--Fergus Reilly is on the Trail of the Rapparee--He Escapes--Sir Robert
begins to feel Confident of Success.
Lanigan, on passing the dining parlor, heard what he conceived to be
loud and angry voices inside the room, and as the coast was clear
he deliberately put his ear to the key-hole, which ear drank in the
following conversation:
“I say, Sir Robert, I'll shoot the villain. Do not hold me. My pistols
are unloaded and loaded every day in the year; and ever since I
transported that rebel priest I never go without them. But are you sure,
Sir Robert? Is it not possible you may be mistaken? I know you are a
suspicious fellow; but still, as I said, you are, for that very reason,
the more liable to be wrong. But, if it is he, what's to be done, unless
I shoot him?”
“Under the last Administration, sir, I could have answered your
question; but you know that if you shoot him now you will be hanged.
All that's left for us is simply to effect this marriage the day after
tomorrow; the documents are all ready, and in the course of to-morrow
the license can be procured. In the meantime, you must dispatch him
to-night.”
“What do you mean, Sir Robert?”
“I say you must send him about his business. In point of fact, I think
the fellow knows that he is discovered, and it is not unlikely that he
may make an effort to carry off your daughter this very night.”
“But, Sir Robert, can we not seize him and surrender him to the
authorities? Is he not an outlaw?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Folliard, he is not an outlaw; I stretched a little
too far there. It is true I got his name put into the _Hew and-Cry_, but
upon representations which I cannot prove.”
“And why did you do so, Sir Robert?”
“Why, Mr. Folliard, to save your daughter.”
The old man paused.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “that is a bad business--I mean for you; Sir Robert;
but we will talk it over. You shall stop and dine with me; I want some
one to talk with--some one who will support me and keep me in spirits;”
and as he spoke he sobbed bitterly. “I wish to God,” he exclaimed, “that
neither I nor Helen--my dear Helen--had ever seen that fellow's face.
You will dine with me, Bob?”
“I will, upon the strict condition that you keep yourself quiet, and
won't seem to understand any thing.”
“Would you recommend me to lock her up?”
“By no means; that would only make matters worse. I shall dine with
you, but you must be calm and quiet, and not seem to entertain any
suspicions.”
“Very well, I shall; but what has become of our lunch? Touch the bell.”
This hint sent Lanigan downstairs, who met the butler coming up with it.
“Why, Pat,” said he, “what kept you so long with the lunch?”
“I was just thinking,” replied Pat, “how it would be possible to poison
that ugly, ill-made, long-legged scoundrel, without poisoning my master.
What's to be done, Lanigan? He will marry this darlin' in spite of us.
And sure, now we have our privileges once more, since this great Earl
came to rule over us; and sure, they say, he's a greater gentleman than
the king himself. All I can say is, that if this same Sir Robert forces
the Cooleen Baum to such an unnatural marriage, I'll try a dose, hit or
miss, for a cowheel anyway.”
Lanigan laughed, and the butler passed on with the lunch.
We may state here that the squire, notwithstanding his outspoken manner
against Popery, like a terrible reverend baronet not long deceased,
who, notwithstanding his discovery of the most awful Popish plots, and
notwithstanding the most extravagant denunciations against Popery, like
him, we say, the old squire seldom had more than one or two Protestant
servants under his roof. Pat hated Longshanks, as he termed him, as did
all the household, which, indeed, was very natural, as he was such a
notorious persecutor of their religion and their clergy.
Lanigan lost no time in acquainting Reilly with what he had heard, and
the heart of the latter palpitated with alarm on hearing that the
next day but one was likely to join his _Cooleen Bawn_, by violent and
unnatural proceedings, to the man whom she so much detested. He felt
that it was now time to act in order to save her. Arrangements were
consequently made between them as to the time and manner of their
escape, and those arrangements, together with the dialogue he had
overheard, Lanigan communicated to the _Cooleen Bawn_.
The squire on that day experienced strange alternations of feeling.
His spirits seemed to rise and sink, as the quicksilver in the glass is
affected by the state of the atmosphere. He looked into the future with
terror, and again became, to the astonishment of his guest--we now talk
of their conduct after dinner--actuated by some thought or impulse that
put him into high spirits. Whitecraft, cool and cautious, resolved
to let him have his way; for the squire was drinking deeply, and the
Burgundy was good and strong.
“Bob, my boy,” said he, “you don't drink, and that is a bad sign. You
have either a bad head of late, or a bad heart, which is worse. Hang
you, sir, why don't you drink? I have seen you lay lots of my guests
under the table when you were quite cool; but now, what are you at? They
can't run away to-night. Helen doesn't know that the discovery has been
made. And now, Bob, you dog, listen to me, I say--would you have had the
manliness and courage to expose yourself for the sake of a pretty girl
as he did?--that is--here's a bumper to Helen! Curse you, will nothing
make you drink? No, faith, he hadn't seen Helen at the time; it was for
a worthless old fellow like me that he exposed himself; but no matter,
you may be right; perhaps it was a plot to get acquainted with her.
Still, I'm not sure of that; but if it was, I'll make him smart.”
After dinner the squire drank deeply--so deeply, indeed, that Whitecraft
was obliged to call up some of the male servants to carry him to his
chamber and put him to bed. In this task Lanigan assisted, and thanked
his stars that he was incapacitated from watching the lovers, or taking
any means to prevent their escape. As for Whitecraft, thought he, I will
soon send him about his business. Now, this gentleman's suspicions were
the more deeply excited, in consequence of Helen's refusal to meet
him at either lunch or dinner, a refusal which she gave on the plea of
indisposition. He had therefore made up his mind to watch the motions
of _Cooleen Bawn_, and he would have included Reilly in his surveillance
were it not that Lanigan informed him of what he termed the mysterious
disappearance of the under-gardener.
“What!” exclaimed Whitecraft, “is he gone?”
“He has gone, Sir Robert, and he left his week's wages behind him, for
he never came to the steward to ask it. And now, Sir Robert, to tell you
the truth, I'm not sorry he's gone; he was a disagreeable old fellow,
that nobody could make either head or tail of; but, Sir Robert,
listen--wait, sir, till I shut the door--it will soon be getting dusk:
you know you're not liked in the country, and now that we--I mean the
Catholics--have the countenance of Government, I think that riding late
won't be for your health. The night air, you know, isn't wholesome to
some people. I am merely givin' you a hint, Sir Robert, bekaise you are
a friend of my masther's, and I hope for your own sake you'll take it.
The sooner you mount your horse the better; and if you be guided by me,
you'll try and reach your own house before the darkness sets in. Who
knows what Reilly may be plotting? You know he doesn't like a bone in
your honor's skin; and the Reillys are cruel and desperate.”
“But, Lanigan, are you aware of any plot or conspiracy that has been got
up against my life?”
“Not at all, your honor; but I put it to yourself, sir, whether you
don't feel that I'm speaking the truth.”
“I certainly know very well,” replied the baronet, “that I am
exceedingly unpopular with the Popish party; but, in my conduct towards
them, I only carried out the laws that had been passed against them.”
“I know that, Sir Robert, and, as a Catholic, I am sorry that you and
others were supported and egged on by such laws. Why, sir, a hangman
could--give the same excuse, because if he put a rope about your neck,
and tied his cursed knot nately under your left ear, what was he doin'
but fulfillin' the law as you did? And now, Sir Robert, who would
shake hands with a hangman, unless some unfortunate highway robber or
murderer, that gives him his hand because he knows that he will never
see his purty face agin. This discourse is all folly, however--you
haven't a minute to lose--shall I order your horse?”
“Yes, you had better, Lanigan,” replied the other, with a dogged
appearance of cowardice and revenge. He could not forgive Lanigan the
illustration that involved the comparison of the hangman; still his
conscience and his cowardice both whispered to him that the cook was in
the right.
This night was an eventful one. The course of our narrative brings us
and our readers to the house of Captain Smellpriest, who had for his
next-door neighbor the stalwart curate of the parish, the Rev. Samson
Strong, to whom some allusion has been I already made in these
pages. Now the difference between Smellpriest and Whitecraft was
this--Smellpriest was not a magistrate, as Whitecraft was, and in his
priest-hunting expeditions only acted upon warrants issued by some
bigoted and persecuting magistrate or other who lived in the district.
But as his propensity to hunt those unfortunate persons was known, the
execution of the warrants was almost in every instance entrusted to his
hands. It was not so with Sir Robert, who, being himself a magistrate,
might be said to have been in the position at once of judge and
executioner. At all events, the race of blood was pretty equal between
them, so far as the clergy was concerned; but in general enmity to
the Catholic community at large, Whitecraft was far more cruel and
comprehensive in his vengeance. It is indeed an observation founded upon
truth and experience, that in all creeds, in proportion to his ignorance
and bigotry, so is the violence of the persecutor. Whitecraft, the
self-constituted champion of Protestantism, had about as much religion
as Satan himself--or indeed less, for we are told that he believes
and trembles, while Whitecraft, on the contrary, neither believed nor
trembled. But if he did not fear God, he certainly feared man, and
on the night in question went home with as craven a heart--thanks
to Lanigan--as ever beat in a coward's bosom. Smellpriest, however,
differed from Whitecraft in many points; he was brave, though cruel, and
addicted to deep potations. Whitecraft, it is true, drank more deeply
still than he did; but, by some idiosyncrasy of stomach or constitution,
it had no more effect upon him than it had upon the cask from which it
had been drawn, unless, indeed, to reduce him to greater sobriety and
sharpen his prejudices.
Be this as it may, the Rev. Samson Strong made his appearance in
Smellpriest's house with a warrant, or something in the shape of one,
which he placed in the gallant captain's hands, who was drunk.
“What's this, oh, Samson the Strong? said Smellpriest, laughing and
hiccuping both at the same time.
“It's a hunt, my dear friend. One of those priests of Baal has united
in unholy bands a Protestant subject with a subject of the harlot of
abominations.”
“Samson, my buck,” said Smellpriest, “I hope this Popish priest of yours
will not turn out to be a wild-goose. You know you have sent me upon
many a wild-goose chase before; in--in--in fact, you nev--never sent me
upon any other. You're a blockhead, oh, divine Samson; and that--that
thick head of yours would flatten a cannon-ball. But what is it?--an
intermarriage between the two P's--Popish and Protestant?”
“My dear,” said his wife, “you must be aware that the Popishers have
only got liberty to clatter their beads in public; but not to marry a
Popisher to a Protestanter. This is a glorious opportunity for you to
come home with a feather in your cap, my dear. Has he far to go, Mr.
Strong? because he never goes out after the black game, as you call
them, sir, that I don't feel as if I--but I can't express what I feel at
his dear absence.”
Now we have said that Smellpriest was drunk, which, in point of fact,
was true; but not so drunk but that he observed some intelligent glances
pass between his wife and the broad-shouldered curate.
“No, madam, only about two miles. Smellpriest, you know Jack Houlaghan's
stripe?”
“Yes--I know Jack Houlaghan's stripe, in Kilrudden.”
“Well, when you g'et to the centre of the stripe, look a little to
your right, and--as the night is light enough--you will see a house--a
cottage rather; to this cottage bring your men, and there you will find
your game. I would not, captain, under other circumstances, advise you
to recruit your spirits with an additional glass or two of liquor; but,
as the night is cold, I really do recommend you to fortify yourself with
a little refreshment.”
He was easily induced to do so, and he accordingly took a couple of
glasses of punch, and when about to mount his horse, it was found that
he could not do so without the assistance of his men who were on duty,
in all about six, every one of whom, as well as the captain himself, was
well armed. It is unnecessary to state to the reader that the pursuit
was a vain one. They searched the house to no purpose; neither priest
or friar was there, and he, consequently, had the satisfaction of
performing another wild-goose chase with his usual success, whenever the
Rev. Samson Strong sent him in pursuit. In the meantime the moon went
down, and the night became exceedingly dark; but the captain's spirits
were high and boisterous, so much so that they began to put themselves
forth in song, the song in question being the once celebrated satire
upon James the Second and Tyrconnell, called “Lillibullero,” now “The
Protestant Boys.” How this song gained so much popularity it is
difficult to guess, for we are bound to say that a more pointless and
stupid production never came from the brain of man. Be this as it may,
we must leave the gallant captain and his gang singing it in full
chorus, and request our readers to accompany us to another locality.
The sheriff had now recovered from a dreadful attack of the prevailing
epidemic, and was able to resume his duties. In the meantime he had
heard of the change which had taken place in the administration of
affairs at headquarters--a change at which he felt no regret, but rather
a good deal of satisfaction, as it relieved him from the performance of
very disagreeable and invidious duties, and the execution of many severe
and inhuman laws. He was now looking over and signing some papers, when
he rang the bell, and a servant entered. “Tom,” said he, “there is an
old man, a poor mendicant, to call here, who was once a servant in our
family; when he comes show him into the office. I expect some important
family information from him respecting the property which we are
disputing about in the Court of Chancery.”
“Very well, sir,” replied the servant, “I shall do so.”
This occurred on the day of Whitecraft's visit to Squire Folliard, and
it was on the evening of the same that Smellpriest was sent upon the
usual chase, on the information of the Rev. Samson Strong; so that the
events to which we have alluded occurred, as if by some secret relation
to each other, on the same day.
At length our friend Fergus entered the office, in his usual garb of an
aged and confirmed mendicant.
“Well, Reilly,” said the sheriff, “I am glad you have come. I could have
taken up this ruffian, this Red Rapparee, as he is properly called, upon
suspicion; but that would have occasioned delay; and it is my object
to lodge him in jail this night, so as to give him no chance of escape
unless he breaks prison; but in order to prevent that, I shall give
strict injunctions, in consequence of the danger to be apprehended from
so powerful and desperate a character, that he be kept in strong irons.”
“If it be within the strength of man, sir, to break prison, he will; he
done it twice before; and he's under the notion that he never was born
to be hanged; some of the ould prophecy men, and Mary Mahon, it seems,
tould him so.”
“In the meantime, Reilly, we shall test the truth of such prophecies.
But listen. What is your wish that I should do for you, in addition to
what I have already done. You know what I have promised you, and that
for some time past, and that I have the Secretary's letter stating that
you are free, and have to dread neither arrest nor punishment; but that
is upon the condition that you shall give all the evidence against this
man that you are possessed of. In that case the Government will also
bountifully reward you besides.”
“The Government need not think of any such thing, your honor,” replied
Reilly; “a penny of Government money will never cross my pocket. It
isn't for any reward I come against this man, but because he joined the
blood-hounds of Sir Robert Whitecraft against his own priests and his
own religion; or at last against the religion he professed, for I don't
think he ever had any.”
“Well, then, I can make you one of my officers.”
“Is it to go among the poor and distressed, sir, and help, maybe, to
take the bed from undher the sick father or the sick mother, and to
leave them without a stick undher the ould roof or naked walls? No, sir;
sooner than do that I'd take to the highway once more, and rob like
a man in the face of danger. That I may never see to-morrow,” he
proceeded, with vehemence, “but I'd rather rob ten rich men than
harish one poor family. It was that work that druv me to the coorse I
left--that an' the persecution that was upon us. Take my word, sir,
that in nineteen cases out of twenty it was the laws themselves, and the
poverty they brought upon the country, that made the robbers.”
“But could you not give evidence against some others of the gang?”
“No, sir; there is not one of them in this part of the kingdom, and I
believe the most of them all are out of it altogether. But, even if they
were not, I, sir, am not the man to betray them; the Red Rapparee would,
if he could get at them; but, thank God, I've put every man of them
beyond his reach.”
“You did! and pray, now, why, may I ask, did that happen?”
“Bekaise it came to my ears that it was his intention to inform against
them, and to surrender them all to the Government.”
“Well, Reilly, after all, I believe you to be an honest fellow, even
although you were once a robber; but the question now is, what is to be
done? Are you sure of his whereabouts?”
“I think so, sir; or, if I am not, I know one that is. But I have an
observation to make. You know, sir, I would a' gone abroad, a freeman
before this time, only that it's necessary I should still keep on my
disguise, in ordher that I may move about as I wish until I secure this
Red Rapparee. After that, sir, please God, I'll taste a mouthful of
freedom. In the meantime I know one, as I said, that will enable us to
make sure of him.”
“Pray, who is that?”
“Tom Steeple, sir.”
“Do you mean the poor fool of that name--or rather, I believe, of that
nickname?”
“I do, sir; and in many things he's less of a fool than wiser men. He
has been dodg-in' him for the last two or three days; and he's a
person that no one would ever suspect, unless, indeed, the cautious and
practised Rapparees; but in ordher to meet any such suspicion, I have
got upon the right trail myself--we're sure of him now, I think.”
“Well, Reilly,” proceeded the sheriff, “I leave the management of the
capture of this man to yourself. You shall have a strong and determined
party to support you. Do you only show them the man, and, take my word
for it, they will secure the robber. After this affair is over you must
throw off those rags. I will furnish you with decent clothes, and you
can go out at large without fear or risk, and that under your own name
too. I took your hint, and declined swearing the informations against
him before the old squire, as I had intended, from an apprehension that
he might possibly blab the fact to Whitecraft, who, if your information
be correct, would have given him notice to fly, or otherwise concealed
him from justice.”
“Well, sir,” said Reilly, “it's my opinion that the Rapparee will lodge
in Sligo jail before to-morrow mornin'; and it's a thousand pities that
Whitecraft shouldn't be sent there to keep him company.”
“He certainly is the most unpopular man living. In the exuberance of his
loyalty he has contrived to offend almost every liberal Protestant
in the county, and that with an unjustifiable degree of wanton, and
overbearing insolence, arising from his consciousness of impunity.
However, thank God, his day is gone by. But, mark me, Reilly--I had
almost forgotten--don't neglect to secure the clothes in which the
villain robbed me; they will be important.”
“I had no intention of forgetting them, sir; and that scheme for
throwing the guilt of his own villany on Mr. Reilly is another reason
why I appear against him.”
It was not, indeed, very easy for the Rapparee to escape. Whitecraft got
home safe, a little before dusk, after putting his unfortunate horse
to more than his natural speed. On his arrival he ordered wine to
be brought, and sat down to meditate upon the most feasible plan for
reinstating himself in the good graces of the new Government. After
pondering over many speculations to that effect, it occurred to him that
to secure the Rapparee, now that he could, as an agent and a guide, be
of no further use to him, was the most likely procedure to effect his
purpose. He accordingly rang for his usual attendant, and asked him if
he knew where O'Donnel was. The man replied that he waa generally in or
about Mary Mahon's.
“Then,” proceeded his master, “let him be with me to-morrow morning at
eleven o'clock.”
“If I see him, sir, I shall tell him.”
“And say that I have something to his advantage to mention to him.”
“Yes, sir; I shan't forget it.”
“Now,” said he, after the servant had withdrawn, and taking a bumper of
wine, “I know not how it is, but I feel very uncomfortable somehow.
I certaintly did not expect a change in the Administration, nor a
relaxation in the carrying out of the laws against Papists; and, under
this impression, I fear I have gone too far, and that I may be brought
over the coals for my conduct. I understand that the old French Abbe is
returned, and once more a resident in the family of that cursed marquis.
I think, by the way, I should go and apologize to both the marquis and
the Abbe, and throw the blame of my own violence upon the conduct and
instructions of the last Government; that, and the giving up of this
ruffianly Rapparee to the present, may do something for me. This
country, however, now that matters have taken such an unexpected turn,
shall not long be my place of residence. As for Reilly, my marriage on
the day after tomorrow with that stubborn beauty, Helen Folliard,
will place an impassable barrier between him and her. I am glad he
has escaped, for he will not be in our way, and we shall start for my
English estates immediately after the ceremony. To-morrow, however, I
shall secure the Rapparee, and hand him over to the authorities. I could
have wished to hang Reilly, but now it is impossible; still, we shall
start for England immediately after the nuptial knot is tied, for I
don't think I could consider myself safe, now that he is at large, and
at liberty to appear in his proper name and person especially after all
the mischief I have done him, in addition to the fact of my bearing away
his _Cooleen Bawn_, as she is called.”
In fact, the man's mind was a turbid chaos of reflections upon the past
and the future, in which selfishness, disappointed vengeance, terror,
hypocritical policy, and every feeling that could fill the imagination
of a man possessed of a vacillating, cowardly, and cruel heart, with the
exception only of any thing that could border upon penitence or remorse.
That Miss Folliard was not indifferent to him is true; but the feeling
which he experienced towards her contained only two elements--sensuality
and avarice. Of love, in its purest, highest, and holiest sense, he was
utterly incapable; and he was not ignorant himself that, in the foul
attachment which he bore her, he was only carrying into effect the
principles of his previous life--those of a private debauchee, and a
miser. That amiable, but unhappy and distracted, lady spent that whole
evening in making preparations for her flight with Reilly. Her manner
was wild and excited; indeed, so much so that the presence of mind and
cool good sense, for which her maid Connor was remarkable, were scarcely
sufficient to guide and direct her in this distressing emergency. She
seemed to be absorbed by but one thought, and that was of her father.
His affection for her enlarged and expanded itself in her loving heart,
with a force and tenderness that nearly drove her into delirium. Connor,
in the meantime, got all things ready, she herself having entrusted the
management of every thing to her. The unhappy girl paced to and fro her
room, sobbing and weeping bitterly, wringing her hands, and exclaiming
from time to time:
“Oh, my father! my dear and loving father! is this the return I am
making you for your tenderness and affection? what am I about to do?
what steps am I going to take? to leave you desolate, with no heart for
yours to repose upon! Alas! there was but one heart that you cared for,
and in the duty and affection of that all your hopes for my happiness
lay; and now, when you awake, you will find that that heart, the very
heart | on which you rested, has deserted you! When you come down to
breakfast in the morning, and find that your own Helen, your only one,
has gone--oh! who will sustain, or soothe, or calm you in the frenzied
grief of your desolation? But alas! what can I do but escape from that
cowardly and vindictive villain--the very incarnation of oppression
and persecution; the hypocrite, the secret debauchee, the mean, the
dastardly, whose inhuman ambition was based upon and nurtured by blood?
Alas! I have but the one remedy--flight with my noble minded lover,
whom that dastardly villain would have hunted, even to his murder, or
an ignominious death, which would have been worse. This flight is not
spontaneously mine; I am forced to it, and of two evils I will choose
the least; surely I am not bound to seal my own misery forever.”
Connor had by this time attempted, as far as she could, to disguise her
in one of her own dresses; but nothing could conceal the elegance and
exquisite proportion of her figure, nor the ladylike harmony and grace
of her motions. She then went to the oaken cabinet, mentioned by her
father in the opening of our narrative, and as she always had the key of
that portion of it which contained her own diamonds, and other property,
she took a casket of jewels of immense value from it, and returned to
her room, where she found Connor before her.
“Mr. Reilly is ready, miss,” she said, “and is waiting for you behind
the garden; the only one I dread in the house is Andy Cummiskey; he is
so much attached to the master that I think if he knew you were about to
escape he would tell him.”
“Well, Connor, we must only avoid him as well as we can; but where,
or how, shall I carry these jewels? in these slight pockets of yours,
Connor, they could not be safe.”
“Well, then, can't you give them to him to keep, and they'll be safe?”
“True, Connor, so they will; but I give him a heart which he prizes
above them all. But, alas! my father! oh! Connor, shall I abandon him?”
“Do not distress yourself, my dear Miss Folliard; your father loves you
too much to hold out his anger against you long. Did you not tell me
that if Reilly was a Protestant your father said he would rather marry
you to him than to Sir Robert, the villain, with all his wealth?”
“I did, Connor, and my father certainly said so; but the serpent,
Connor, entwined himself about the poor credulous man, and succeeded
in embittering him against Reilly, who would rather go to the
scaffold--yes, and--which he would consider a greater sacrifice--rather
abandon even me than his religion. And do you think, Connor, that I do
not love my noble-minded Reilly the more deeply for this? I tell you,
Connor, that if he renounced his religion upon no other principle than
his love for me, I should despise him as a dishonorable, man, to whom it
would not be safe for me to entrust my happiness.”
“Well, well; but now it is time to start, and Reilly, as I said, is
waiting for you behind the garden.”
“Oh, Connor, and is it come to this? my dear papa! but I cannot go until
I see him; no, Connor, I could not; I shall go quietly into his room,
and take one look at him; probably it may be the last. Oh, my God! what
am I about to do! Connor, keep this casket until I return; I shall not
be long.”
She then went to his chamber. The blinds and curtains of the windows
had not been drawn, and it occurred to her that as her dress was so
different from any which her father had ever seen on her, some
suspicion might be created should he observe it. She therefore left the
candlestick which she had brought with her on the inside sill of a
lobby window, having observed at the door that the moonlight streamed in
through the windows upon his bed. Judge of her consternation, however,
when, on entering the room, her father, turning himself in the bed,
asked:
“Is that Helen?”
“It is, papa; I thought you had been asleep, and I came up to steal my
good-night kiss without any intention of awakening you.”
“I drank too much, Helen, with Whitecraft, whom wine--my
Burgundy--instead of warming, seems to turn into an icicle. However, he
is a devilish shrewd fellow. Helen, darling, there's a jug of water
on the table there; will you hand it to me; I'm all in a flame and a
fever.”
She did so, and her hand trembled so much that she was near spilling it.
He took a long draught, after which he smacked his lips, and seemed to
breathe more freely.
“Helen,” said he.
“Well, dear papa.”
“Helen, I had something to mention to you, but--”
“Don't disturb yourself to-night, papa; you are somewhat feverish,” she
added, feeling his pulse; if you will excuse me, papa, I think you drank
too much; your pulse is very quick; if you could fall into rest again it
would be better for you.”
“Yes, it would; but my mind is uneasy and sorrowful. Helen, I thought
you loved me, my darling.”
“Oh, could you doubt it, papa? You see I am come as usual--no, not as
usual, either--to kiss you; I will place my cheek against yours, as I
used to do, dear papa, and you will allow me to weep--to weep--and
to say that never father deserved the love of a daughter as you have
deserved mine; and never did daughter love an affectionate and indulgent
father more tenderly than your _Cooleen Bawn_ does you.”
“I know it, Helen, I know it; your whole life has been a proof of it,
and will be a proof of it; I know you have no other object in this world
than to make papa happy; I know I feel that you are great-minded enough
to sacrifice everything to that.”
“Well, but, papa,” she continued, “for all my former offences against
you will you pity and forgive me?”
“I do both, you foolish darling; but what makes you speak so?”
“Because I feel melancholy to-night, papa; and now, papa, if ever I
should do any thing wrong, won't you pity and forgive your own _Cooleen
Bawn_?”
“Get along, you gipsy--don't be crying. What could you do that papa
wouldn't forgive you, unless to run away with Reilly? Don't you know
that you can wind me round your finger?”
“Farewell, papa,” she said, weeping all the time, for, in truth, she
found it impossible to control herself; “farewell--good night! and
remember that you may have a great deal to forgive your own _Cooleen
Bawn_ some of these days.”
On leaving the bedroom, where she was hurried by her feelings into
this indiscreet dialogue, she found herself nearly incapable of walking
without support. The contending affections for her father and her lover
had nearly overcome her. By the aid of the staircase she got to her
own room, where she was met by Connor, into whose arms she fell almost
helpless.
“Ah, Connor,” she said, alluding to her father, whom she could not trust
herself to name, “to-morrow morning what will become of him when
he finds that I am gone? But I know his affectionate heart. He will
relent--he will relent for the sake of his own _Cooleen Bawn_. The laws
against Catholics are now relaxed, and I am glad of it. But I have one
consolation, my dear girl, that I am trusting myself to a man of honor.
We will proceed directly to the Continent;--that is, if no calamitous
occurrence should take place to prevent us; and there, after our
nuptials shall have been duly celebrated, I will live happy with
Reilly--that is, Connor, as happy as absence from my dear father will
permit me--and Reilly will live happy, and, at least, free from the
persecution of bad laws, and such villains as base and vindictive
Whitecraft. You, Connor, must accompany me to the back of the garden,
and see me off. Take this purse, Connor, as some compensation for your
truth and the loss of your situation.”
It was now, when the moment of separation approached, that Connor's
tears began to flow, far less at the generosity of her mistress than
her affection, and that which she looked upon as probably their final
separation.
“Dear Connor,” said her mistress, “I would expect that support to my
breaking heart which I have hitherto experienced from you. Be firm now,
for you see I am not firm, and your tears only render me less adequate
to encounter the unknown vicissitudes which lie before me.”
“Well, then, I will be firm, my dear mistress; and I tell you that if
there is a God in heaven that rewards virtue and goodness like yours,
you will be happy yet. Come, now, he is waiting for you, and the less
time we lose the better. We shall go out by the back way--it is the
safest.”
They accordingly did so, and had nearly reached the back wall of the
garden when they met Malcomson and Cummiskey, on their way into the
kitchen, in order to have a mug of strong ale together. The two men,
on seeing the females approach, withdrew to the shelter of a clump of
trees, but not until they were known by Connor.
“Come, my dear mistress,” she whispered, “there is not one second of
time to be lost. Cummiskey, who is a Catholic, might overlook our being
here at this hour; because, although he is rather in the light of a
friend than a servant to your father, still he is a friend to Reilly as
well; but as for that ugly Scotchman, that is nothing but bone and skin,
I would place no dependence whatever upon him.”
We will not describe the meeting between Reilly and the _Cooleen Bawn_.
They had no time to lose in the tender expressions of their feelings.
Each shook hands with, and bid farewell to, poor affectionate Connor,
who was now drowned in tears; and thus they set off, with a view of
leaving the kingdom, and getting themselves legally married in Holland,
where they intended to reside.