your
creed--for I suppose you are a Catholic?”
“I am, sir; but, for all that, in half an hour's time I'll be a rank
Protestant.”
The sheriff smiled and asked, “How the devil's that?”
“You are dressed in black, sir, in murnin' for your wife. I have seen
you go into Tom Brady's to give the sick creatures the rites of their
Church. I give notice to Sir Robert Whitecraft that a priest is there;
and my word to you, he and his hounds will soon be upon you. The man
that robbed you will be among them--no, but the foremost of them; and if
you don't know him, I can't help it--that's all, your honor.”
“Well,” replied the sheriff, “I shall give you nothing now; because
I know not whether what you say can be relied upon or not. In the
meantime, I shall remain an hour or better, in Brady's house; and if
your words are not made good, I shall send to Sir Robert Whitecraft for
a military party to escort me home.”
“I know, your honor,” replied Fergus, “that Sir Robert and his men are
at home to-day; and if I don't fulfil my words, I'll give your honor
lave to whip me through the county.”
“Well,” said the sheriff, “I shall remain an hour or so in Brady's; but
I tell you that if you are deceiving me you shall not escape me; so look
to it, and think if what you propose to me is honest or not--if it be
not, woe betide you.”
Fergus immediately repaired to Sir Robert Whitecraft, to whom he
represented himself as a poor Protestant of the name of Bingham,
and informed him that a Popish priest was then in Tom Brady's house,
administering the rites of Popery to those who were sick in the family.
“I seen him, your honor, go into the house; and he's there this minute'.
If your honor makes haste you'll catch him.”
In less than a quarter of an hour Sir Robert and his crew were in
stirrups, and on their way to Tom Brady's; and in the meantime, too, the
sheriff, dressed as he was, in black, came outside the door, from time
to time, more in apprehension of a plot against his life than of a visit
from Whitecraft, which he knew must end in nothing. Now, Whitecraft and
his followers, on approaching Brady's house, caught a glimpse of him--a
circumstance which not only confirmed the baronet in the correctness of
the information he had received, but also satisfied the sheriff that the
mendicant had not deceived him. Rapid was the rush they made to Brady's
house, and the very first that entered it was the Red Rapparee. He was
about to seize the sheriff, whom he pretended not to know; but in a
moment Sir Robert and the rest entered, when, on recognizing each other,
an explanation took place, with all due apologies to the functionary,
who said:
“The mistake, Sir Robert, is very natural. I certainly have a clerical
appearance, as I am in mourning for my wife. I trust you will neither
hang nor transport me.”
“I am very sorry indeed, Mr. Oxley; but I only acted on information
received.”
“And I don't doubt, Sir Robert,” replied the sheriff, “that the person
who gave you the information may have been deceived himself by my
ecclesiastical looking dress. I am sorry you have had so much trouble
for nothing; but, upon my word, I feel extremely delighted that I am not
a priest.”
In the meantime the sheriff had recognized the Rapparee, by a single
glance, as the man that had robbed him. He was now certain; but he took
care not to bestow the least sign of recognition upon him; so far from
that, he appeared to pay no attention whatsoever to the men; but chatted
with Sir Robert for some time, who returned home deeply disappointed,
though without imputing blame to his informant, who, he thought, was
very naturally misled by the dress of the sheriff. Fergus, however,
apprehensive of being involved in the prosecution of the Rapparee,
and thus discovered, made a point to avoid the sheriff, whose
cross-examination a consciousness of his previous life led him to dread.
Still, he had, to a certain extent, though not definitely, resolved to
become evidence against him; but only, as we have said, on the condition
of previously receiving a full pardon for his own misdeeds, which was
granted. For upwards of a month, however, the sheriff was confined to
his bed, having caught, whilst in Brady's, the malignant fever which
then raged throughout the country.
CHAPTEE XVIII.--Something not very Pleasant for all Parties.
The position of England at this period was any thing but an easy one.
The Rebellion of '45 had commenced, and the young Pretender had gained
some signal victories. Independently of this, she was alarmed by the
rumor of a French invasion on her southern coast. Apprehensive lest the
Irish Catholics, galled and goaded as they were by the influence of
the penal laws, and the dreadful persecution which they caused them
to suffer, should flock to the standard of Prince Charles, himself a
Catholic, she deemed it expedient, in due time, to relax a little,
and accordingly she “checked her hand, and changed her pride.” Milder
measures were soon resorted to, during this crisis, in order that by a
more liberal administration of justice the resentment of the suffering
Catholics might be conciliated, and their loyalty secured. This,
however, was a proceeding less of justice than expediency, and resulted
more from the actual and impending difficulties of England than from
any sincere wish on her part to give civil and religious freedom to her
Catholic subjects, or prosperity to the country in which, even then,
their numbers largely predominated. Yet, singular to say, when the
Rebellion first broke out, all the chapels in Dublin were closed, and
the Administration, as if guided by some unintelligible infatuation,
issued a proclamation, commanding the Catholic priesthood to depart
from the city. Those who refused this senseless and impolitic edict were
threatened with the utmost severity of the law. Harsh as that law was,
the Catholics obeyed it; yet even this obedience did not satisfy the
Protestant party, or rather that portion of them who were active agents
in carrying out this imprudent and unjustifiable rigor at such a period.
They were seized by a kind of panic, and imagined forsooth that a broken
down and disarmed people might engage in a general massacre of the Irish
Protestants. Whether this incomprehensible terror was real, is a matter
of doubt and uncertainty; or whether it was assumed as a justification
for assailing the Catholics in a general massacre, similar to that
which they apprehended, or pretended to apprehend, is also a matter of
question; yet certain it is, that a proposal to massacre them in cold
blood was made in the Privy Council. “But,” says O'Connor, “the humanity
of the members rejected this barbarous proposal, and crushed in its
infancy a conspiracy hatched in Lurgan to extirpate the Catholics of
that town and vicinity.”
In the meantime, so active was the persecuting spirit of such men
as Whitecraft and Smellpriest that a great number of the unfortunate
priests fled to the metropolis, where, in a large and populous city,
they had a better chance of remaining _incogniti_ than when living
in the country, exposed and likely to be more marked by spies and
informers. A very dreadful catastrophe took place about this time. A
congregation of Catholic people had heard mass upon an old loft, which
had for many years been decayed--in fact, actually rotten. Mass was
over, and the priest was about to give them the parting benediction,
when the floor went down with a terrific crash. The result was dreadful.
The priest and a great many of the congregation were killed on the spot,
and a vast number of them wounded and maimed for life. The Protestant
inhabitants of Dublin sympathized deeply with the sufferers, whom
they relieved and succored as far as in them lay, and, by their
remonstrances, Government was shamed into a more human administration of
the laws.
In order to satisfy our readers that we have not overdrawn our picture
of what the Catholics suffered in those unhappy times, we shall give a
quotation from the. Messrs. Chambers, of Edinburgh, themselves fair and
liberal men, and as impartial as they are able and well informed:
“Since the pacification of Limerick, Ireland had been ruled exclusively
by the Protestant party, who, under the influence of feelings arising
from local and religious antipathies, had visited the Catholics with
many severities. The oath which had excluded the Catholics from
office had been followed, in 1698, by an Act of the Irish Parliament,
commanding all Romish priests to leave the kingdom, under the penalty
of transportation, a return from which was to be punishable by death.
Another law decreed forfeiture of property and civil rights to all
who should send their children abroad to be educated in the Catholic
faith.” *
* “History and Present State of the British Empire.”
Edinburgh, W. and R. Chambers.
Can any reasonable person be in doubt for a moment that those laws were
laws of extermination? In the meantime, let us hear the Messrs. Chambers
further:
“After the death of William, who was much opposed to severities on
account of religion, Acts of still greater rigor were passed for
preventing the growth of Popery. Any child of a Roman Catholic who
should declare himself a Protestant was entitled to become the heir of
his estate, the father merely holding it for his lifetime, and having
no command over it. Catholics were made incapable of succeeding to
Protestants, and lands, passing over them, were to go to the next
Protestant heir. Catholic parents were prevented from being guardians,to
their own children; no Protestant possessing property was to be
permitted to marry a Catholic; and Catholics were rendered incapable
of purchasing landed property or enjoying long leases. These measures
naturally rendered the Catholics discontented I subjects, and led to
much turbulence. The common people of that persuasion, being denied all
access to justice, took it into their own hands, and acquired all those
lawless habits for which they have since been remarkable. Treachery,
cruelty, and all the lower passions, were called into vigorous exercise.
Even the Protestants, for their own sakes, were often obliged to connive
at the evasion of laws so extremely severe, and which introduced much
difficulty in their dealings with Catholics; but, when any Protestant
wished to be revenged upon a Catholic, or to extort money from him, he
found in these laws a ready instrument for his purpose. By an additional
Act, in 1726, it was ordained that a Roman Catholic priest, marrying a
Protestant to a Catholic, should suffer death; and in order that legal
redress might be still less accessible to the Catholics, it was enacted,
in 1728, that no one should be entitled to practise as an attorney who
had not been two years a Protestant.”
This is a clear and succinct epitome of the penal laws; true, much more
might be added; but it is enough to say that those who sow the wind will
reap the whirlwind. It is not by placing restrictions upon creeds or
ceremonies that religion can ever be checked, much less extinguished.
Like the camomile plant, the more it is trampled on the more it will
spread and grow; as the rude winds and the inclemency of the elements
only harden and make more vigorous the constitutions of those who
are exposed to them. In our state of the world, those who have the
administration of political laws in their hands, if they ever read
history, or can avail themselves of the experiences of ages, ought to
know that it is not by severity or persecution that the affections
of their fellow-subjects can be conciliated. We ourselves once knew
a brutal ruffian, who was a dealer in fruit in the little town of
Maynooth, and whose principle of correcting his children was to continue
whipping the poor things until they were forced to laugh! A person was
one day present when he commenced chastising one of them--a child of
about seven--upon this barbarous principle. This individual was then
young and strong, and something besides of a pugilist; but on witnessing
the affecting efforts of the little fellow to do that which was not
within the compass of any natural effort, he deliberately knocked the
ruffian down, after having first remonstrated with him to no purpose. He
arose, however, and attacked the other, but, thanks to a good arm and a
quick eye, he prostrated him again, and again, and again; he then
caught him by the throat, for he was already subdued, and squeezing his
windpipe to some purpose, the fellow said, in a choking voice, “Are you
going to kill me?”
“No,” replied the other, “I only want to see the length of your tongue;
don't be alarmed, the whole thing will end merrily; come, now, give
three of the heartiest laughs you ever gave in your life, or down goes
your apple-cart--you know what that means?”
“I--I c--a--n'--t,” said he.
“Yes, you can,” replied his castigator; “nothing's more easy; come, be
merry.”
The caitiff, for he was a coward, and wanted bottom, upon getting a
little wind, whilst the other held him by the throat, gave three of the
most ludicrous, but disastrous, howls that ever were witnessed. On his
opponent letting him go, he took to his heels, but got a kick on going
out that was rather calculated to accelerate his flight. Legislators,
therefore, ought to know that no political whipping will ever make a
people laugh at the pleasure of it.
But to resume our narrative. England, now apprehensive, as we have said,
of a descent of the French upon her southern coast, and startled by the
successes of the young Pretender, who had cut Cope's army to pieces,
deemed it expedient to send over the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield
as Viceroy, with instructions to relax the rigor of the laws, and
conciliate the Catholics, as well as he could, so, at least, as to
prevent them from joining the Pretender, whose object it was understood
to be to cross the frontier and march upon London. Lord Chesterfield's
policy afforded great gratification to the Catholics, who were now
restored to their usual privileges; and its political object was so far
successful that, as we have said, not a single man of them ever joined
the Pretender. Still, the liberal Protestants, or, as they were termed,
the patriotic party, were not satisfied with the mere removal of the
Catholic restrictions. Ireland, at that time, was studded with men, or
rather with monsters, like Smellpriest and Whitecraft, who were stained
with the blood of their fellow-subjects and fellow-Christians. Sir
Robert Whitecraft, especially, was now in a bad position, although he
himself was ignorant of it. The French Ambassador demanded satisfaction,
in the name of his Court and the French nation, for the outrage that had
been committed upon a French. subject, and by which international
law was so grossly violated. We must say here that Whitecraft, in the
abundance of his loyalty and zeal, was in the habit, in his searches
after priests, and suspected lay Catholics, to pay domiciliary visits to
the houses of many Protestant magistrates, clergymen, and even gentlemen
of wealth and distinction, who were suspected, from their known enmity
to persecution, of harboring Catholic priests and others of that
persuasion; so that, in point of fact, he had created more enemies in
the country than any man living. The Marquis of------, Mr. Hastings, Mr.
Brown, together with a great number of the patriotic party, had
already transmitted a petition to the Lord Lieutenant, under the former
Administration; but it was not attended to, the only answer they got
having been a simple acknowledgment of its receipt. This, on coming
to Sir Robert's ears, which it did from one of the underlings of the
Castle, only gave a spur to his insolence, and still more fiercely
stimulated his persecuting spirit. He felt conscious that Government
would protect him, or rather reward him, for any acts of violence which
he might commit against the Catholic party, and so far, under his own
pet Administration, he was right.
The petition we have alluded to having been treated with studied
contempt, the persons and party already mentioned came to the
determination of transmitting another, still more full and urgent, to
the new Viceroy, whose feeling it was, for the reasons we have stated,
to reverse the policy of his predecessor.
His liberal administration encouraged them, therefore, to send him
a clear statement of the barbarous outrages committed by such men as
Smellpriest and Sir Robert Whitecraft, not only against his Majesty's
Roman Catholic subjects, but against many loyal Protestant magistrates,
and other Protestants of distinction and property, merely because they
were supposed to entertain a natural sympathy for their persecuted
fellow-subjects and fellow-countrymen. They said that the conduct of
those men and of the Government that had countenanced and encouraged
them had destroyed the prosperity of the country by interrupting and
annulling all bonafide commercial transactions between, Protestants and
Catholics. That those men had not only transgressed the instructions
they received, from his predecessor, but all those laws that go to the
security of life and property. That they were guilty of several cruel
and atrocious murders, arsons, and false imprisonments, for which they
were never brought to account; and that, in fine, they were steeped
in crime and blood, because they knew that his predecessor, ignorant,
perhaps, of the extent of their guilt, threw his shield over them, and
held them irresponsible to the laws for those savage outrages.
They then stated that, in their humble judgment, a mere relaxation in
the operation of the severe and penal laws against Catholics would not
be an act of sufficient atonement to them for all they had greviously
suffered; that to overlook, or connive at, or protect those great
criminals would be at variance, not only with all principles of justice,
but with the spirit of the British Constitution itself, which never
recognizes, much less encourages, a wicked and deliberate violation of
its own laws. That the present was a critical moment, which demanded
great judgment and equal humanity in the administration of the laws in
Ireland. A rebellion was successfully progressing in Scotland, and it
appeared to them that not only common justice but sound policy ought to
prompt the Government to attract and conciliate the Catholic population
of Ireland by allowing them to participate in the benefits of the
Constitution, which hitherto existed not for them, thousands of whom,
finding their country but a bed of thorns, might, from a mere sense of
relief, or, what was more to be dreaded, a spirit of natural vengeance,
flock to the standard of the Pretender.
His excellency, already aware of the startling but just demand which
had been made by the French Ambassador, for the national insult by
Whitecraft to his country, was himself startled and shocked by the
atrocities of those blood-stained delinquents.
His reply, however, was brief, but to the purpose.
His secretary acknowledged the receipt of the memorial, and stated that
the object of his Excellency was not to administer the laws in cruelty,
but in mercy; that he considered all classes of his Majesty's subjects
equally entitled to their protection; and that with respect to the
persons against whom such serious charges and allegations had been made,
he had only to say, that if they were substantiated against them in a
court of justice, they must suffer like other criminals--if they can be
proved, Government will leave them, as it would any common felons, to
the laws of the country. His Excellency is determined to administer
those laws with the strictest impartiality, and without leaning to any
particular class or creed. So far as the laws will allow him, their
protection shall be extended, on just and equal principles to the poor
and to the rich, to the Catholic and to the Protestant.
This communication, which was kept strictly secret, reached the Marquis
of ---- at a critical period of our narrative. Whitecraft, who was
ignorant of it, but sufficiently aware of the milder measures which the
new Administration had adopted, finding that the trade of priest-hunting
and persecution was, for the present, at an end, resolved to accelerate
his marriage with Miss Folliard, and for this purpose he waited upon her
father, in order to secure his consent. His object was to retire to
his English estates, and there pass the remainder of his life with his
beautiful but reluctant bride. He paid his visit about two o'clock, and
was told that Miss Folliard and her father were in the garden. Hither he
accordingly repaired, and found the squire, his daughter, and Reilly, in
the green-house. When the squire saw him he cried out, with something
of a malicious triumph: “Hallo, Sir Robert! why art thou so pale,
young lover? why art thou so pale?--and why does thy lip hang,
Sir Robert?--new men, new measures, Sir Robert--and so, 'Othello's
occupation's gone,' and the Earl of Chesterfield goes to mass every
Sunday, and is now able to repeat his padareem in Irish.”
“I am glad to find you so pleasant, Mr. Folliard; but I'm delighted to
see the beautiful state of your green-house--oh, Miss Folliard!--excuse
me. Your back was to me, and you were engaged in trailing that beautiful
shrub; allow me the honor of shaking hands with you.”
“Sir Robert, I bid you good-day, but you see that I have my garden
gloves on; you will excuse me.”
“Oh, Miss Folliard,” he replied, “your will is the spirit of the British
Constitution to me.”
“A spirit which, I fear, you have too frequently violated, Sir Robert;
but, as papa says, I believe your cruel occupation is gone--at least I
hope so.”
“'Gad, you got it there, Sir Robert,” replied her father, laughing.
“I must confess it,” replied the baronet; “but I think, in order to
ingratiate myself with Miss Folliard, I shall take whatever side she
recommends me. How, Mr. Folliard,” he proceeded, fixing his eyes upon
Reilly--“what the deuce is this? Have you got Robinson Crusoe here?”
“We have,” replied the squire; “but his man Friday has got married to a
Tipperary woman, and he's now in quest of a desert, island for him and
her to settle in.”
“I think, papa,” said Helen, “that if the principles of Sir Robert and
his class were carried out, he would not have far to go to look for
one.”
“Another hit, Bob, you dog--another hit. W'ell said, Helen--well said,
I say. Crusoe, you villain, hold up your head, and thank God you're
christened.”
“Wid de help o' Gad, shir, I was christhened afwhore, sure, by de
priesht.”
This visit occurred about six weeks after the appointment of the new
Viceroy to the Government of Ireland, and about five after the sheriff's
illness.
“Come, Whitecraft,” said the squire, “come and let us have lunch: I'll
hold a crown I give you as good a glass of Burgundy as you gave me the
other day, and will say done first.”
“Won't Miss Folliard join us at lunch?” asked Whitecraft, looking to her
for an assent.
“Why, I suppose so,” replied her father; “won't you come, Helen?”
“You know, papa, I never lunch.”
“'Gad, and neither you do, Helen. Come, Sir Robert, we will have a
mouthful to eat, and something good to wash it down; come along, man.
what the devil are you scrutinizing poor old Robinson Crusoe for? Come
along. I say, the old chap is making the green-house thrive; he beats
Malcomson. Here. Malcomson, you know Sir Robert Whitecraft, don't you?”
“Hout, your honor, wha' disna ken Sir Robert Whitecraft? Isn't his name
far and near, as a braw defender o' the faith, and a putter down o'
Papistry?”
“By the way, Malcomson,” said Sir Robert, “where did you get Robinson
Crusoe, by which I mean that wild-looking man in the green-house?”
“Saul, sir, it's a question I never speered at him. He cam' here as a
gaberlunzie, and on stating that he was indoctrinated in the sceence o'
buttany, his honor garred me employ him. De'il hae't but the truth I'll
tell--he's a clever buttanist, and knows a' the sceentific names aff
hand.”
“So that's all you know about him?” said Sir Robert. “He has a devil of
a beard, and is shockingly dressed. Why doesn't he shave?”
“Ou, just some Papistry nonsense,” replied the gardener; “but we hae
naething to do wi' that, sae lang's we get the worth o' our siller out
o' him.”
“Here's a shilling, Malcomson,” said Sir Robert.
“Na, na, your honor; a shilling's no for a man that understands the
sceence o' buttany: a shilling's for a flunky in livery; but as for me,
I couldna conscientiously condescend upon less than ten o' them, or
may be a pund British, but I'm feart that's contrair to your honor's
habits.”
“Well, then,” said Sir Robert, “I have no more silver, and so I leave
you to the agreeable society of Robinson Crusoe.”
Reilly had watched Sir Robert's motions, as well as his countenance, in
a manner as furtively as possible. Sometimes, indeed, he stared at him
broadly, and with a stupid, oafish look, and again placed himself in
such a position behind the range of flower-pots which were placed upon
the ledges, that he could observe him without being perceived himself.
The force of habit, however, is extraordinary. Our hero was a man
exceedingly remarkable for personal cleanliness, and consequently made a
point to wash his hands morning and evening with peculiar care. Be this
as it may, the lynx eye of Sir Robert observed their whiteness, and he
instantly said to himself, “This is no common laborer; I know that he
is not, from the whiteness of his hands. Besides, he is disguised; it is
evident from the length of his beard, and the unnecessary coarseness of
his apparel. Then his figure, the symmetry and size of which no disguise
can conceal; this, and everything else, assures me that he is disguised,
and that he is, besides, no other individual than the man I want,
William Reilly, who has been hitherto my evil genius; but it shall go
hard with me, or I shall be his now.” Such were his meditations as he
passed along with the squire to join him at lunch.
When they had left the garden, Reilly addressed his _Cooleen Bawn_ as
follows:
“Helen, I am discovered.”
“Discovered! O my God, no!”
“Unquestionably, there is no doubt of it; it is certain.”
“But how do you know that it is certain?”
“Because I observed that Whitecraft's eyes were never off my hands; he
knew that a common laborer could not possibly have such hands. Helen, I
am discovered, and must fly.”
“But you know that there is a change of Administration, and that the
severity of the laws has been relaxed against Catholics.”
“Yes, you told me so, and I have no fear for myself; but what I
apprehend is that this discovery, of which I feel certain, will
precipitate your marriage with that miscreant; they will entrap you into
it, and then I am miserable for ever.”
“Then, William, we must fly this very night; we will proceed to the
Continent, to some Protestant state, where we can get married without
any danger to the clergyman who may unite us.”
“It is all that is left for us,” replied Reilly; “I should sooner lose
life than you, my beloved Helen; and now, what is to be done? fly we
must; and in anticipation of the necessity of this step I left a suit of
clothes with Lanigan: or rather with a poor widow, who was a pensioner
of mine--a Mrs. Buckley, from whom Lanigan got them, and has them. I
could not think of accompanying you in this vile dress. On your way in,
try to see Lanigan, and desire him to come out to me. There is not a
moment to be lost; and, my dear Helen, show no marks of agitation; be
calm and firm, or we are undone.”
“Rely on me, dear Reilly, rely on me; I shall, send Lanigan to you.”
She left him, and went to her room, when she rang the bell, and her
maid, the faithful Connor, who had been restored to her service, came to
her.
“Connor,” said she, “I shall not be able to dine with papa to-day,
especially as that wretch Whitecraft is likely to dine with him. Go to
Lanigan, and tell him to come to me, for I wish to know if he has any
thing light and delicate that he could send to my room; Connor, I am
very unhappy.”
“But, miss, sure they say that the laws are changed, and that Mr. Reilly
may go at large if he wishes.”
“I know that, Connor; but send Lanigan to me immediately.”
“When Lanigan entered he found the _Cooleen Bawn_ in tears.
“My God, Miss Folliard,” said he, “what is the matter with you? why are
you crying, or what have they done to you?”
“Lanigan,” she replied, wiping her eyes, “you and Connor only are in our
secret; we must fly this night.”
“This night, Miss Folliard!”
“This night, Lanigan; and you must assist us.”
“To the last drop of my blood, I will.”
“Lanigan, Reilly is discovered.”
“Discovered, miss! good God, how was he discovered?”
“By his hands--by the whiteness of his beautiful hands. Now, Lanigan,
Sir Robert, aware that he cannot act the tyrant at present, as he used
to do, will instigate my father to some act of outrage against him;
for you know, Lanigan, how cowardly, how cruel, how vindictive, the
detestable villain is; and most assuredly he will make my credulous and
generous, but hot-tempered, father the instrument of his vengeance
upon Reilly; and, besides, he will certainly urge him to bring about
an immediate marriage between himself and me, to which, it is true, I
would, and will die, sooner than consent. I will dine here, Lanigan, for
I cannot bear to look upon my dear father, whom I am about to--” Here
her tears interrupted her, and she could proceed no farther; at
length she recovered herself, and resumed: “I know,” she added, “that
Whitecraft is now detailing his discovery and his plans. Oh!! that, for
Reilly's sake, I could become acquainted with them!”
“What would you wish for dinner, Miss Folliard?” asked Lanigan calmly.
“For dinner? oh, any thing, any thing; I care not what; but see Reilly,
tell him I have a second key for the back gate in the garden, and also
for the front; and, Lanigan--”
“Well, Miss Folliard; but, for God's sake, don't cry so; your eyes will
get red, and your father may notice it.”
“True, thank you, Lanigan; and Reilly, besides, told me to keep myself
calm; but how can I, Lanigan? Oh, my father! my beloved father! how can
I abandon--desert him? No, Lanigan, I will not go; say to Reilly--say
I have changed my mind; tell him that my affection for my father has
overcome my love for him; say I will never marry--that my heart is
his, and never will or can be another's. But then again--he, the
noble-minded, the brave, the generous, the disinterested--alas! I know
not what to do, Lanigan, nor how to act. If I remain here, they will
strive to force this odious marriage on me; and then some fearful
catastrophe will happen; for, sooner than marry Whitecraft, I would
stab either him or myself. Either that, Lanigan, or I should go mad;
for do you know, Lanigan, that there is insanity in our family, by my
father's side?”
“Unfortunately I know it, Miss Folliard; your uncle died in a mad-house,
and it was in that way the estate came to your father. But remember
what you say Mr. Reilly told you; be calm; I will send up some light
nourishing dinner to you, at the usual hour; and in the meantime I will
see him before then, and forge some excuse for bringing it up myself.”
“Stay, Lanigan, I am sadly perplexed; I scarcely know what I say; I
am in a state of inconceivable distraction. Suppose I should change my
mind; it is not unlikely; I am whirled about by a crowd of contending
emotions; but--well--let me see--oh, yes--it will be as well, Lanigan,
to have two horses ready saddled; that is no crime, I hope, if we should
go. I must, of course, put on my riding habit.”
“Begging your pardon, Miss Folliard, you'll do no such thing; would you
wish to have yourself discovered in the first inn you might put up at?
No, dress yourself in one of Connor's dresses so that you may appear as
humble as possible, and any thing but a lady of rank; otherwise, it will
be difficult for you to escape observation.”
“Well, Lanigan, all I can say is, that he and I shall place ourselves
under your advice and guidance. But my father--oh, my dear father!” and
again she wrung her hands and wept bitterly.
“Miss Helen,” said he, “as sure as the Lord's in heaven, you will
discover yourself; and, after all, how do you know that Sir Robert has
found out Mr. Reilly? Sure it's nothing but bare suspicion on both your
parts. At any rate, I'll saddle Paudeen O'Rafferty wid my own hands, and
I'll put on Molly Crudden's big pillion, for you know she's too fat to
walk to mass, and you will feel yourself quite easy and comfortable in
it”
“No, no, Lanigan; I know not why the impression is on me; but I feel as
if I were never to experience comfort more. Go to Mr. Reilly; make
what arrangements he and you may think proper, and afterwards you can
acquaint me with them. You see, Lanigan, in what a state of excitement
and uncertainty I am. But tell Reilly that, rather than be forced into a
marriage, with Whitecraft--rather than go distracted--rather than
die--I shall fly with him.”